TUNA

“I’ll tell you one thing diary! That FUCKING tuna fish gang is gonna get it!!! AHHHHHH!” ~ AGE 15


Let me explain.

My friends and I were seated quietly in the newly built commons area. “The commons area” roughly translates to, “A student cafeteria so vast that it would take a week to find a murder victim”. Prior to the commons area, we had an open campus. This had provided better ambience when discussing scholastic bowl or Spanish club. But now we were stuck with all drudges of high school society. It was a clamoring, fluorescently lit food arena, and I hated it.

There were occasional spats and brawls at some of the more “lower track” tables. This is to be expected when you shove together 900 students of different backgrounds. They rarely made it over to our side of the room, but that day was different. I remember I was contemplating how I was going to seduce Mr. Mittelstadt (my English teacher), when a tuna fish sandwich came flying through the air. My back was turned, so all I saw were my friends’ wide-eyed expressions as the soggy, stinking lump punched me right in the ear.

And I mean, PUNCHED. My head flew sideways and tuna went everywhere. Students at the surrounding tables were assaulted with fishy shrapnel. Normally brave boys screamed and dove for cover. It was a fucking tuna fish hand grenade.

The fish bomb was thrown by a group of hood rats sitting half a mile away. They weren’t aiming for us, but the sheer mass of the tuna threw it off its intended course. I think one of them even mouthed “sorry” before engaging in hysterical laughter with the rest of the group.

I then proceeded to lose it, hard.

I shoved back the metal chair with unnecessary force, the bottom plates screeching against the tiled linoleum. I picked out the clumps of tuna that were sliding down the side of my hair and flung them to the ground in disgust. With a grunt, I spun on my heel and began line backing it towards the assailants. I heard one of my friends say, “Oh my god, Courtney’s gonna get us killed”.

~I want to stop here and mention that although I’m 5’4” and the opposite of athletic, I’ve always been down for a fight. I’ve been surprisingly lucky, because people rarely want to fight back. This was my reputation amongst friends; I was the first to go into haunted houses, flip off road-ragers and tell somebody they could shove their bad attitude back from whence it came. When a senior girl wrote “Maybe someday you will be as pretty and popular as me” in my yearbook, I wrote in hers: “I hope you get cancer and die in a fire”. THEN she had the audacity to cry about it. I have calmed down over the years and only become the hulk on desperate occasions. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: run. ~

I arrived at their table, winded (fat), and spat out-
“Who the fuck threw this GodDamn tuna sandwich?!”


The conversation went as follows:

“Nobody! We don’t eat tuna… not like YOU” (riotous laughter)

Apparently the culprit didn’t want to admit to eating tuna, despite numerous health benefits.

“Well, obviously you don’t EAT tuna, because you THREW it across the room. So, tell me WHO THREW THIS DAMN SANDWICH!”

One of the boys stood, holding up his ridiculously baggy pants and said,
“Girl, you wanna get yo’ ASS kicked?”

I was DYING to get my ass kicked. I was eager for it. I wanted to be assaulted with a tuna sandwich and then punched in the face so bad I could taste it. Then I could sue for a million dollars. The emotional stress of the tuna fish alone should be worth half that. I was thinking about whom I would invite to my personal island if that happened when I screamed,

“I DON’T CARE IF I DO GET MY ASS KICKED, BUT I SURE AS HELL AM GOING TO FIND OUT WHO THREW THIS GODDAMN FUCKING FUCK FUCKING TUNA FISH SANDWICH!”

I slammed what was left of the sandwich down into the middle of their table. Bits and pieces flung everywhere. Half of them groaned, one of them screamed and they all looked at me with new found respect. I know this because three seconds later their leader cried out, “This white bitch is crazy, fuck this”.

Six pairs of eyes glared at me as they walked out of the commons. I glowered back, shooting them with invisible rage bullets. Afterwards, I calmly walked over to the “commons security guard” (Mr. Stash, who happens to be my step brother in-law) and explained to him the situation. I threw in a couple of tears for effect. He stormed out, presumably to give them all a well deserved detention or in-house. I’m not sure what happens actually, because in all my years of schooling, I never received either.

I don’t remember much beyond that point. Apparently I had payback plans for the aptly named “tuna fish gang”, but they have since dissipated from my memory. And really, what could I have done? Had a “tap dance” dance off? Subject them to a poetry slam? Hosted a trivia night and made them look like fools? It’s unlikely they would have even R.S.V.P’d. No, my high school bullying abilities were severely limited. I’m guessing the only thing I COULD do was create an elaborate and impossible revenge plot, stew on it for a week and then write it in my diary.

THE END