Sam laughed loudly at that one, as did most of the class, and I vowed then and there never to bail out our history teacher again. But Jane, at least, came to my defense.

Do not be embarrassed, Ellie. Let them enjoy their amusement now. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?

Her confidence grounded me and helped me remember not to take myself so seriously. It was a reminder I desperately needed throughout high school.

And then there was Stacy Daschell, the girl I despised most in our entire sophomore class. On day three, while changing back into our regular clothes after gym, an item Stacy wore beneath her red-and-gold cheerleader’s sweater snagged Jane’s attention.

Pray, what is that? Jane inquired, her voice horrified.

I didn’t own such an item myself, but I’d heard about Stacy’s purchase ad nauseam that week. It’s a lavender Victoria’s Secret demi bra. Heavily padded, I answered silently.

The slender, pointy-nosed Stacy, who’d recently returned from a trip to San Francisco where she’d encountered the first of these soon-to-be-famous stores, swept a cascade of blond curls off her shoulder, giggled seductively at her mirror image across the room and showed off her orthodontically perfect incisors right along with her enhanced cleavage. “It’s called the ‘Emma,’” Stacy informed her friends. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Jane sniffed. Strumpet.

My good friend Terrie, in an independent assessment at her locker next to mine, used the modern American equivalent. “Slut.”

I laughed at their comments and, consequently, was rewarded with an extra-nasty sneer from Stacy.

Then she, with her Victoria’s Secret uplift and her cheerleader’s outfit snugly back on, adjusted her leg warmers, slipped on her gold-glittered Nikes and blotted her hot-pink lipstick with a tissue as she tracked my far-less-fashionable footsteps down the hallway toward algebra.