MY bully was a she. I punched her in the eye.
When our class adviser suggested a visit to the principal’s office, they could not believe this lanky girl was capable of kicking up a storm.
She was beautiful and attractive: pale-white skin, amber eyes, freckles across her nose, and puckered lips.
As far as the teachers were concerned, she was smart; tagging her as a future Miss Universe contender. And I was, well, me.
“You again?” the principal said, as if I were in the directory of grade-school mayhem, the kind who has to piss somebody off every day to continue his life cycle.
I argued that I had never been the bad guy, never been the limp noodle who took to the platform and wiggled his bare buttocks in front of his teacher, or received a hand job at the stairwell.
“I’m a good boy,” I said. “Why don’t we get mom on the phone? She said I’m a darling.”
At a very young age, my mother sat me down and taught me lessons on civility. One cardinal rule is to never hit a girl.
“Argue with her all you want, but never hit a girl,” she said.
“But she’s a harlot,” I told her, only “harlot” wasn’t the word. “I hope she steps on a Lego!”
My mom asked what my classmate did that merits a reprimand. Did she slap me without provocation? Did she unleash her dog to bite me on the ass when I went to her house? Was it a dust-up over some cribbage game? Did she ask me to pull out my thing so that she could laugh at it?
“She said I was gay that’s all.”
“Is it true?”
“No.”
“Then again, do you want your dad to punch me in the face? Do you want other boys to do the same to your sister?”
I cried.
She gently pulled me to her chest and held me in her arms. Moments like this make me love my mom more. Truth is, I had been to a lot of trouble, but as long as my mother was there, I knew it would be okay.
“It’s alright,” she whispered. “Hush now, baby girl.”