One of my favorite books as a child was The Against Taffy Sinclair Club. It was a YA novel about a group of fifth-grade girls who form a club devoted to dissing their classmate Taffy. What was so wrong with Taffy? Well for starters, she made the egregious mistake of growing boobs.
I adored this story, and for all the wrong reasons. I somehow missed its message about loving thy neighbor as thyself, and instead just really dug the idea of a club that made fun of people. I quickly formed a group of my own, though my little clique didn't reserve our ire for merely one person. We were more enterprising, and spread the mean around our little Catholic school, mocking our classmates about everything from inexpertly rolled uniform pants to poorly feathered bangs. Our plaid pinafore-clad gang was a force to be reckoned with...for a while, anyway. And then just like the main character in the book, I got my comeuppance: in sixth grade the tables swiftly turned, and I got a well-deserved taste of what it was like to be mocked and decreed a dork.
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