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5 years old
I sat down at my desk on the first day of school, armed with a box of colorful crayons. As the teacher handed out sheets of paper, I eagerly began to draw and color, letting my imagination run wild. The other students chatted and whispered around me, their excitement mirrored my own.
My peaceful coloring was abruptly interrupted when the boy sitting next to me suddenly seized my red crayon without asking.
"Hey! That's mine!" I protested, surprise and annoyance in my voice.
"I really don't care," he said bluntly. "I want the red crayon." Without another word, he turned his back on me and continued coloring with my crayon as if it now belonged to him.
My anger boiled over, and without thinking, I retorted, "Your drawing's ugly!" I couldn't hold back my irritation, especially when he had so shamelessly stolen my crayon and then insulted my own creation.
The exchange escalated as the boy shot back with an insult of his own, "You're ugly."
It stung, but I refused to let him have the last word. "Takes one to know one."
The conversation continued as the boy and I traded insults. "You're just a dumb girl," he said, snickering as if he thought he was being clever.
"And you're a stupid boy," I retorted, narrowing my eyes in defiance.
The teacher's authoritative voice suddenly interrupted our argument, causing me and the boy, Ralph, to jerk our heads up in surprise.
"Beatrix! Ralph! Stop bickering!" she scolded, her tone stern and disapproving.
"Sorry miss," we muttered in unison, knowing we were in trouble. I shot a glare at Ralph, feeling a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment.
15 years old
I trudged my way to school, feeling every step weighing heavier than the last. Freshman year had been a nightmare for me, and each day felt like an uphill battle.
As I dragged my feet along the sidewalk, my thoughts swirled with frustration and discontent.
I was in a bad mood already, so when a motorcycle suddenly sped past me and splashed water everywhere, I froze in shock and annoyance. My clothes were instantly drenched, and I felt my anger rise further.
My eyes widened in disbelief as I recognized the person on the motorbike. Ralph Dubois. Of course, it had to be him. "Dubois! What the hell!" I exclaimed, my irritation reaching its peak.
I crossed my arms, still fuming as Ralph dismounted the motorcycle and removed his hoodie. He thrust it towards me, a smug smirk on his face. "Stop being dramatic," he said, his tone nonchalant. "Here."
