When the kings and queens of the grade denounced your shoes as "so last year", you knew not to question their judgment, as it was law. Instead, you begged your mother for the "right" stirrup-pants, the "right" pudding cups at lunch, the earrings with swinging cats on them, the maximum-width scrunchie. The tyranny of popularity was simply too powerful to withstand.

The Monarch of this tyranny, the Most Popular Girl, was someone who we all knew. She was the one who seemed to be surrounded with a golden glow and an intoxicating perfume (Baby Soft) that spoke for her, saying, "I have power; witness my impeccable, up-to-the-minute wardrobe. I rule the school." As sweet as she was beautiful, this girl--Traci for the sake of this article -- captured the heart of everyone in the grade, from the biggest loser (who didn't stand a chance) to the rival popular girls coming up through the ranks to challenge Traci's despotism and making great efforts to get themselves into her inner circle of confidants.

At times even you seemed to be Traci's best friend. She confided in you during English class or greeted you in the hall, but the crushing reality would always hit you: it was all meaningless; you were not part of the popular elite. You couldn't penetrate that sacred clique of the popular girls, with their popular boy counterparts, and were not invited when they went on "group-dates" to the movies. You heard from others about the racy things they did, like holding hands and wearing each other's clothes, and you pined for that life.

The psychological hold that Traci held on all was profound. Remember when she came to school in her boyfriend's sweater? You wanted that sweater. And it wasn't even an especially nice sweater; you wanted it simply for its symbolic value, the "I am cool" sense of command you would feel striding down the hall with it on, like an indisputable emblem of your coolness.

Lunchtime was added torture. Here's a scenario from my past: I come out of the lunch line, wielding my maybe slightly overstuffed tray, and immediately I scan the room for a place to sit. This is an important decision, possibly earth-shaking, and my heart pounds as I wonder, where, oh where, can I alight? Is there a place for me? Sporadic positions present themselves, but I reject them on the basis of boring conversational prospects and close proximity to non-friends. Desperation overcomes me as my tray weighs heavy on my arms, and I feel eyes fixing on my lonely figure. While I survey the scene awkwardly, a fellow student whips past me, nearly spilling my lunch off the edge of my tray, and I quickly grab for my fries, almost launched to the floor.

This is critical mass. I must find a haven. Luckily, I see two open seats. They are across from each other; one is next to the kid who smells like Flintstone vitamins and flosses his teeth with his hair. The other is next to Traci.

"Yes," I think, "my day has come." Here is my opportunity to ingratiate myself fully with this most popular of popular girls. I will bring up our English homework, and ask her what it was. No matter that it is already completed, secure in my backpack. I'll talk about that fat boy, Scott, who always farts and blames it on the shortest girl in the grade. She will laugh. I will laugh. Then she will say, "You know, Brunhilda, you really are one of the coolest girls in the school. I love your stretch pants. Would you like to come to a sleepover at my house this weekend?" I will flippantly reply--