The only time I ever felt 100% ‘solid’ outside of my home growing up as a kid was in art class; a real, seen person as opposed to a sort of misty vapor you may feel in the air but not give much notice – a draft that causes a door in the house to close causing a noise for just a second, this abrupt sound being the end of its impact. I wasn’t popular by any means, and though gifted academically, I had far too much social anxiety and general sense of perpetual overwhelm to be a leader. This makes it all the more curious that I managed to spearhead a short-lived fashion empire at my elementary school in my tenth year.

I didn’t have the look of an up and coming designer. I wore jeggings before there was a word for them, much to my classmates’ amusement. I suppose I was just 20 years ahead of the trends. Other than that, I typically donned a whole lot of athleisure, emphasis on the leisure part of that word because I was hopeless at sports. (Note the photo of me with my hero wearing a fake soccer uniform from the American Girl catalogue.) Despite my unassuming style, I could draw models donning original clothing that caught the eyes of the other girls in class. I drew my own fashion magazines at home all the time. When asked what I was doing one day while doodling at my desk after finishing my classwork early, I answered after a long pause, “Working on my magazine”. The next day, half the class was lining up for interviews to be on staff.

I assigned everyone departments. We even had a lingerie section, ironically drawn by the most religious girl in class. She curtly explained without being asked that the models in the hand-drawn photoshoot were married so it was ok, with a definitive huff at the end. As Editor In Chief, people were coming to me for approval and advice, and it felt good at first. They even followed my quirky rules. All text in the publication had to be written in the alien font I invented, which was a mix of Egyptian hieroglyphics and Microsoft Webdings. All were given translation keys for their convenience.

Things were going smoothly until one day, my Vice President called an emergency meeting with only the board of the Fashion Club, as we were so creatively called. A lot of members felt one of the girl’s designs just weren’t cutting it. They proposed she be ousted from the group. I gave it careful consideration, and admitted her ideas weren’t very good. She complained about having to use my specialized typography, also made clear regularly her disdain for the requirement that our designer names be our first names spelled backwards, and she lived in my neighborhood and frequently stopped over without calling first to play with my toys. I was still steamed that last time she’d visited, she spat on my Sleeping Beauty Aurora doll whose eyes close like she’s sleeping when you wet them with … well, it was supposed to be water. I’d never fired anyone before – I’d never even had a real job aside from watering the neighbor’s plants when they went on vacation. It could be fun.

The next recess, I called neighborhood girl into my office, which was behind the tallest tree on the playground. I told her directly that this wasn’t working out, expecting it to be cool. It was not cool. She called me a bitch, a word I only knew from my favorite Alanis Morrissette song, and gave me the finger, a gesture whose meaning was unclear to me at this time. Following this, she ran off sobbing uncontrollably. I felt terrible. I’d had my first real taste of power and influence, and I absolutely hated it.

The next morning, I apologized to neighborhood girl, resigned from my own publication, and faded back into obscurity as nature intended. It was way more fun spending recesses pretending to be a Pokémon anyway.