Note: The following story was written as a college assignment for Kim who wrote her side. Tom wrote his side and together, they describe how they met in junior high.

An Education in Aerodynamics

(There are two sides to every story)
Side One...

I knew him in sixth grade, but didn't know his name. Our homerooms exchanged for science and math. I sat in his seat for science class. He was slow. I could go from my homeroom on the fourth floor, to my locker on the third, and to class on the other end of the third, and he would still be there, organizing his notebooks, counting his pencils, and straightening his desk. I think he even combed his hair sometimes. I always had to wait. Obviously, he wasn't concerned about being late for his math class on the fourth floor.

"Hey boy, are you slow or something? Hurry up and get out of here. I want to sit down."

"Hey girl, you in a hurry or something? Go sit somewhere else."
I couldn't sit anywhere else, and besides it was too much fun teasing him. "Hey boy, do you do your math problems as slow as you pack your books?" Lots of times he wouldn't answer out loud, he'd mutter under his breath, "Dumb girl, I should rip those braids out of her head", or "If she were a boy, I'd smash those buck teeth in. Then maybe she wouldn't laugh so much."

I knew him in seventh grade, and I did know his name. They decided to use our school as a pilot project for team teaching and ungraded classrooms. Tom Klamm was in A-Team, and so was I. He was still slow. It was past the era of brown penny loafers. bright white socks and skin tight pants that stopped three-and-a-half inches above the shoes, but Tom hadn't caught up. His pants were three basic colors, light blue, off-white, and the most hideous shade of green I had ever seen, a combination of chartreuse and dirty grass green. He also had an inexhaustible supply of short sleeved white shirts for all occasions. he never wore a shirt without a T-shirt, and unless he had just come in from the playground, his shirt was neatly tucked in, revealing a half inch brown leather belt. Everyone else had graduated to the one and a half and two inch sizes. But what could I expect?

He was still fun to tease. "Hey Klamm chowder, what kind of bleach does your mother use?" was a favorite taunt.

My fun was short-lived, and it was too late before I realized the mistake I had made. Contrary to all appearances, Thomas Charles Klamm was not slow. I, who was in perpetual motion, always one step ahead of everyone, was losing ground fast. It wasn't on the playground where he outran everyone, nor was it in scholastics, but Tom was quick. He had a quick eye, quick tongue, quick wit, and the innocence written into his face was quick death to anyone around. No one else could dump a whole set of encyclopedias from the third floor window so nonchalantly. A---B---C---D---etc. One day, when Mrs. Pickens left the social studies room, the globe exploded on the basketball court.

Tom had a close group of friends. He was the comedian and behind-the-scenes leader. No one, least of all the teachers, ever suspected this quiet, unassuming, and innocent boy of anything questionable. He was too clean cut, and besides, they knew his mother; she worked in the cafeteria.

Soon it became evident I was going to pay from my sins committed in ignorance. All the remarks I had made so carelessly had been recorded and were being played back. It wasn't fair. I had judged him from the outside, but he was taking me apart from the inside. How did he know that I liked Scott? I hadn't told anyone. How did he have the audacity to sit across the room and compose a love letter to me? There must have been a mysterious power of persuasion in him to be able to convince Scott to sign a letter that said things like, "I love you", and when we kiss, I hope your braces don't get caught."

I could not escape. He was in every class except Home Economics. I tried to ignore him by bringing a book to read, but he always made snide remarks about the book and my intellectual capacity. "Here she comes, the braided brains with her books. When are you going to start reading the dictionary, or have you already finished?" When all else failed to irritate me, he would take a trip to the pencil sharpener and try to flick my braids so they would get caught in my "train track" teeth.

The was no use complaining to anyone except my best friend, Megan, equally tormented. An adult would have smiled sweetly, and with a little snicker, said, "it's probably just because he likes you, and besides, you probably love every minute of it." I knew differently, it was revenge.

Outwardly, everything remained the same. I threw out the same flippant taunts, with the same energetic, careless ease, but the edge was gone. I didn't hurry to class any more, but avoided him at all costs. When he came down the hall, I stared straight through my toes, and hugged the opposite lockers. I was beaten, and I knew it. I hated him.

I knew him in eighth grade too. I knew his name, address, and phone number. I also knew how to win.

I grew up the summer of my thirteenth year. My bangs grew out , and my long blond hair abandoned the braids. I shaved my legs regularly, and wore a bra.

Tom grew too. In fact, his boned grew so fast, his tendons couldn't keep up, neither could his pants. Now they were four-and-a-half inches above his shoes, and one leg had to be split or cut to allow for the casts, ace bandages and knee corsets that were to help bind the tendons to the bones. The cats were designed to restrict movement and activity and speed up the healing process. However, it was obvious the doctor didn't know Tom very well. If he had, he would have put him in traction for six weeks. Tom was as quick as ever. Up and down the stairs, back and forth across the soccer field, dribbling the ball, across town on his bicycle; there was no way to stop him. At lunchtime, he would race the sixth graders, and beat them every time. No one could outrun him. No one could out tease him. No one could out dare him. No one could outmaneuver him. How could I begin to compete? Obviously, I couldn't, so I changed my tactics.

In the two years we had been battling there had never been anything but open, head-on confrontation. Consequently, Tom was unprepared for my ambush. It wasn't only my body which grew over the summer, but also my female consciousness. I discovered that seduction was a time-honored weapon in this kind of warfare. I was not above using it. I did not have any romantic designs on Tom; I only wanted to come out on top. I began to bring my head out of my books and laugh at his jokes. At first, it was a chore, but as I warmed to the job, I discovered, in amazement and dismay, that he was genuinely funny, and so were his jokes. No wonder he never had to do homework. It was almost impossible to refute his honest, clear arguments as to why he should copy yours. As part of the strategy, I taunted him with mine, but never gave in. Now I understood why Scott signed that love letter. he couldn't logically refuse.

Slowly my hatred gave way to grudging admiration. By Christmas time, Tom was my favorite partner in social dance class. His steps were as smooth as his arguments, even with a cast. It seems rather funny now, but I didn't give it a second thought then; anyone who could play soccer with a cast, shouldn't have too many problems with the "Fox Trot" or "Box Steps". No one knew he was my favorite partner; that would have meant defeat. Tom would find out and it wouldn't be fun anymore. By February, however, Tom knew and it was more fun than ever.

My original scheme had backfired, and I had fallen into my own trap. My only consolation was that Tom fell in too. We drew up a truce. He called me every night, and I went to parties with him every weekend. He went to my gymnastics and track meets, and I went to his basketball games. He showed me his antique Victrola and hand printing press, and I showed him my books. Once again, I hurried to class to watch him organize his notebooks, count his pencils and straighten his desk. Once again, he was fun to tease. The one thing that hadn't changed was his speed. As fast as I knew him to be , he was still slow. By eighth grade, all the other boys were letting their hair grow long. Tom's razor prickles stood out in sharp relief against the back of his neck. But Tom didn't care, and neither did I. The war was over and I had won the right to love.

Side Two
..."Carolyn Johnson?", "Here",..."Kim Elsen?", "Here",..."Rachel Greenstein?", "Here",..."Robert Hudson?", "Here",..."Thomas Klamm?", "Here",..."Fred Nicholson?", "Here",..."Leslie West?", "Here",...

"Hummm, I know that girl", I thought to myself as I sat in the Nichols Junior High auditorium. "Kim Elsen? She looks familiar, oh ya...6-9 last year, that's right." And so started seventh grade for me.

How could I be in school again? The summer isn't over yet-I can't concentrate on George Washington Carver, prepositional phrases, petri dishes or parallel line. I want to go back to the beach and red Schwinn Typhoon.

Seventh grade had begun; I was in A Team, composed of four homerooms. A-1 was my homeroom, lots of strange faces, but there were a couple that had come with me from last year's 6-8 homeroom.

Sixth grade had been a great time-I didn't learn very much, but it had still been lots of fun. I was fortunate to have a window seat for the majority of the year. That meant that when the subject got boring, I launched articles from our third floor window. Paper soon got routine for me so I moved on to textbooks. My philosophy was the heavier the book, the harder it fell. My Math book smacked the ground good one afternoon; English hit square too. I have yet to see a book raise as much dust as that unabridged dictionary. Federal regulations permit schoolroom windows to open only so many inches. It's a good law too-I would have had to stand in class with my desk on the ground.

Our class got so uncontrollable by February that Mrs. Radke left our room. Her replacement changed the seating; that spoiled my education on aerodynamics. I often wonder how close I came to causing a school referendum for missing supplies.

The school year of 69-70, my seventh grade, was fun too. The fall and winter were occupied with cross country and basketball. No highly charged unforgettable moments in sports for me, but active and enjoyable. I had no interest in girls in seventh grade-I was unhooked and proud of it! But that's not to say I thought girls were creepy; in fact, I took great delight in teasing them. They tolerated me and my comments for a bout a week, then changed seats or turned studious to avoid me. It rarely took me long to know when I wasn't wanted-I simply found another girl to pick on. My tactic was to make fun of the way they dressed and pick up from there. If a girl wore big shoes, I commented, "Say, where did you get those shoes? I didn't know Bozo sold his", or "That's a funny color for a dress-did you spill something on it and have to dye it to match that color"? I wonder if I was unhooked because I chose to be or because it was inevitable!

One girl caught my attention-Kim Elsen, the little blond girl with braids like the ropes we climbed in gym. She was different-she got her does of teasing like the other girls but acted as though I was the most disgraceful human imaginable. Not only did she shake her head in disgust every time she looked at me, but the boy cooties I carried were so bad I couldn't get within ten feet without her yelling out and scampering off. My teasing bothered Kim more than anyone else that year.

Eighth grade was different. I wasn't as quick to jump on an opportunity to cut and hurt people. I was still unhooked but decided a girlfriend wasn't a bad idea; in fact, I thought in might be sort of fun. I ran cross country again. I played basketball again. Many of my friends were surprised when they found out I was on the team because they never saw me playing. I was they type of player who was valuable and necessary. Although my shooting didn't help the cause a great deal, my motivation on the bench did. I do remember playing in one game, a practice game against the girls before school.

Kim Elsen with her long blond hair was again in A-4. But this year she smiled and laughed at my jokes! What happened to my disgraceful reputation? She laughed at me instead of getting sick of me. She actually listened to me, and my comments on our balding math teacher and hard-of-hearing woodshop teacher. She was interested in the basketball team and that I had made it. I noticed her interest but especially the sincerity lacking in all the other girls who appeared interested.

Changes were coming fast; I was slowly losing my touch. One morning in history class my career ended. Sitting next to the windows, I gently launched my helicopter, the four millionth paper airplane of my junior high career. Mrs. Pickens never saw it; she was busy outlining the trends of slavery on the board. I turned around in my chair, and she looked up. Right at that instant, an updraft caught my helicopter and brought it back up the wall. I was a dead duck-there is just no way to explain that it's easier to take notes on prefolded paper! Down I went to the principal with the humiliation of a captured spy! I never heard the end of that-everyone took advantage of the opportunity to give me comments I deserved. Everyone except Kim. She teased me but quit fast and almost tried to defend me. I couldn't believe it; I thought she would be the worst of the bunch.

Academics was never my strong point. Adverbs, fractions, enzymes and I never got along. Industrial arts was fun, but the period never lasted long enough. I always knew Kim Elsen was smart; she always turned her work in on time. On field trip day I found out how smart she was and how dumb I was. She got to go see "Romeo and Juliet" at the movie theater with the smart eighth graders; I had to travel to the Evanston water works and the city dump to watch them burn garbage with the dumb sixth graders!

By February Kim was laughing so much at my jokes I considered her my girlfriend. But I held my feelings in. What if she didn't want me for a boyfriend; I'd look like a fool. Ice skating that winter with her was fun. She was as fast as me and a good hockey player too. Pom-Pom was a favorite of ours, and one game in March I became all but sure of her feelings for me. No one held on to me as long as Kim did when she tagged me and she always lined up next to me at the start of each game. Spring vacation assured me-Kim does like me! I enjoyed getting dumped in the snow by her more than by anyone else. Her snowballs not only stung but also said how much she liked me.

I was now officially hooked, and everything I used to criticize I now saw as an advantage. There was nothing better than having your very own girlfriend.

I didn't learn an awful lot from textbooks in junior high-I should know more about prepositional phrases than I do-but I did learn some things. I learned that the heavier the book the harder it falls, that it's just as important to have high spirited players on the basketball court as on the bench, and that Kim Elsen is much more that her long, braided blond hair and warm smile.