Like that of most grownups, my memory of middle school is a scratchy mental filmstrip of tiny triumphs punctuated by gigantic humiliations--the vomiting-on-my-sneakers incident of 1972, for example. My school was one of those Machiavellian pyramids composed of jocks, cheerleaders, greasers, hoods, geeks--and an atomic-wedgie specialist nicknamed Buzz, who roamed the halls looking for victims. I was lucky, however. I had two older sisters--big, popular and vengeful teenage goddesses. Looking back, I'm sure they would have happily watched me dangle from a locker hook, but at the time I was able to navigate the bully-infested halls of junior high surrounded by...
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