The first time we met, you must remember. That day when your second grade class went on a field trip the exact same day my second grade class went on a field trip. To that apple orchard where the fruit of the trees were red and crisp. It was almost like a storybook, where everything is perfect and you would have to search the pits of darkness to find a mistake. But not like a storybook, because I distinctly remember being hit in the face by a rotten apple by a boy who quickly turned his head, hiding his snickering face.
By you, of course.
I thought it fair game, so I threw one back at you. I missed, and you laughed all the more. This discouraged me so, you snickering fool, and I threw yet another apple at you. This time it found its target—right in your eye. You howled, you did, and my cackle was cruel, but that didn’t diminish my enjoyment. I loved the way your face contorted into pain and confusion, and then into revenge once the pain subsided. You held your basket up high so I would see the great amount of apples you had gathered. Fear struck my inner core as you carefully chose your ammo—the most rotten apple in the bunch. You examined it closely, testing it with your fingers, and then you raised it high above your head. I thought there was time to duck behind a tree, but unfortunately I was wrong, for that ugly rotten apple found its way to my back. It didn’t hurt too much when it hit, and for that I was relieved. But the dreadful spot it left on my favorite sundress was enough to spark anger as violent as a tsunami. I gathered as many apples in my arms, rotten or fresh, and hurled them fiercely at you. You ran through the rows of trees, laughing horrendously, giving no mind to my passionate attempts to shoot you down.
As you weaved through the trees, dodging apples, your teacher caught you and began to yell. I hurried away with a sense of triumph, only to be caught myself by my own teacher. She gave me a stern look, and grabbed me by my arm. She dragged me through the rows of trees, purposely through crowds of other students. A warning: “Don’t you dare throw any apples, or this could be you.” Humiliation flooded my once spirited spirit as my classmates giggled when I was dragged past them. I wouldn’t dare cry, because I was a strong little eight year old, and those kids couldn’t make me cry. But when my teacher sat me down on a bench that you occupied as well, well, I admit a tear ran down my cheek. My teacher left me with you, and your teacher left you with me. Together we made an awkward ambiance. But you smiled. And I smiled, wiping that tear from my cheek with my hand. And that was how we met, you and me. You remember, don’t you?