Welcome to our Slash Pro Revenge, where OP's father gets revenge against her abusive teacher.

Our next Reddit post is from Deleted.

When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for a spot on the drill team.

For those unfamiliar with drill, it's the group that dances alongside the marching band,

and we were separate from the cheerleaders.

Thank the Rockettes, but a lot more awkward.

The reason I tried out was because the girls, you know the ones.

Pretty popular teacher's favorites laughed at me when I showed up for the informational meeting.

They said that I wasn't right for it and that I didn't belong.

That made me even more determined to learn the routines and become a little more fit so that I

could do them. I was as flexible as a 14 year old could be, but at home I practiced and stretched

and showed up for the rehearsals and tryouts. Whenever we had to link our arms for a dance,

only a couple of the girls who were actually decent wouldn't act like I was made out of poison.

I passed tryouts because I could do the routine.

My dad, who owned his own business to incur repair, wasn't rich,

but he managed to pay for my camp fees and uniforms.

He dropped me off each morning of summer camp on his way to work.

There, we learned the routines that we'd be performing at Pep rallies and football games.

We had to stand out in the sweltering Louisiana Heat and Humidity in August

and stand in position for minutes at a time.

Also, you had to move around and do kicks.

I ended up with blisters on my upper arms from the sun.

...