I remember hating PJ Barton when he played Go Fish with my first grade girlfriend at indoor recess. She later developed a drug problem. Do you have any eights?
I remember the dust motes of second grade, Dawn, LJ, the reading circle, talking to my dolls, spelling perfecktly.
I remember popsicles as penises in third grade. My Goody friends and I scolded by Mrs. Rampley (I remember her poof hair, thick-rimmed glasses; and her chubby son who meanly laughed at my squint).
I remember the lockers of fourth, the tough older kids; the failure of my sports teams (the Celtics) that year smells like cafeteria chop suey.
I remember the flower prints and sweaters of Mrs. Dimball, my fifth grade teacher, whose father, Mr. Card, built my house. She lived there briefly, my teacher, my dragon lady. Learned, maybe, something about teaching in her basement room (which is mine now), under the urinating mice.
I remember not knowing any dirty words in sixth grade.
I remember Seth Brockton's curly hair, his wife's--oh, I can't think of a good metaphor, but she had pretty, freckled, half-ruddy skin and hair the color of--well, it was light-brown, washed out. Betsy. Betty.
I remember banana day in eighth grade's health issues class. My best friend couldn't stop moving his leg, a nervous tic misunderstood by the giggling cool kids.
I remember running out to right field and the grace of it.
I remember my Nike hat. I wore it sophomore year to be cool and impress Emily Laugherman. She thought it was dirty, which it was. Titanic came out that year and I remember considering giving her a note that said 'Make it count.' Though mockable, I'm ever-grateful that I sometimes refrain from being even-more-mockable. I got rid of the hat, didn't just do it.
