The bully

In first and second grade, the “cool kids” often teased me and my best friend H. We stuck together and tried to stay strong, but we were never really as “cool” as the “cool kids.”

E. was the leader, the center of attention. S.K. would follow every step she took, and sometimes S.R. and P.K. were allowed in the group.

One day they were extra mean to H. It was in second grade; we were 8 years old. I cannot remember exactly what happened, but I believe someone said something mean about something H. was wearing in the locker rooms after gym class. It might have made H. cry.

I always told my grandmother everything E. did, and she encouraged and finally almost forced me to confront E. and “put an end to the misery.”

After school one day I waited at the end of our street, knowing E. would have to pass me to get to her house. I was furious.

When E. came, alone for once, I told her she should stop being mean and stop bossing people around. Then I kicked her, right in the shin.

E. started to cry. I said “If you don’t stop bullying people I will tell your mom what you are up to.” She was bawling, screaming that she would tell her mom what I had done and that I better watch out.

Later that day, E.’s mom called my grandmother, who simply said, “Well, E. deserved it.”

Nobody was ever mean to us again.