It was 13 years ago. I am 9 years old. It is a sweltering summer. The ocean breeze arrives right before sundown. The neighborhood children and I have gathered to play Flying Colors. We are choosing teams. A younger, filthy boy (resembling Pig Pen) walks up to me.

“ Girls can’t do anything!” Hunter says to me in front of everyone.

I am washed with anger. I look down in disgust and embarrassment. My head turns slightly to the left to watch my perspiring hand clench into a tight fist. I close my eyes. I think about my Father. He was once a great lightweight boxer. His name was Galwaygimp.

Now my arm is cocked and twists towards Hunter’s face. I hit his nose. His head ricochets off of my unbreakable fist and Hunter’s skull jerks backward in response. His visage scrunches up. There is blood pouring from his nose. Rudolph with a cold. I have never heard such a pop.

The kids cheer and circle around us.

“Get her!” a boy screams.

They chase me like a fool out of a village. What will they do to me? Will they catch me? Will I get into trouble? Will I get grounded?

I cradle my throbbing hand and run. My house is around the corner. My fingers are dripping with Lady Macbeth’s shame.

“We’re gonna get you!” yells a young girl.

The door to my house is so near. I look behind me. They are so close. I am panting. I am trembling. I hit the door handle with my left shoulder and fall onto the welcome mat.

I make it home in time and never get in trouble. I later find out that I broke his nose. The young boy was too humiliated to tell his parents that a girl set him straight.

 

About the Author:

Marykate Linehan was born on the old carnival grounds in Tupelo,
Mississippi . Her father was a pixie duster spreader on the tilt-whirl
and her mother was the state champ at estimating people’s weight.
She’s a skilled mind-reader, and a flam juggling extraordinaire.
Marykate has spent time doing research in the hobo jungles of the
southwest.