The Hate Triangle: Part 1
Forming Friendships, The Nerdy Way!
I moved fifteen times before the age of 10. Starting over was second nature for me. I was good at blending in to unfamiliar places, learning the layout of new neighborhoods, and adapting to different schools.
What I hadn’t learned to do was make a lot of friends. The way I saw it, what was the point? Odds were I’d move again soon, leaving another batch of acquaintances behind. Better to stay aloof, or fade into the woodwork, than risk further loss or disappointment.
By the time I reached middle school, I let my guard down a bit. I’d been in the same school district for three years — a new record — and that classic urge to find a group and fit in hit me like every other tween, well-adjusted or otherwise. I never had the typical interests of my peers; most sports and popular TV shows bored me, as I preferred difficult books and unconventional humor.
Against all odds, I found a few other like-minded outcasts, and we formed something of a friend group. Interestingly, they all had history that predated my arrival in town, most of it antagonistic. While this made group activities challenging (and rare), this was a bonus as far as I was concerned; it enabled me to be various versions of my nerd self depending on who I hung out with.
Mike-iavelli
I met Mike on the first day of fourth grade, holding court on the playground. This is often impressive amongst boys, but what drew my attention was the fact that this kid in no way demonstrated physical strength or athleticism. Mike was a lanky, sallow, unkempt kid. Despite this, his sport of choice was dodgeball — an activity us nerds do our darnedest to avoid.
But not Mike. He was fearless out there, and no one could hit him. They way we played, only one kid had a ball, and everyone else had to line up along the brick wall on the far side of the school — the side of the playground where none of the teachers could supervise us. There was a faded yellow line dividing the attacker from the dodgers, and most kids stayed back against the wall, about ten feet or so from the line.
But not Mike. He would go right up to the kid with the ball, make faces, wiggle, wave his arms, and generally taunt him. The kid would try to hit him, and Mike would invariably duck or sidestep or just arch his body to the side to avoid the ball. He'd do that for the whole game, until he was the only one left, and he almost alway won.
As I hinted before, I was typically a wallflower, but I’ve always had a competitive streak. When I saw this un-athletic-looking kid running the show, I was torn; half of me admired his bravado, while the other half wanted to take him down.
When the next game began, I joined in, eager to be the new guy who heroically took down the reigning champ.
This is exactly what Mike counted on. It took me years to fully appreciate it, but Mike consistently demonstrated the power of dispassionate strategy over impetuous confidence. Mike would never make a move unless he knew what the next three would be, and his superpower was the insight that most people never thought more than one step ahead. (He went on to become an excellent poker player, too.) When I took that red rubber playground ball and sized up the competition, I knew I would be the one to nail that Mike kid.
But nope — he played me like a fiddle. Every time I thought I had learned all his tricks, I would feint and throw a different way and he'd pull off some new move to avoid the ball. Eventually the bell rang and recess was over.
I followed Mike inside, now strangely mesmerized by him. When I went to reading class, I was thrilled to find myself assigned to the seat beside him. I didn’t say much over the next few days, but when he was missing from class one day, I asked him where he was when he came back.
"I go to Seminar on Wednesdays," he replied with a shrug, turning his eyes back toward the teacher.
I had no idea what “Seminar” was, but when I got home, I asked my mom if she could sign me up. A few weeks later, a frowsy lady with a polka dot dress called me out of class and escorted me to the office. We sat in a room for an hour or so, looking at pictures to determine what was missing, solving word problems, and replicating patterns from dice with different red shapes on them. I had no idea what I was doing any of these things, and in some cases, I shook my head and said I couldn’t or wouldn’t do a particular task.
A few weeks later, I came home and saw my mom holding a envelope from the school. She gave me an expectant look, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to explain. I stood there silently as well, waiting for her to talk first before I confessed anything prematurely.
She held up the letter. “You, young man,” she said ominously, “made it into Seminar!” A big smile broke across her face. She went on to explain that is was the school's gifted program, but I didn’t really understand or care at the time — I was just excited to join Mike for his Wednesday activity.
Next Wednesday, I left reading class and nervously entered Room 12. Mrs. Lehner, a tall, bespectacled woman with close-cropped black hair, greeted me. “Hi! You must be Matt.” She put a hand on my shoulder and scanned the room. Six other awkward kids stared at me from bean bag chairs.
“There’s an empty spot right there,” she said, pointing to a bright orange sack in the middle of the room. “You can pair up with Ryan.”
Little did I realize I was meeting my next new friend … and Mike’s bitter enemy.
To be continued…