100's Day

When I was in 3rd grade, I sat in the far left corner of my English class. The boy I liked sat in front of me, all blond hair and blue eyes. He was a typical boy, drawing crude pictures and playing mean jokes.

On the 100th day of school the kindergartners threw a little party. They colored banners and paraded them around the whole school. Our school was unique in that very few of the classrooms had any walls. They were mostly blocked off by cheap wood decorated with the colors and characters only seen in elementary schools - Positive Action smiles and Just Say No posters. The kindergartners had no trouble getting into the classrooms.

When they reached our room, I was the first they drew near, and one dropped their banner right beside my desk. I picked it up, thinking to give it back, but my crush turned around, all malicious smiles, and told me to rip it.

So I did.

I ripped it right in half.

When the circle drew back around and the girl came to claim her dropped banner, I remember feeling some hint of negative intuition. The banner was my sister's. She looked at me with sad eyes and a heartbroken face, and I can still remember the question in her 5-year old face. Why?

"Thanks," she said with a sad smirk, and took the two pieces of her colored banner, finishing her parade in silence. 

I think about that day a lot, and the guilt that never went away. How horrible of my 8-year old self to fall victim to such peer pressure. I've never seen Ali as sad as she was that day, having learned to school her features into something more appropriate - even when our dad died and the tears fell unrelenting.

Nothing compares to the unadulterated heartbreak in those young eyes, the sadness over the loss of something so innocent, something she had worked on for hours. Hours that were precious to one so young.

Maybe that's where I learned to safeguard the hard work of others. I encourage and praise where some would scorn merely because I have seen the sorrow my derision can cause, even if the more mature can hide their feelings with careless shrugs and the ever-present phrase, "I don't care."

They always care.

I love you, Ali.