Twelve-year old Margot was the youngest girl in the eighth grade. How she got to be in eighth grade before her thirteenth birthday is a story that cannot be told here because this recorder does not know the story. It shall have to suffice to say that she was in eighth grade and would not be thirteen until Christmas Day.
There is something to discuss. A child born on Christmas Day. Is she blessed, or is it a tragedy? Again, we do not know all the ramifications of such coincidence of events but we do know in this case that Margot is not thrilled about it. She feels cheated, put upon in a sense. It is as though she is the only girl she knows who does not have her own day. Worse, Christmas and birthday rolled into one equals once-a-year presents while everyone else gets her own special day, gifts twice a year. At least the parents didn't name her Carol, or Noelle or the like. "Margot," her mother told her, "my little Christmas daisy."
Breaking into the social stream in this junior high school had been a trial for Margot. She was bright, too bright, she was thinking. Margot was not only an excellent student, she was at the top of her class in all things academic. This she correctly suspected did not endear her to her classmates. Too, Margot was not only smart, she was pretty. She knew this, but she was not conceited about it. In fact, she suspected, again correctly, that this also did not endear her to her classmates. The girls were jealous, envious, and in some cases downright mean. The boys were intimidated by both her good looks and her intelligence.
Ah, dear. The vicissitudes of adolescence. Some of the less-subtle wits, half-wits, thought Margot, tagged her "Maggot." The one girl in the class who had befriended her, Violet, yes that Violet, the Shrinking One, suggested to Margot that she simply drop the "t." "After all," she said, "that wouldn't change the pronunciation of your name." Margot thought that might be a little too plain, but it did get her to thinking and presently she started turning in her papers under the name "Margaux."
The girls in the class were soon aware of the self-applied name change and somehow Margot went from "Maggot" to "Ox."
Poor me! thought Margot. Nothing I ever do is right.
Which one could not tell by the rows of "A"s on her report card.
Author's note: I have had this one sitting in my drafts folder for several weeks. Somehow entertains me, yet I find it strangely unsatisfying. Well, I have run out of anything else, so here goes.