1
Whitney
The first time I saw someone die, I was only three years old.
Mom and I were coming out of a grocery store, and a car hit a pedestrian, splattering them all over the curb in front of us. Mom made me talk to someone about it, because she was convinced that I was never going to sleep again.
I don’t think I lost a wink.
It reminded me of a watermelon Mom dropped at a summer barbecue, or a scene from my older brother Ethan’s favorite video game. I remember thinking it was strange, watching all that damage, but I didn’t know the person who was hit, and it didn’t bother me that much.
Other things did bother me.
Some of them, a great deal.
For instance, I did know the person who punched my friend Annabelle. My kindergarten year, the biggest boy in our class, Rylan, insisted everyone call him King Rylan. My friend Annabelle refused to do it, calling him Meanie Rylan instead.
He balled up his fist and socked her for it, and she collapsed like a limp noodle. The teacher saw it too, but she didn’t do anything about it. At least, nothing helpful. Nothing fair. She sat the jerk down and talked and talked and talked, while he smirked. Whenever the teacher looked away, Rylan glared at Annabelle and her friends, which included me. I decided that if the teacher wasn’t going to protect Annabelle, I would, but it wasn’t the right time yet. I waited until we were on the playground.
The teacher watching us looked at her phone a lot.
While she was paying attention, I stacked piles of the rocks on the edge of the playground. But really, it was an excuse to look for a good one. I wanted a rock that was big enough to do something, but small enough that I could hold it easily. I wanted one I could slide into my pocket and with a prominent enough edge that it could do some damage.
Once I found the perfect rock, I noticed the teacher was smiling while she looked at her phone.
It was time.
I started to walk away from my friends. “I’ll be right back. Don’t follow me.” When Annabelle tried, I said, “You could get into real trouble for this. Stay put.”
Then I walked past the swings, around the slides, and next to the seesaws where the bigger boys played. I walked past the boys who were laughing, and then beyond the boys who were whispering, and then I walked right up to the biggest bully of them all.
“Hey, Meanie Rylan,” I said. “You shouldn’t hit little girls. Didn’t your dad ever teach you that?” I knew he never saw his dad—the rumor was that his dad left before school started.
Rylan straightened, and his mouth twisted up even more. “Shut up.” Then he called me a nasty word my mom told me never to use.
“Since your dad didn’t do his job, I’ll do it for him. Don’t hit little girls.” I took a step closer, and as I did, I was surprised how calm I felt. “Especially not Annabelle, not ever again.”
“Because I’ll get in trouble with the teacher?” He balled his hands into fists. “Cuz I don’t care.”
I pointed at him. “You think hurting small people makes you big, but it doesn’t. You just get smaller and smaller when you’re mean, until you disappear, just like your dad.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but it felt like it should be.
Rylan got mad enough to take a swing at me.
I ducked, and when I popped back up, his body was twisting around, disoriented from not striking me. That’s when I grabbed my rock, and I swung it at the back of his head for all I was worth.
It didn’t splatter like a watermelon.
I was a little disappointed, really, but he did go sprawling, and when he got back up, he already had a big bump on the back of his head. I dropped the rock before the teacher reached us, and all the other kids said he must have hit his head on the way down.
They all reported that Rylan tried to hit me.
I’m still not sure whether they didn’t see me hit him, or whether they just couldn’t believe I did it. Or maybe they were scared of me after that. Either way, I was commended for not getting hit. Two fights on the same day got Rylan suspended for the rest of the week, even though we were only in kindergarten. But what made him quit hitting little girls wasn’t the suspension. It was me.
Some people are wired to fret.
Not me.
But I’ve always been surrounded by people who fret, and whenever I can, I try to help them out. My sister Izzy frets. Not as much as some people, like my cousin Maren or my cousin Emery. But my mom’s like I am. She doesn’t fret either.
