WA#3: Final Draft

under a spreading chestnut tree,

where the sun always shines

and the birds always sing

with insurmountable joy,

lies a treasure.

encompassing the chestnut tree

is a village.

the villagers hold this treasure,

and all of its wondrous powers,

beneath their shielding wing,

primed to defend it to the death.

inevitably, the day arrives.

the villagers stand with courage,

for they know their motive

and never would they falter

for the worth of the treasure.

yet they are few,

and soon loose to the opponents,

who carry greed on their backs,

hate in their eyes,

and war in their weapons.

having slain all the villagers,

they dig beneath the chestnut tree-

pigs digging through slop-

and find the chest of treasure.

upon opening it,

however,

the chest merely reveals three words:

“Peace on earth.”

puzzled, they turn from the treasure,

and look out onto the village,

the destroyed village,

and marvel.

why had the villagers,

believers of Peace,

fought back?

why?

because they had fought for peace.

they had fought for each other.

they had fought for their opponents.

they had fought for the sun that always shines,

and the birds that always sing.

they had fought for this moment,

when the opponents gaze out,

their eyes sweeping the dead village,

this village reminiscent of war,

and see the peace that lay within it.

the peace that whispers,

ever so softly,

and ever so lovingly,

to the dead:

“Thank You.”

and to the living:

“Redeem Yourselves.

Live Through Me.

For Them.

Forever.”

WA#3: Revised Draft

Under a spreading chestnut tree,

Where the sun always shines

And the birds always sing

With insurmountable joy,

Lies a treasure.

Encompassing the chestnut tree

Is a village.

The villagers hold this treasure,

And all of its wondrous powers,

Beneath their shielding wing,

Primed to defend it to the death.

Inevitably, the day arrives;

The villagers stand their guard.

They were few,

And soon lost to the opponents,

Who carried greed on their backs,

Hate in their eyes,

And war in their weapons.

Having slain all the villagers,

The opponents dug beneath the chestnut tree

And found the chest of treasure.

Upon opening it,

However,

The chest merely revealed three words:

“Peace on Earth.”

Puzzled, they turned from the treasure,

And looked out onto the village,

The destroyed village,

And wondered.

Why had the villagers,

Believers of peace,

Fought back?

Why?

Because they had fought for peace.

They had fought for each other.

They had fought for their opponents.

They had fought for the sun that always shines,

And the birds that always sing.

They had fought for this moment,

When the opponents would look out,

Their eyes sweeping the dead village,

This village reminiscent of war,

And see the peace that lay within it.

The peace that whispered,

Ever so softly,

And ever so lovingly,

To the dead:

“Thank you.”

And to the living:

“Redeem yourselves.

Live through me.

For them.

Forever.”

WA#3: First Draft

Under a spreading chestnut tree,

Where the sun always shines

And the birds always sing

With insurmountable joy,

Lies a treasure.

Surrounding the spreading chestnut tree

Is a village.

The villagers know of this treasure,

And know of its powers,

And would defend it to the death.

So the day inevitably arrives

When the villagers must defend.

They were few,

And soon lost to the opponents,

Who carried greed on their backs,

Hate in their eyes,

And war in their weapons.

With every last villager killed,

The opponents dug beneath the chestnut tree

And found the chest of treasure.

Upon opening it,

However,

The chest merely revealed three words:

“Peace on Earth.”

Puzzled, they looked out onto the village,

The destroyed village,

And wondered.

Why had the villagers,

Believers of peace,

Fought back?

Why?

Because they had fought for peace.

They had fought for each other.

They had fought for their opponents.

They had fought for the sun that always shines,

And the birds that always sing.

They had fought for this moment,

When the opponents would look out,

Their eyes sweeping the dead village,

This village reminiscent of war,

And see the peace that lay within it.

The peace that whispered,

Ever so softly,

And ever so lovingly,

To the dead:

“Thank you.”

And to the living:

“Redeem yourselves.

Live through me.

For them.

Forever.”

WA#2: Final Draft

The growing silence that ensued was dreadful. The air was so tense, it seemed as though every movement made was a move in a chess game. Why did she move there? Was that supposed to mean something? And it had only been an hour. Three more hours confined within the walls of the gray-green steel car loomed ominously. The dad, Mark, was driving while the daughter, Lilly, was the passenger.

The clear skies outside the car pleased Mark. They pissed off Lilly. If it was at least raining, then she wouldn’t have felt like the most miserable person in the world at the time. Somebody else would be miserable because of the rain, and to her, that was an undeniable fact.

What was also a fact, at least by Lilly’s standards, was that teenage girls and their dads do not get a long. Never have, never will. So a four hour car trip with a hateful relationship crammed in one car amounted to the Silent War. In the Silent War, the emotions were so potent, their vibes penetrated further than any words could have, and therefore, no words were spoken. And when it came to Silent Wars, Mark put aside his fatherly character with all its intentions of setting a mature example for his daughter. He stooped to his daughter’s immature, teenage ways and followed her lead in the War.

This particular father and daughter in this particular gray-green steel car were engaged in a particularly silent war.

Mark turned the radio on. Lily considered this a victory as he was obviously unable to handle the Silence. “Ohhhh. What now,” she whispered into the passenger window. However, this victory wouldn’t suffice. So she changed the station from the droning NPR news to her main man, Lil Wayne. It took a mere two seconds before Mark changed it back. She sucked her teeth, making a loud squelching sound. She reached her hand out and changed it to Lil Wayne again. He reached out his hand, slapped hers, and changed it back. She slapped his hand and changed it again.

Slap. Change. Again. Slap. Change. Again.

As the slapping and button-pressing intensified, the Battle of the Hands officially came underway. Back and forth, more and more viciously, they silently slapped one another’s hand. As the Battle reached its peak, however, a horn sounded and the two suddenly jerked to a stop. Having been so caught up in the Battle, Mark had accidentally swerved into another lane. As he straightened the car out, with both hands on the wheel, the honking car sped past, and its driver made a rude hand gesture. It was with just one finger- the middle one, to be precise.

Simultaneously, as though contaminated by the enemy, they each wiped his or her hands on the smooth, leather seats of the gray-green steel car. There was a brief, incredibly awkward moment of eye contact, but the two briskly looked away.

To Lilly’s dismay, their battle had ended with the radio playing, “…. the polls continue to show Obama with a strong lead over McCain…” This meant that her dad had won, and the war was at a tie: one-to-one.

As the sky outside grew dark, and Lilly thought out her next battle strategy. The devil emerged from the shadows of her mind, and without a moment’s hesitance, she put her plan into action. She whipped up her book from the carpeted floor of the car, slyly reached up to the ceiling of the gray-green steel car, and switched the light on. As she opened her book with sudden extreme intent on finishing the thing, she could feel his piercing eyes penetrating the skin on her face. Before his anger could singe a hole in her face, he surprisingly resumed to concentrating on the road, leaving the light on.

Victorious! Lilly was leading two-to-one.

Suddenly, a horn sounded again. It wasn’t one of those, Get Out Of The Way, Damnit, horns. It was more of a, Watch Out! horn, and it was coming from behind. Mark looked frantically into the rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything; the light was blocking his view.

Two seconds later, two terrified screams later and one crash later, Mark and Lilly sat in the gray-green steel car, which sat in a ditch. The two looked into one another’s frightened, shocked and tear-filled eyes. They each marveled at the still existing life sitting at one another’s side.

The two continued to sit in silence, but the tone that this silence held was different. This silence was not the silence of war. It was the silence that exists when love overpowers the need for words. The pretend hate evaporated and the true love was unearthed. Simultaneously, the two embraced.

WA#2: Revised Draft

The silence was quite aggravating. The air was so tense, it seemed as though every movement made was a move in a chess game. Watched intently. Why did she move there? Was that supposed to mean something? And it had only been an hour. Three more hours confined within the walls of the gray-green steel car loomed ominously. The dad, Mark, was driving while the daughter, Lilly, was the passenger.

The clear skies outside the car pleased Mark. They pissed off Lilly. If it was at least raining, then she wouldn’t have felt like the most miserable person in the world at the time. Somebody else would be miserable because of the rain, and to her, that was an undeniable fact.

What’s also a fact, at least by Lilly’s standards, is that teenage girls and their dads do not get a long. Never have, never will. So a four hour car trip with a hateful relationship crammed in one car amounts to the Silent War. In a Silent War, emotions are so potent, their vibes penetrate further than any words could, and therefore, no words are spoken. This particular father and daughter in this particular gray-green steel car were engaged in a particularly silent war.

Mark turned the radio on. Lily considered this a victory as he was obviously unable to handle the Silence. “Ohhhh. What now,” she whispered into the passenger window. However, this victory wouldn’t suffice. So she changed the station from the droning NPR news to her main man, Lil Wayne. It took a mere two seconds before Mark changed it back. She sucked her teeth, making a loud squelching sound. She reached her hand out and changed it to Lil Wayne again. He reached out his hand, slapped hers, and changed it back. She slapped his hand and changed it again.

As the slapping and button-pressing intensified, the Battle of the Hands came underway. It was just a portion of the Silent War. Back and forth, more and more viciously, they silently slapped one another’s hand. As the Battle reached its peak, however, a horn sounded and the two suddenly jerked to a stop. Being so caught up in the Battle, Mark had accidentally swerved into another lane. As he straightened the car out, with both hands on the wheel, the honking car sped past, and its driver made a rude hand gesture. It was with just one finger- the middle one, to be precise.

Simultaneously, as though contaminated by the enemy, they each wiped his or her hands on the smooth, leather seats of the gray-green steel car. There was a brief, awkward moment of eye contact, but the two briskly looked away.

To Lilly’s dismay, their battle had ended with the radio playing, “…. the polls continue to show Obama with a strong lead over McCain…” This meant that her dad had won, and the war was at a tie: one-to-one.

The sky outside grew dark, and Lilly evolved her next plan of evil in her head. The devil emerged from the shadows of her mind, and without a moment’s hesitance, she put her plan into action. She whipped up her book from the carpeted floor of the car, slyly reached up to the ceiling of the gray-green steel car, and switched the light on. As she opened her book with sudden extreme intent on finishing the thing, she could feel his piercing eyes penetrating the skin on her face. Before his anger could singe a hole in her face, he surprisingly resumed to concentrating on the road, leaving the light on.

Victorious! Lilly was leading two-to-one.

Suddenly, a horn sounded again. It wasn’t one of those, Get Out Of The Way, Damnit, horns. It was more of a, Watch Out! horn, and it was coming from behind. Mark looked frantically into the rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything; the light was blocking his vision.

Two seconds later, two terrified screams later and one crash later, Mark and Lilly sat in the gray-green steel car, which sat in a ditch. The two looked into one another’s frightened, shocked and tear-filled eyes. They each marveled at the still existing life sitting at one another’s side.

As they gazed, the atmosphere changed. The Silent War remained silent, but the war was over. The pretend hate evaporated and the true love was unearthed. Simultaneously, the two embraced.

Sometimes the things that aren’t said can be so powerful.

WA#2: First Draft

The silence was quite aggravating. The air was so tense, it seemed as though every small movement made by either person was a move in a chess game. Watched intently. Why did she move there? Was that supposed to mean something? And it had only been an hour. Three more hours confined within the walls of the gray-green steel car loomed ominously. The dad was driving, the daughter was passengering.

The clear skies outside the car pleased the dad; the driver. They pissed off the daughter; the passenger. If it was at least raining, then she wouldn’t have to feel like the most miserable person in the world at the time. Somebody else would be miserable because of the rain, it’s a fact.

What is also a fact, at least by the daughter’s standards, is that teenage girls and their dads do not get a long. Never have, never will. So a four hour car trip with a hateful relationship crammed in one car amounts to the Silent War. This particular father and daughter in this particular gray-green steel car were engaged in a particularly Silent War.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.

The dad turned the radio on. The daughter considered this a victory. “Ohhhh. What now.” she whispered to the passenger window. But somehow, it wasn’t enough. So she changed the station from NPR covering the election to her main man, Lil Wayne. Two seconds passed, and the dad changed it back. She sucked her teeth. A loud squelching sound. She reached her hand out and changed it to Lil Wayne again. He reached out his hand, slapped hers, and changed it back. She slapped his hand and changed it again.

Soon, The Battle of the Hands was underway. Just a portion of the Silent War. Back and forth, more and more viciously, they slapped one another’s hand. It was becoming nearly as intense as the Biden-Palin Vice Presidential debate. However, the two suddenly jerked to a stop at the sound of a horn. The dad had swerved into another lane by accident. He was caught up in the Battle. As he straightened the car out, with both hands on the wheel, the honking car sped past, and its driver gestured rudely with something smaller then his hand. Just one finger, the middle one, to be precise.

Simultaneously, as though contaminated by the enemy, they both wiped their hands on the smooth, leather seats of the gray-green steel car. They had a brief, awkward moment of eye contact, but briskly looked away.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.

To the daughter’s dismay, their battle had ended with the radio playing, “…. the polls continue to show Obama with a strong lead over McCain…” The war was currently at a tie: one-to-one.

The sky outside grew dark, and daughter’s next plan of evil popped into her head. The devil popped out of the closet. Again. She whipped up her book from the carpeted floor of the car, slyly reached up to the ceiling of the grey-green steel car, and switched the light on. As she opened her book, as though she suddenly had extreme intent on finishing the thing, she could feel he father’s piercing eyes penetrating the skin on her face. Before he could burn a hole in her face and resumed to concentrating on the road. He left the light on.

Victorious! The daughter leads two-to-one.

Suddenly, a horn sounded again. It wasn’t one of those, Get Out Of The Way, Damnit, horns. It was more of a Watch Out! horn. It was coming from behind. The father looked frantically into the rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything; the light was blocking his vision. Two seconds later, Two terrified screams later, One crash later, the father and the daughter sat in their gray-green steel car in a ditch. The two looked into one another’s frightened, shocked and tear-filled eyes. They each marveled at the still existing life sitting at each other’s side.

The air changed. The Silent War remained silent, but the war was over. The pretend hate evaporated and the true love was unearthed. Simultaneously, the two embraced.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.

WA#1: Emotional Release Final Draft

“Okay kids. Time for Recess. Get in a line. Quickly, let’s go,” my second grade teacher said with a sigh. I sensed from her weary and slightly exasperated tone that what she was really saying was: “Freaking little kids. If they could just get in a FREAKING line after the first time I ask… it’s not like we do this routinely, like… what? At least ten times a day. And to think, the high school teachers think I have it easy? Oh how naive they are… Honestly, this is as bad as if I were their actual mother. If it weren’t for recess, when the other teacher handles the kids and I can read my Ann Taylor catalogue, I would quit. No doubt.”

At that age I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just come out with it and say the truth instead; I thought it would’ve been much more effective. I knew she loved to teach, and typically, we loved her, but she had her bad days. I didn’t learn until the 4^th grade that revealing her actual thoughts would get her fired. Then she wouldn’t be able to pay for those Ann Taylor skirts and sweaters.

We filed out through the school’s big red doors, across the blacktop, and down the grassy hillside to the playground. Our teacher plopped down on a bench and opened her Ann Taylor catalogue; the other teacher was already standing guard. As soon as my feet touched the white mulch that encompassed our allotted playing area, I sprinted up, down and around the jungle gym. Scattered beams of sunlight shone through the grand oak trees that stood beyond the mulch and a cool breeze pierced my skin as I ran. I made sure to run my fastest: my secret crush, Josh, was watching from the highest tower of the jungle gym. I swelled with excitement and anticipation as our intense daily game of tag was nearing its start. I was always the only girl to play.

Trevor was “It” first. The boys and I scattered throughout the white-mulched area. Some hid, while others merely waited in the open until Trevor approached. Trevor tagged Dylan. I jogged through the jungle gym, ducking under the platforms and slides. Dylan tagged Hunter. I hid behind the large, winding, plastic green slide, breathing heavily. I fidgeted with my nylon sport shorts as my nerves mounted. Suddenly I heard a yelp from the other side of the playground; it was Josh. He was “It.” I revealed myself: I always waited until Josh was “It” to be completely vulnerable.

I didn’t expose myself because I wanted to be “It.” Oh heck no. I just wanted the chance to prove myself; to prove that I could outrun the boys; to prove that I wasn’t scared of Josh. It was my childish way of getting his attention; my childish way of showing him that I liked him.

After all, I was only a child at the time.

His eyes found mine and I glared back, smirking slightly so as to provoke him. He darted at me and I took off. My adrenaline mounted as I sprinted, smoothly dodging any obstacles. I wound through the stairs and tunnels, over the sandbox, under the monkey bars. All the while I kept up my fastest pace possible. I was sure I had lost him until I took a sharp turn around that large, winding, plastic green slide. I suddenly skidded to a stop as my heart sank lower than I thought it ever could. Josh stood there with an awful grin spreading across his face. He had taken a separate course and beaten me there. He had beaten me. And he knew it. I could see his thoughts as plain and bold as though his forehead were a marquee. A girl can’t outrun me. Not today. I proved those boys wrong. She ain’t faster than me.

I tried to flee, but my feet wouldn’t budge; I was horrified.

And from here, my memory of this day turns to slow motion. It’s only fitting.

He stuck his hand out to tag me, and as he did so, I could see victory emblazoned in his eyes. I knew he could see defeat sunken in mine. With his arm almost completely outstretched, and his fingertips inches from my left shoulder, my arms thrust forward and shoved him. The action was as involuntary as a heart beat. It must have been the adrenaline along with the anger that swept over me at the thought of being defeated that produced so much force: he flew backwards and hit his head on a pole.

And from here, the memory resumes a normal pace of time.

He began to cry. However, I was confused.

I had allowed my anger to get the best of me, and I had pushed him without thinking. I knew it had been a mistake the second my hands touched his shoulders. I wanted to help him up, to tell him sorry, but that just wasn’t how it worked. I was supposed to always be mean to him, to be tough, if I wanted him to know I liked him. The other teacher was running towards us with the other boys following in her wake. At the sight of them, I immediately composed myself and assumed the tough appearance. I folded my arms, shifted my weight to one leg and forced myself to smirk at him. “That’s what you get. Loser.”

Those words felt like poison seeping through my lips. I liked him so dearly, yet I just stood there making him feel worse. My adrenaline, anger and confusion had subsided, and my eyes grew hot and blurry. I turned on the spot and sprinted to where my teacher sat, absorbed in her catalogue. She was completely oblivious to everything that was taking place until I sat down next to her and sobbed obnoxiously. She put on her nice voice, which for some reason seemed genuine this time. She asked what was wrong and I explained. We talked for a while and once she had calmed me down, she took me up to the nurse’s office to apologize to Josh. The other teacher had carried him up there a few minutes before.

After that day, Josh and I became even closer friends. We continued our tag games, but, to our classmate’s dismay, it usually ended up in a game of “Josh and Ellie Tag.” We were competitive, but never again did I let my emotions get the best of me. At least not until 4^th grade, when I decided to hold his hand.

WA#1: Emotional Release Revised Draft

“Okay kids. Time for Recess. Get in a line. Quickly, let’s go,” my second grade teacher said with a sigh. I sensed from her weary and slightly exasperated tone that what she was really saying was: “Freaking little kids. If they could just get in a FREAKING line after the first time I ask… it’s not like we do this routinely, like… what? At least ten times a day. And to think, the high school teachers think I have it easy? Oh the nerve of them… Honestly, this is as bad as if I were their actual mother. If it weren’t for recess, when the other teacher handles the kids and I can read my ‘Ann Taylor’ catalogue, I would quit. No doubt.”

At that age I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just come out with it and say that instead, I thought it would’ve been much more effective. I knew she loved to teach, and we generally loved her, but she had her bad days. I didn’t learn until the 4^th grade that revealing her actual thoughts would get her fired. Then she wouldn’t be able to pay for those Ann Taylor skirts and sweaters.

We filed out through the big red doors and on down to the playground. Our teacher plopped down on a bench and opened her catalogue; the other teacher was already standing guard. As soon as my feet touched the white mulch that encompassed our allotted playing area, I sprinted up, down and around the jungle gym. Scattered beams of sunlight shone through the grand oak trees and a cool breeze pierced my skin as I ran. I made sure to run my fastest: my secret crush, Josh, was watching from the highest tower of the jungle gym. I swelled with excitement and anticipation as our intense daily game of tag was about to begin. I was always the only girl to play.

Trevor was “It” first. The boys and I scattered throughout the white-mulched area. Some hid, and others merely waited in the open until Trevor approached. Trevor tagged Dylan. I jogged through the jungle gym, ducking under the platforms and slides. Dylan tagged Hunter. I hid behind the large, winding, plastic green slide, breathing heavily. I fidgeted with my cotton shorts as my nerves mounted. Suddenly I heard a yelp from the other side of the playground; it was Josh. He had been tagged. I revealed myself: I always waited until Josh was “It” to be completely vulnerable.

This wasn’t because I wanted to be “It.” Oh heck no. However, I wanted the chance to prove myself; to prove that I could outrun the boys; to prove that I wasn’t scared of Josh. It was my childish way of getting his attention. My way of showing him that I liked him.

His eyes found mine and I glared back, smirking slightly so as to provoke him. He darted at me and I took off. My adrenaline mounted as I sprinted, smoothly dodging any obstacles. I wound through the stairs and tunnels, over the sandbox, under the monkey bars. All the while I kept up my fastest pace possible. I took a sharp turn around that large, winding, plastic green slide and my heart sank lower than I thought it ever could. Josh stood there with an awful grin spreading across his face. He had taken a separate course and beaten me there. He had beaten me. And he knew it. I could see his thoughts as plain and bold as though his forehead were a marquee. A girl can’t outrun me. Not today. I proved those boys wrong. She ain’t faster than me.

I tried to flee, but my feet wouldn’t budge; I was horrified.

And from here, the memory becomes slow motion.

He stuck his hand out to tag me, and as he did so, I could see victory emblazoned in his eyes. I knew he could see defeat sunken in mine. But before he could tag me, I involuntarily thrust my arms forward and shoved him. It must have been the adrenaline along with the anger that had swept over me at the thought of being defeated that produced so much force: he flew backwards and hit his head on a pole.

And from here, the memory resumes a normal pace of time.

He began to cry. But I was confused.

I had let my anger get the best of me, and I had pushed him without thinking. I knew I hadn’t meant to the second my hands touched his shoulders. I wanted to help him up, to tell him sorry, but that just wasn’t how it worked. I was supposed to always be mean to him, to be tough, if I wanted him to know I liked him. The other teacher was running towards us with the other boys following in her wake. I had to look tough. I folded my arms, shifted my weight to one leg and forced myself to smirk at him. “That’s what you get. Loser.”

Those words felt like poison seeping through my lips. I liked him so dearly, yet I just stood there making him feel worse. My adrenaline, anger and confusion had subsided, and my eyes grew hot and blurry. I turned on the spot and sprinted to where my teacher sat, still reading her catalogue. She seemed completely oblivious to everything that was taking place until I sat down next to her and sobbed loudly. She put on her nice voice, but for some reason, it seemed genuine this time. She asked what was wrong and I explained. We talked for a while and once she had calmed me down, she took me up to the nurse’s office to apologize to Josh.

After that day, Josh and I became even closer friends. We continued our tag games, but, to our classmate’s dismay, it usually ended up in a game of “Josh and Ellie Tag.” We were competitive, but never again did I let my emotions get the best of me. At least not until 4^th grade, when I decided to hold his hand.

WA #1: Emotional Release First Draft

“Okay kids. Time for Recess. Get in a line. Quickly, let’s go,” my second grade teacher said. I knew from her weary and slightly exasperated tone that what she was really saying was, “Freaking little kids. If they could just get in a FREAKING line after the first time I ask… it’s not like we do this routinely, like… what? At least ten times a day. And to think, the high school teachers think I have it easy? Oh the nerve of them… Honestly, this is as bad as if I were their actual mother. If it weren’t for recess, when the other second grade teacher can handle the kids and I can read my ‘Ann Taylor’ catalogue, I would quit. No doubt.”

At that age I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just come out with it and say that instead, I thought it would’ve been much more effective. I knew she loved to teach, and we generally loved her, but she had her bad days. I didn’t learn until the 4^th grade that revealing her actual thoughts would get her fired. Then she wouldn’t be able to pay for those Ann Taylor skirts and sweaters.

We filed out through the big red doors and on down to the playground. Our teacher plopped down on a bench and opened her catalogue; the other teacher was already standing guard. As soon as my feet touched the white mulch that encompassed our allotted playing area, I sprinted up and down and around the jungle gym. Scattered beams of sunlight shone through the grand oak trees and the cool breeze pierced my skin. I made sure to run my fastest: my secret crush, Josh, was watching from the highest tower of the jungle gym. I swelled with excitement and anticipation as our daily game of intense tag was about to begin. I was always the only girl to play.

Trevor was “It” first. The boys and I scattered around the white-mulched area, some hid, and others merely waited until Trevor approached. Trevor tagged Dylan. I jogged through the jungle gym, ducking under the platforms and slides. Hunter was “It” next. I hid behind the rock wall, fidgeting with shorts. I breathed heavily as my nerves mounted. I heard a yelp from the other side of the playground; it was Josh. He was tagged. I revealed myself: I always waited until Josh was “It” to be completely vulnerable.

His eyes found mine and I glared back, smirking slightly so as to provoke him. He darted at me and I took off. My adrenaline mounted as I sprinted, smoothly dodging any obstacles. I took a sharp turn around a slide and my heart sank lower than I thought it ever could. Josh stood there with an awful grin spreading across his face. My feet wouldn’t budge; I was horrified. He stuck his hand out to tag me, but before he could tag me, I shoved him. It must have been the adrenaline along with the anger that had swept over me at the thought of being defeated that produced so much force: he flew backwards and hit his head on a pole. He began to cry. But I was confused.

I had let my anger get the best of me, and I had pushed him without thinking. I knew I hadn’t meant to the second my hands touched his shoulders. I wanted to help him up, to tell him sorry, but that just wasn’t how it worked. I was supposed to always be mean to him if I liked him. The other teacher was running over towards us, and so were the rest of the boys. I had to look tough. I folded my arms, shifted my weight to one leg and forced myself to smirk at him. “That’s what you get. Loser.”

Those words felt like poison seeping through my lips. I liked him so dearly, yet I just stood there making him feel worse. My adrenaline, anger and confusion had subsided, and my eyes grew hot and blurry. I turned on the spot and sprinted to where my teacher sat, still reading her catalogue. She seemed completely oblivious to everything that was taking place until I sat down next to her and sobbed loudly. She put on her nice voice, but for some reason, this time it seemed genuine. She asked what was wrong and I explained. We talked for a while and once she had calmed me down, she took me up to the nurse’s office to apologize to Josh.

After that day, Josh and I had become even closer friends. We continued our tag games, but, to our classmate’s dismay, it usually ended up in a game of “Josh and Ellie Tag.” We were competitive, but never again did I let my emotions get the best of me. At least not until 4th grade, when I decided to hold his hand.