“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 4th 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 4th grade, when I decided to hold his hand.
