Wicked Memories

(Sensitivity Note- This story contains curse words, sexual harassment, and bullying themes)

Petunia’s heart raced rapidly as the rhythm of her high heels hit the hard tile floor. “Breathe bitch”, she silently scolded herself as she took another lingering look in the glass window of her old school’s hallway. Her freshly straightened, silky black bob floated playfully over her Ferragamo, form-fitting red dress. It gripped her hourglass hips and stopped just below her knees, accentuating her glistening, freshly fit calves.

When she first tried the dress on in the store with her oh so fashionable friend Clyde, she timidly emerged from the dressing room with an awkward expression. “Uh uhhh, don’t give me that shy shit bitch, you are a baddie!” he lovingly praised, as he rose up from the plushy, golden, velvet chair. He then proceeded to pour her another flute of Moet and brought it to her. Nobody gave compliments like Clyde. Chuckling, she replied, “My dear Clyde, you sure are good for my morale”, as she smiled and took a sip. She then turned around to look at the dress’s dramatic, V-shaped plunge. “You sure it’s not too much?” Petunia anxiously asked.

As he touched the price-tag and read the golden numbers, Clyde replied, “5300? Does it come programmed with A.I. that can attract the biggest ballers in all the land? Cause if so, then no, it’s not too much honey.” “Hahaha, well, I was going to wait to tell you this at the reunion but, I finally made partner at the firm! So, it ain’t tricking if you got it baby!” Petunia said. Clyde instantly dropped down into a full split, popped up, and started throwing ass in the middle of the dressing room in Ferragamo. “Ayeeee! That’s what the fuck I’m talking about Petunia!”

“Thank you baby, now go and pick you whatever you like so we can shut shit all the way down at the reunion!” “Say Less!” Clyde said, as he pranced off with his Champagne flute to go and forage for fashion. Petunia took another glance in the mirror at Clyde and beamed with pride and joy. Clyde had just gotten cast in Broadway’s latest rendition of “Wicked”, and she was elated that all his hard work as a dancer was finally starting to pay off too.

Yet somehow, even with all of her achievements and attractiveness, she still felt like “Porky Petunia” on the inside. This label was burned into her brain by bullies at Grier High School. Petunia knew that she would come face to face with them for the first time in over twenty years this weekend. Petunia deleted social media eleven years ago after her mental health spiraled in law school, so she hadn’t even the slightest idea of what her old foes were doing in life.

Although she was nearly four hundred pounds back at Grier, Taylor Freyman and her minions managed to make her feel so small. Every single day. If they weren’t coming for her about her weight, they were picking on her for her name. She went by “Nia” for the longest time to conceal her real name. Until one dark day, when a clueless substitute teacher blew her cover while calling the role in class. Petunia still remembers the crippling horror she felt as the teacher continually called out, “Petunia!”, while the snickers and cackles of Taylor and her minions resonated in the room. She tried not to answer until she heard the teacher say, “Petunia Meyers”, revealing her last name. “Here”, Petunia mumbled morosely. “Ewww, your name sounds like a disease!” Taylor snidely said, which sparked an even more robust rollicking from the room full of asinine adolescents.

The substitute teacher gave Taylor after school detention for that comment, but that really wasn’t a punishment for Taylor. Clyde was a regular in detention due to random dance outbursts in the middle of pre-calculus. He told Petunia that all Taylor did that afternoon in detention was suck face with her jerky, jock boyfriend. Coach Flannagan was supposed to be watching the kids in detention to make sure that kind of stuff didn’t happen, but Clyde said that the only thing Coach Flanagan watched was teenage ass. When Petunia heard this, she felt even worse about her bulging body. She thought, “Damn, not even a creepy, peeping pedo wants to look at my fat ass…It’s no wonder that no guys my age want to.”

If it wasn’t for Clyde, she probably would have dropped out of that shitty school. Clyde was on the bully’s biggest hit list for being the only openly gay person in the school. They teased him for that and for being on the dance squad, but he never seemed to let it get to him too much. Even before they became friends, Petunia admired that about him. One afternoon, he found Petunia underneath the bleachers when he went back there to smoke some weed. She had skipped gym class to read, “To Kill A Mockingbird.” Clyde was never too crazy about books but when he saw the way Petunia’s engaged eyebrows repeatedly raised as she would flip to the next page, his curiosity peaked. He wanted to know the tea in the book, so Petunia happily spilled it for him, chapter by chapter. She didn’t know it at the time, but her scintillating synopses helped him get through their English class.

Clyde enjoyed witnessing the passion and enthusiasm that poured from Petunia whenever she discussed the happenings and characters in the book. He thought it was way more interesting than listening to the monotonous Mrs. Molstad talk about it in English class. He always thought her voice sounded like elevator music being flushed down the toilet. After they finished reading To Kill A Mockingbird, they dove into The Great Gatsby. Clyde couldn’t believe that he was naturally becoming an avid reader. Sometimes, under the bleachers, he would show Petunia some new dance moves that he was creating for the next big dance meet. He would vigorously and vivaciously gyrate his hips, dip, twirl and twist to the sounds soaring from his ever-present companion: Mr. Beatz.

Mr. Beatz was a rectangular, black boom box with neon green and hot pink trim on the rim of its speakers. Before meeting Petunia, Mr. Beatz was Clyde’s best friend. Petunia loved to see him lose himself as his body became an expression of joy and athletic amazement. After showing her his choreographic creation, he would say through panted breath, “Soo, what do you think Tun Tun?” as she clapped with genuine delight and astonishment. She felt like maybe that’s what made Clyde so bulletproof against the bullies’ bullshit at school. Dance was where he let it all go. “Clyde, you do realize that you’re asking the girl that has anvils for feet but..you definitely killed it!”

One time, as they chilled in their favorite bleacher spot, which was starting to feel like a bungalow, Clyde convinced Petunia to take a few puffs of marijuana. The newfound sense of liberation gave her the motivation she needed to join in on the dance party. As “Hey Ya” from Outkast pumped through Mr. Beatz's pores, she shook her body wildly from head to toe. She moved like she had a polaroid picture in each of her hands and feet. She then spastically swirled her hips around like she had a wooden spoon up her ass and was trying to stir cake batter. As she did this, she clenched her eyes tightly, only opening them when the song came to its sonically satisfying conclusion. To Petunia’s surprise, Clyde was grinning gleefully through a cloud of smoke at her as he said, “The only difference between a dance move and a seizure is how you judge it. Own it honey!”

These memories made their mark on her psyche and suddenly surged through her as she made her way towards the double doors of the gym. As she got closer, she heard “I’m Real” by Ja Rule and J-Lo blasting through the speakers. Just as she grabbed the handles to go in and face her past, she heard, “Tun Tun!”, and turned to see Clyde dressed to cause distress in their hater’s hearts. His rouge, snazzy, suit shimmered in a subtle and stylish way. He held her hand and smiled, soothing her nerves, as they stunningly stepped in the gym like it was fashion week in Paris.