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