First Love

First Love

         Emily wore hair ribbons just so, colors that matched the days of the week, tied into sophisticated bows and knots. Her bobby socks were a sight, one perfectly, three inches above her left ankle, the top rolled down, and the right other disheveled. And she had a freckle, just off center of the tip of her nose. At recess, she was always in the middle of the boys on the playground, pushing and shoving, tackling, and getting her knees skinned. She didn’t cry even when a kid elbowed her in the eye. She didn’t whine either. I hated whiners because I was accused of being one. As second graders we were accused of a lot.

My mother used to say, “It’s all fun and games” because that’s what mothers do. Five kids spaced exactly two years apart. Two dogs. Two cats. A live-in father in a wheelchair. A husband who did well financially but traveled a lot. She cooked, cleaned, washed out our mouths with soap when we cussed. It was easy to think of her as a Marine drill sergeant, but her survival depended on finished homework, arriving to school with matching socks, being at athletic events before first pitch. The list of responsibilities seemed endless.

She wanted us to learn on our own. I blamed my mother for my struggles but, as I matured, I changed and loved my mother all over again. She’d let me grow up my way. Regardless of the scrapes, elbows, and unrequited loves.

         The tetherball pole is gone. The basketball court with chain nets, four-square, and hopscotch lines are a circular student drop-off zone. The blacktop used to be outside the sixth-grade wing. Now it’s across a field and in the corner of a second field. It’s not asphalt with cracks and an uneven surface. It’s the color and texture of a tennis court. No lines, either. Just two hoops standing alone.

         I am dropping off my first-grader, Laurence, for his first day. I’ve planned to give him advice like don’t pick your nose in public and share your dessert. Sharpen your pencils before the opening bell rings and always have more than two. Say “Yes Ma’am” and “Yes sir” to all adults, from the principal to the janitor. But I hold my tongue.

Buster was a third grader, a wide-shouldered bruiser who stood a half foot taller than everyone at Sherwood Hills. He had a Brillo pad for hair and a hint of a mustache. He didn’t walk; he lumbered. When he bumped into people in the hallway, I thought he was a jerk. Today, I realize he couldn’t help himself. His feet must have felt like two aliens, his hiking boots twice as big as anyone else’s shoes. His arms swung wildly, shoulders slumped, his body hunched inward as if trying to be smaller, his chin pointed at the floor. He reminded me of Herman Munster. Not that I said that to his face.

Buster kept to himself. He grunted at people when they spoke to him. His face was a permanent scowl. He sat by himself in the lunchroom, eating out of a Peanuts metal lunch box matched with a Beatles thermos. Just like his body, nothing worked together or made sense. I feared Buster. I didn’t hate him; I worried what he might do to me if he knew I existed, which I assumed he didn’t.

One spring warm day with the classroom windows open and students antsy, my teacher relaxed and let us goof about. She even let us go to the backroom without asking.

I was happy as I walked to the water fountain. It was down the hall from our second-grade room between the bathrooms. As I came out of the bathroom and headed to get a drink, I saw Emily. She marched towards and stared at the water fountain. She wore a green with yellow polka dotted bow, an inch off center to the same side as her freckle. My knees buckled. Alas, the innocence of childhood.

I arrived at the fountain first. I waited for her and swept my hand like a courtier. She smiled. She had me at the bow and freckle, but the smile cemented my tingly stomach. She slurped as she drank. I only remember that now.

“Can you believe Harold?” I asked. He was the exact opposite of Buster. He’d been caught picking his nose again. It had moved beyond funny to gross. She nodded as she drank, a drop of water on her nose.

I commented on Miss Bradshaw reading aloud Charlotte’s Web. Emily spoke through the stream of water, mostly unintelligible. It reminded me of my mother, doing three things at once, comments tossed off. It was a girl thing, and I liked it.

She finished; the drop of water gone. As she stepped aside for my turn, her eyes got big. Buster approached, slumped with arms flapping. She pushed up flat against the wall.

I stepped up to push the silver button. She and I could talk at recess.

Buster slapped my hand away and stepped between me and the porcelain. He bent over and drank, sighing, resting, and then drinking again. I did nothing. He was bigger and older and had no manners.

Emily’s hand covered her mouth. She shook her head as she slid down the wall towards our classroom, inch by inch. To this day, I don’t know if thought we’d fight or implying that I was a sissy. Either way, she got beyond the girls’ bathroom door, straightened up and walked back to class, her hair dancing and swaying, the ribbon centering itself.

I slammed my stack of rubber-strapped books on the kitchen table. My mother stood at the sink peeling potatoes. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear after each potato. On the stove two covered pots boiled, steam leaking from their edges. The smell was pleasing.

“There are cheese slices in the meat drawer.” She pointed towards the fridge with the peeler. She didn’t turn to me. “Just grocery shopped this morning. Crackers, both Saltines and Ritz.” I sat in a chair at the table, unlike me not to run for a snack. “How was your day?”

I burst into tears. Ten minutes later, through snot and blubber, I told her about Buster. I barely mentioned Emily. She didn’t need to know my personal business. I said he was mean, a bully. I called him names. I said life isn’t fair. She leaned her butt against the edge of the sink, dried her hands, and said nothing. She didn’t hug me. She listened.

When I finished, all wrung out, she shrugged.

We eyed each other. I wondered if she was on Buster’s side. I wondered if she saw me the same way as Emily did with her head shake. I wondered about a lot of things.

She eventually spoke, but it wasn’t what I expected.

Nothing happened at the water fountain after Emily left. Buster finished, wiping his hand across his mouth. He stared at me, grunted, and walked back to class. I said and did nothing. I scampered back into the bathroom, locked a stall, and had a moment. That included a few tears, something I couldn’t let my classmates see. Especially Emily. Not that she was interested in Buster; I hoped she wasn’t. I considered how I’d ever face her again. I’d have to, soon. Soon a couple of kids danced in, laughing, busting on each other the way kids do. I flushed, hung my head, and groaned while holding my stomach. They were too busy to notice me. My footsteps rattled down the hall. My eyes fixed on the far exit sign. The deserted hallway felt miles long. My footsteps echoed. Loud, happy children’s sounds drifted out of the classrooms. My heart hurt.

I again straighten Laurence’s Harry Potter backpack, the one with the shield of the four Houses. He hadn’t picked one yet. Said he wants to see what his new classmates are interested in. Smart. I put a hand on his neck and push a little as if to say, off you go. I don’t know what else to do. My wife can’t be here. She said she would make a scene. True. I am close to one. He toddles off, head high, his matching lunch box in his left hand. Not a fear in the world. He doesn’t wave or turn to say goodbye.

That April late afternoon years ago in our kitchen my mother reminded me, again, that “it’s all fun and games. And more,” she added as she said the rest of the saying, “until someone pokes you in the eye.” He hadn’t poked me in the eye, I protested. She smiled. “Metaphorically. You’ll understand someday.” She was right, but I didn’t realize that then.

I jumped up from the table, the cheese and crackers forgotten. “I’m going to get him. I swear. Teach him a lesson. A real lesson.” I pounded a fist into my palm. My classmates had said that the only way to deal with a bully was to attack. That was my plan.

Mom nodded. “There’s another famous quote from the ultimately bully.” She’d picked up the peeled potatoes and dried them. “From Mike Tyson. You like sports so maybe you know him. Boxer. Kind of a bad man.” Kind of, I thought. She mussed my hair. “He said, and I quote, ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.’”

That now makes sense. My mother was smart. She let me figure things out. That’s what five children, pets, unmowed grass, and explaining the quadratic equation does to a person. I don’t have five kids, only two, but it doesn’t matter how many because everyone will make a lonely walk back to class, head hung in shame. It’s okay.

Much better than a punch in the mouth, a root canal, and Mom saying, “I told you so.”