Kindergarten

When I wasn’t misplacing class hamsters or terrorizing my teacher during nap-time, I was scheming. My first crush, whose name will be etched in my memory forever, built block towers like no other. His sharp brown eyes would trail across those frayed, terry-cloth blocks, idealizing the perfect architectural masterpiece. I sat, watching those keen hands widdle away at something – I couldn’t tell you what that was; I was too busy trying to pry open his soul with my eyeballs.

The day that I finally approached him without a giggle or a lurch in my stomach, I will never forget.
“Your shoe is untied,” I told him.
His brown eyes flitted up from the blocks he held. I didn’t breathe.
He nudged one foot with the other.

“Yeah, Mom never did it this morning…” His cheeks turned a warm pink at this.

Suddenly, my mind whirled and I acted on impulse: “Well I know how!” I fell onto my knees, yanked his right foot forward, and demonstrated the popular trick I had learned at home. All members of our family knew how to tie shoes and spell words well, according to my mother. When I finished, his eyes were like saucers. He stumbled backwards, blocks flying in every direction. I gave a small smile.

But it didn’t last.

Bubblegum and lollipops and pink bows like some creepy circus act – Judy. Messy, ever-knotted hair and plain face was me. Judy, who watched PG-13 movies and ate dessert before dinner was more interesting to the Boy with the Blocks.

I was left behind.

First Grade

I kicked off my second year in school with therapy for spelling all my letters backwards. My teacher worked with me on writing like a normal eight year old, rather than an impotent one. My innocence dwindled away as I realized that what I once thought made me unique, was now a reason for my peers to laugh at me.

That wouldn’t do.

Second Grade

As every day, two games of soccer were raging adjacent to the playground. By this age, I had found my voice and grown a backbone that I didn’t have before. I no longer played on the outskirts of groups who didn’t want me, but rather joined in with any game I could find and tried to make a name for myself. That afternoon, I slipped into the closest soccer game as their fearless leader – let’s call him Harold the Horrible – was assigning positions. He smirked as it came time for me to be assigned and said, “Forward.”

I took my position in a rush, but quickly realized my shoelace hung out like a great tongue. Yelling, “Hang on, I’ve got to tie my shoe!” I leaned over.

I often wonder if, today, he remembers the way he pelted that soccer ball at my backside, sending me face first into the mud.

Alone by the pond was my recess after that.

Third Grade

Tap, tap, tap.

I was always tapping.

My foot, my finger, my teeth. By third grade, it was crippling. I flinched and bounced and twitched. Sitting still for five minutes was like nails on a chalkboard to me. I couldn’t stop. No one understood that.

I had Attention Deficit Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
Disorder.

I hate that word.

“Stop that! Stop that right now!” A short, evil thing named Miss Chambers taught me everything I did wrong that year. I looked up at her in confusion, my foot still slightly bouncing. “That tapping! Stop it!” Her face grew red and squished, but mine just paled.
The muffled, near-silent giggling was like banging pots to me. I swallowed. She contacted my mother and off I went to the psychologist, because obviously normal nine year olds weren’t supposed to tap.

Though I spent much of my elementary school years trying to be recognized as something more than a Plain Jane, I would never take any of it back. It was a time in my life when I found solace in writing, joy in nature, and perks to being on the outside looking in. I don’t want an apology from Judy, or an explanation from Harold the Horrible. When I look back on the innocence I kept, and the happiness I exerted, I realize that I don’t need a fairytale beginning to my story.

I am happy with the story that I’m writing.