When I was in middle school, there was this kid Kevin (why do I still remember his name). He was the typical Napoleonic bully: small in stature, quick in action. He made his living picking on the peons of the class, and yes, while this will surely amaze you all, I was on of, if not the, peon of Mrs. Buchans 8C class.
For the entire year, Kevin picked at me: popping me in the back of the head while walking to the bathroom, tripping me up while going down the hall, pulling my backpack off as I was boarding the bus. Kevin continued to pick, daring me to retaliate; I never did.
The only thing keeping Kevin from actually throwing the first of many punches was Maurice Bedford, who took a liking to me and made it clear that Kevin would end up in pain if he started anything. Maurice doesn't play into this moral, but he deserves my appreciation all the same.
Just before summer, in the hall outside the bathroom just after lunch, the line in the sand was drawn. I was not going to deal with Kevin anymore. After a year of silence, I finally shot out a verbal threat to Kevin, who had undoubtedly done something to provoke it. I had not the experience, size or knowledge of how I was going to back up my statement, but I finally had the will.
The scene is still clearly before me, each of us standing with clinched fists, me wondering what exactly was supposed to be the next move, and him wondering if I had it in me to back up my threat. The group circled around, awaiting the first flinch. And I stood there, like a rock, body heating up, eyes starting to water, just this side of unhinged. I stared Kevin down. An eternity later, he took advantage of whatever distraction was in distance as an excuse to walk away.
I have no memories of Kevin after that day.
For the entire year, Kevin picked at me: popping me in the back of the head while walking to the bathroom, tripping me up while going down the hall, pulling my backpack off as I was boarding the bus. Kevin continued to pick, daring me to retaliate; I never did.
The only thing keeping Kevin from actually throwing the first of many punches was Maurice Bedford, who took a liking to me and made it clear that Kevin would end up in pain if he started anything. Maurice doesn't play into this moral, but he deserves my appreciation all the same.
Just before summer, in the hall outside the bathroom just after lunch, the line in the sand was drawn. I was not going to deal with Kevin anymore. After a year of silence, I finally shot out a verbal threat to Kevin, who had undoubtedly done something to provoke it. I had not the experience, size or knowledge of how I was going to back up my statement, but I finally had the will.
The scene is still clearly before me, each of us standing with clinched fists, me wondering what exactly was supposed to be the next move, and him wondering if I had it in me to back up my threat. The group circled around, awaiting the first flinch. And I stood there, like a rock, body heating up, eyes starting to water, just this side of unhinged. I stared Kevin down. An eternity later, he took advantage of whatever distraction was in distance as an excuse to walk away.
I have no memories of Kevin after that day.