Spring Meadow

A Memory

This certain year was a really weird time for me. Ever since I was about three I had been homeschooled. I guess my parents were somewhat hoping that I would turn out to be some kind of genius, someone who wouldn't do well in what would have been the simplistic lessons taught at even the private preparatory school most kids of my standing went to. However, I turned out to be a child of very average intelligence, painfully average, actually. Not only that but I was an unusually quiet kid. My nanny suggested to my parents that I be enrolled in school so that I would learn to be more social among my peers, a skill I obviously could not learn from having only adults as company. There being no real reason for me to continue being homeschooled and there being some possible advantage to going to school, my parents decided to send me to Miss Simmons' Early Preparatory School for the Great Leaders of the Future, or Miss Simmons' Elementary for short.

Let me tell you that transferring into an elementary school in the second grade is very, well, weird, for lack of a better term. Everyone has their established cliques that aren't always the easiest to become a part of. Not to say I was treated unkindly. Many of the other children were warned to treat me nicely. I came from a very wealthy and influential family, even among these influential and wealthy families. I was welcomed wherever I asked to be, so I never really felt left out. Although, when it came time to do things such as pick partners or groups, they always put their friends before me.

It didn't bother me too much, however, as I didn't mind watching from a distance, or getting whatever was left out of the groups or partners to choose from. Besides I felt as if any friendship with these overly nice kids would have been the result of my family's influence rather than the acceptance of each other's personalities. Those were not friendships I wanted.

About one month into the school year, we were required to do something at recess besides talking. Everyone always ran to their favorite playtime activity and every day I always struggled to keep up. It wasn't that I was particularly unfit just clumsier and slower than most. I would constantly find some way to trip over my own feet. Luckily, I seemed to manage day by day, and even if I got there last, someone always saved me a spot. One day, however, I took a spill that was much worse than any of the others. I didn't just fall; I managed to skid across the rough concrete as well. From the stinging I could feel, I could only assume I had gotten a scrape on my chin. I could also see the scrapes on my upper forearm, left palm, and knees. None of them were bad, but that day I found out just how much pain tolerance I had. It turns out, I didn't have much. I didn't bother to get up as I tried desperately to hold back tears. I felt pathetic and helpless.

"Oh come on, at least sit up," someone scolded. I looked up to see a sort of fluffy mass of black hair and glowing amber eyes. I stopped crying because of the awe I felt, partially because I had never seen what I thought were such pretty eyes and partially because no one had ever spoken to me like that before. Yes, it was a bit rude, but mainly carefree and honest. Everyone always spoke to me with great care, choosing words that they had carefully calculated I would find either flattering or, at the least, inoffensive. The result was usually sickeningly sweet and, more importantly, fake. Perhaps, they did sometimes genuinely mean the compliments they gave me, but they chose their words so much I couldn't help but feel I received them because of my status rather than my ability.

I picked myself up. I didn't stand up, just sat up. I wasn't really feeling up to standing up just yet. I sniffed and wiped the remaining tears off my face. I watched him curiously as he started to examine the wounds on my knee.

"You can't just put a Band-Aid on. Some dirt and stuff got in there. We need to clean it first." He turned over to his friend, "Michelle always has that first aid kit, right? Go and get it."

I sat silently as I watched his friend scurry off. I tried not to stare at my new acquaintance as I waited for his friend's to return. Luckily, it didn't take very long and soon the boy with amber eyes was rummaging through the kit to get the necessary supplies. I was relatively calm until I saw him tear open one of the alcohol wipes.