This is not a quiz.
You were blonde and actually talked like a baby. Everyone secretly thought you were a dullard.
Boob size: Fried egg
You always had to leave sleepovers early in the morning to go to practice.
You were more flexible than Mr. Crenshaw’s rubber band ball.
“Where’d you get those tearaway track pants with your name embroidered on the upper thigh?”
Boob size: Hot plate
You were a racially diverse member of the group, or you had curly hair and several pairs of patterned, boot-cut stretch pants and a silver armlet, which is a bracelet for your arm. It was from Claire’s and left a green imprint. You changed the spelling of your name from Katie to Kaytee, a very, very stupid decision.
Boob size: Softball
You laughed with your mouth wide open and told everyone what a BJ was. You also knew which bases meant what, and you have been to all of them, even fifth base, and sixth base. You had your period every day. You were the most magnificent and the most terrifying person on the planet. You had an Uncle Rudy who owned a construction business. Your house smelled like yeast.
Boob size: Magic 8-ball
Your family was rich and you got a waterproof Walkman for Christmas. Gabby always thought it was weird that we never had sleepovers at your house. Don’t you live in, like, a mansion? Your brother is hot, even today, and owns part of Facebook.
Boob size: Lipstick cap
This was a role delegated to only the most special of girls—the ones who had their wits about them, who had gotten an A++ on their extra-credit French project oh la la, who hadn’t really learned how to fix their hair, because, well there were bigger things to worry about! These girls were savvy and business-like, and loved Fig Newtons, but knew when to truly let loose and spring for an Oreo Blizzard at DQ. There is nothing to be ashamed of if this was you, especially if you didn’t get asked to Junior Prom or go to Homecoming because of dress complications and a broken ankle. You are likely a successful writer for the Internet, which is a very valid career for women with ambition and intellect! Seriously!!! Stop crying!
THE BOYFRIEND OF ONE OF THE SPICE GIRLS
Ew, Sean. Get out of here, we didn’t invite you. I’m getting mom.
THE COSTUME DESIGNER
You did crafts and had three full periods of art class. No one knew how you pulled that off, and Gabby complained about it once in study hall. What is with all the art class you took? Gabby started a rumor that Mr. Crenshaw asked you out. You were Wiccan.
Your teeth were bad and you had old face. Who even is that guy?
THE BUS DRIVER
This was your mom and you treated her like she was lower than Meatloaf.
“Why isn’t there a fireman’s pole in the PT Cruiser, mooom?”
“Why won’t you buy me platform sneakers, moooom?”
“Answer me. That’s not girl power, mooooom.”
Your constant internal monologue went something like, How much longer of this unremitting hell? When will this adolescent albatross dislodge itself from my side? How far away is the farthest state school? Has Match.com been invented yet? More wine. More wine. Box of raisins. And then more wine.
THE SINISTER NEWSPAPER OWNER WHO TRIES TO RUIN THE SPICE GIRLS’ CAREER
Previously: Eustace at the Süper Boel