The Gopher Auction

In elementary school, being the center of attention made me uncomfortable. Once, after years of having the same hair, I cut it short.

My classmates often called me shy.

Yes, I was shy… some of the time. But there was more to my personality. Outside of school, in the comfort of home, I held court like a queen.

The trick is to make your mother feel like getting you the cookie is her idea.

I felt comfortable seeking attention from my family. But the idea of getting too much attention from a classmate, friend, or stranger terrified me. Being in the spotlight and showcasing my personality seemed like a fast-track to rejection.

I knew I had a lot to give. I had a lot to say. But I didn’t always know how to give it or say it.

In seventh grade, I switched from elementary to middle school. I felt excited about the change. I wanted to be braver about opening up to people.

With my mom’s advice, I made a new friend named Summer.

Most of my elementary school classmates attended my new school. I worried they’d be confused or wouldn’t want to see a more outgoing side of me.

I reverted to my old ways around them.

Luckily, I had a good thing going with Summer.

Summer and I shared everything—including an obsession with rap and hip-hop music. We passed notes in class, a key to best friendships.

We weren’t stoners. But we did get detention.

I loved passing notes, talking to, and playing with Summer. I loved quoting Afroman with her. It felt insanely awesome to be myself with a friend.

Halfway through the year, our school hosted a carnival.

Summer suggested we work the cotton candy booth. With encouragement, I agreed.

We listened to Afroman the entire day.

Throughout the carnival, a boy kept walking by our booth. He tossed a squeezy ball up and down.

Sitting beside Summer, high on sugar and Afroman, I made a power play.

The boy threw me the ball. He said, “Keep it!” and seemed pleased by our interaction.

The next week at school, I put the ball in my locker. It represented something big to me:

It feels nice to be noticed. It feels nice to ask for what you want.

As the squeezy ball watched over me, another announcement came over the loudspeaker.

A school fundraiser, the Gopher Auction took place every year in the auditorium. In a live auction, students who volunteered to be “gophers” would be paraded on stage and purchased by other students. Being a gopher required you to do the buyer’s bidding the following day.

Later that day, I found a note in my locker.

I agonized over the gopher decision. A person brave enough to be a gopher was exactly who I wanted to be. Being a gopher, I’d solidify to myself and TO THE WORLD: I want to be noticed. I can change. I’m not shy.

I pinky-promised Summer I’d sign up during lunch.

As Summer and I parted ways for our respective classrooms, I felt brave.

I thought, all throughout my next class, how good it would feel to show more of myself to my peers; to be noticed in a way I chose.

But when lunchtime came, I just stared at the sign-up sheet—seeing only names of people braver than me.

I ran out of the cafeteria, acting more like the gopher who hides in the dirt than the gopher who bursts from the hole.

I ate my lunch on the toilet.

Thoroughly let down by my realization—by my crushing inability to evolve—I wrote to Summer. I gave her the note in our next class together.

I watched Summer read my note.

She looked thoughtful, then smiled as she scribbled a reply. She looked up and saw me. I quickly looked away—embarrassed that she caught me watching.

After a moment, I felt Summer tap me on the shoulder. I put my hand out behind my back and she pressed her reply into my palm.

I checked to make sure our teacher wasn’t looking. Then I opened the note.

Summer noticed me. Always.

I never became a gopher. But that year, I flourished in the safety of my friend’s orbit.