Because I reported it, they made the rest of my eighth grade year hell.

In fifth grade, this boy had his friend ask me out. I said no; he supposedly already had a girlfriend, and I wasn't interested in him. That's not a big deal. Three years later, in eighth grade, he had someone ask me out again. I said no, still not feeling anything for him. Later on in the year, for our English teacher's birthday, I made brownies and she shared them with the entire class. After that day, this boy, we'll call him Elliot, asked me to make him brownies every time he saw me. I politely told him no every time, because I didn't like telling people no, nor did I like baking when I didn't want to. Fast forward from September to November, and he's still asking every day for brownies. Fed up with it, I told him I would put laxatives in them if he asked me anymore. That stopped the asking, but it started the harassment. All of his friends would leave notes in my locker. "Slut", "Whore", "Bitch", "Fatass". Every day there was a new one. I confronted Elliot, telling him it's not okay for him to have his friends telling me these things. His response? "Make me my brownies before Monday and they'll stop." When I didn't get him the brownies, the harassment picked up. It wasn't just letters anymore. I was shoved into lockers, onto the floor, into bathrooms, down the steps going outside, and his girl friends would kick me, trip me, slap me, and tell me I wasn't worth all of the attention I was getting from him, that I was just a slut for leading him on, playing hard to get. One girl even had the audacity to say to her friends while I was by them, "Maybe she won't make Elliot brownies because she's saving all of her money for weight-loss surgery, or money to pay her parents back for the abortion she had." As a 14-year-old girl who had never even had a boyfriend, or her first kiss, and who was on the chunkier side, that was the lowest blow for me. I finally mustered up the courage to tell the principal. I had all the notes that were left in my locker, and I took it to her. She did nothing except lecture them on how bullying is wrong. Because I reported it, they made the rest of my eighth grade year hell. There was nowhere for me to turn to, and my parents even believed the kids over their own daughter. It'll be three years since that started in September. I haven't told anyone except my freshman choir teacher, who hugged me and patted my back as I poured out my soul to her one day after school, after Elliot called me a whore in our computer class. My choir teacher was the only one who believed me. Her saying I wasn't the one at fault is the reason I am still alive to this day. She brought me back to life, and let me know that she will always be there for me, even after I graduate high school. She is my saving grace, and I thank God for her every day. - Casey