Middle schoolers. Just the words can strike fear into the hearts of the hardiest souls. No one was happy at that stage of their life. No one wants to return to that time. And no one–no one–would voluntarily hang out with a mass of thirteen year old boys.

Except for me, apparently.

Near the end of every school year, a new crop of eighth graders show up at the high school for the meeting and tour that are supposed to introduce them to the world of high school. The meeting is run by the guidance counselors; the tours are run by a small group of students who understand the maze that is our school. We are required to show up at the beginning of the meeting and sit through the explanation of classes, extracurriculars and expectations for graduation before having ten or so eighth graders assigned to our tour.

For my first tour, I had the front-row kids. These guys were quiet, paid attention, let me speak. They didn’t ask any questions, which made conversation impossible, but at least I felt like they were learning something.

My second tour was a completely different story. Thirteen year old boys, as a rule, must be as loud and as random as possible in order to prove their manliness. Everything from seeing a poster of our president and shouting “Hey look, mah homie ‘Bama!” in the middle of my lecture on the fine qualities of our history department to hiding behind the water fountain as I lead the tour down the science hallway is fair game, as long as you can get a big laugh.

That’s the other thing: they laugh at everything. Someone asks a dumb question? Chortle at his stupidity. I accidently drop an expletive? Giggles for days. Mrs. Grogg gives a stern warning to never skip class or you’ll be caught? Comedic gold.

I knew it would be rough going into it. I expected angry girls rolling their eyes or a mousy kid making a wrong turn or even a few of the abovementioned male hooligans, but ten? In one roll? Guess I drew the short straw.