Sorting through papers today, I found a file of memorabilia from my senior year of high school (which came right after sophomore year—I was so eager to get out of high school that I took summer school and skipped). Looking at it, I was reminded of how hard it was to be 16.

As far as I can make out, I was in a state of rebellion against my school (I flunked a quarter of senior math), my peers, and my mother. I expressed it by becoming obsessed with on-the-edge music; initially punk, but then neo-garage bands and original Sixties acts (like the Remains and early Kinks). I also expressed it by dressing differently from my peers—initially by getting a spiked 'do, later by getting a Brian Jones cut (right; photo taken March 1985 before going to a neo-garage concert where paisley wearers got reduced admission).

Still another way I rebelled was by taking chances hanging around much-older musicians and underground journalists in the East Village (like the one in whose apartment the photo at right was taken) instead of my peers, most of whom I viewed as artless and hopelessly suburban. I didn't drink or do drugs, and I guarded myself sexually—more out of fear of getting hurt than out of a sense of morality—but I liked putting myself in nightclubs and other places where I really shouldn't have been.

Poor Mom. I can picture her coming in to my room in the morning and asking why I wasn't up. I was probably sleeping off a nightclub outing. I can imagine asking her to write me a note (click through for a larger view) so I could miss my first period of school, which was probably gym. So she scrawled it while she was rushing off to work, where she oversaw mental-patient halfway houses so I could have my cute Brian Jones haircut and bubblegum-stretch jeans.

Yet, despite all this, I wanted more than anything in the world to fit in. I wanted to have close friends who understood me. I wanted people to like me and find me attractive. And I can see this in my high-school papers—this combination of rebellion, angst, loneliness, and...utterly isolating braininess.

Click through the image at right to see my SAT scores. Remember, this was before the scores were recentered in 1995, when the average was raised 100 points.

In the eyes of most of my teachers, I had no right to be brainy. I was a mediocre student and I didn't apply myself. But in reality I was a voracious reader and erudite snob who was bored stiff by most schoolwork and hated being treated like a child. All in all, I felt hopelessly out of place, not just in high school, but—as my age 16-31 depression was beginning to emerge—in the world at large as well.

Still, I did have some great friends in as well as out of school, and some sympathetic teachers, like my writing adviser, "Doc" George. Doc was a bachelor Englishman in his sixties who taught Shakespeare and was amused by my interest in punk rock. He also thought it was funny that I could do an English accent of a sort. When I was a sophomore and had the spiked hair, he invited me to come into a class of seniors and pretend to be his niece from Coventry. I probably sounded more like Eliza Doolittle than the girls from Bananarama, but most of the class fell for it.

At left is a report Doc George wrote up for my composition teacher (click through for a larger image). Mr. Margolis was a heavyset man in his late fifties with stringy white hair. He taught me some very good things about composition that have stayed with me—particularly parallelisms—but I hated him at the time. Once he caught me reading about James Dean in the library when I was supposed to be researching something for class. He shouted at me that I was wasting his time.

I responded at the top of my voice, "No, Mr. Margolis, you're wasting my time."

He sent me to the principal's office.

Mr. Margolis also used to wear short-sleeved shirts that showed the yellow crust on his elbows. He read that poem about the girls in their summer dresses, the gossamer fabric clinging to them, and I could practically see him drool.

By contrast, Doc George, my writing adviser, was my friend. So when he reported on me to Mr. Margolis in the paper above, here's what he wrote:

"Reason for visit: To discuss composition on an idea (quotation) from Mark Twain and to relate it to 'Anarchy in the U.K.'

"Writing Center Teacher's Comment: A bright interested girl who enjoys the Sex Pistols and their strange sense of humor."