It's fourth grade.
The boy I like is Aaron.
The boy who likes me is Josh.
[yes, a boy did in fact like me with those big glasses.
Girls, a little kindness goes a long way in second grade--
you will recall, this is taking place in fourth grade.]
My favorite subject is Writer's Workshop.
While most students were producing typically short fourth-grade narratives, I was preoccupied with composing long, drawn out adventures that I would spend weeks at a time on. At some point I decided that these tales would star my classmates. Some played heroes and heroines while others, I am now sorry to say, were the villains.
As word got around about my cast lists and some of my pieces were read in class, I began receiving requests from classmates asking to be in my stories.
People started being a little nicer to me.
And that was nice.
And I felt a little powerful
And that was new.
And I'm afraid it went to my head a little too much.
I had always tried to be nice to everyone. But now I felt I had to distance myself from those who were not as popular.
Like Josh.
I didn't want him to like me anymore.
So he became the nefarious, dim-witted bad guy in my story, "The Magic Coin."
Of course this whole scenario was a teacher's nightmare.
One morning I arrived at the schoolyard to see the break up of a fight between two boys.
Aaron and Josh.
Fighting about something to do with with my story, in which Aaron [did I mention he had glasses, too?] was the dashing superstar.
No one seemed clear on the details of the scuffle, but I didn't care.
I was secretly enamored with the idea. The man I loved, fighting for my honor, against the man who was championing for me and the bestowal of my partiality. What starry-eyed romantic wouldn't eat that up?
Especially in fourth grade.
The air was electric the day I was to read my long-awaited story to the class. Everyone waited attentively to see what role they would play. A small knot grew in my stomach as all was revealed. The names of classmates who played brainless goons and bumbling sidekicks that were bested in the end were heavy as they dropped from my lips.
When it was over, I averted my eyes from theirs as the others laughed and teased and clapped and the day continued as usual.
Very soon after, Mrs. Thomas informed all of us that there were to be no more stories, written by anyone, using the names of people in our class. Though I was embarrassed and my ego was a little worse for wear, I think I was a little relieved.
Being a class celebrity had it's own jar of pickles.
I had been mean, had hurt others feelings and that was very unlike me, and I knew it was wrong, and it felt horrible. And, as far as I could tell, making Aaron the superman of my pen didn't make it a romance novel. I don't think he ever liked me back.
And, sadly, I don't remember much more about Josh after that.
Fifteen little minutes that I'm glad are over.
Fame is a bee.
It has a song.
It has a sting.
Ah, too, it has a wing.
-Emily Dickinson
