The beginning

My first A wasn’t a big surprise to my family, so weren’t the next twenty. Ever since my mother visited countless baby classes, which included me sitting on tissue paper to encourage the formation of synapses (we ended up not going anymore because I bit the paper repeatedly, which stained my mouth blue), and her reading me pretty much every book we own, the expectations were set quite high. 
Indeed, my elementary teacher noticed a quite, let’s say surprising, vocabulary for an eight year old, who raved about the gorgeous days and marvelous flowers in the school yard. However, I felt more than comfortable in my role as the smart kid, who wouldn’t want results day to be the best day of the year? I was happy to accept another certificate of participation, which you got in gym class when you pretty much weren’t any good, for another A in maths. Nonetheless, I still smirk at the sight of old friendship books, where I stated my dream job to be “CEO” written in glittery smelly strawberry marker next your classical four eye blonde girl. Or, alternatively, veterinari, which my family found too amusing to correct me about until much later (thanks again guys!). I hereby formally apologize to my former fellow classmates, who still have to see that embarrassment in their dusted friend books.
The first time my microcosm was severely shaken was when a girl named Tracey joined our class. To that time Tracey was thirteen years old. I know, there are some people that forgot what it was like being nine, but a real life teenager in class was about as exciting as a naked Balinese tiger, who was on fire, doing a headstand. Tracey was wearing a neon pink G string underneath her denim miniskirt, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear her hair was blowing in the wind, when she entered the classroom. Flashing her braces she pulled a bottle of coke light out of her east-pack backpack and casually sat down. God damn it, she was even wearing a bra! Me, in a beige sweatervest with a matching skirt and a classic baby backpack, which had dolphins on it, went bright red with shame.
It was in that exact moment when I realized, I wasn’t a cool kid and I would never in the history of mankind be one either.
Tightly holding on to my Hello Kitty binder I marched out of school to be picked up by my mom. Without a minute passing I asked her to buy me diet coke and (in a very serious tone), whether I’d have to wear “that kind of tiny underwear too” once I was a teenager, when she took a sharp breath and hit the brakes hard.
This very day, this is still a running gag in my family,
“Hey Grandma, remember when Sophie was nine and thought she had to wear a G string once she turned 13?”.