It's recess and you're nine years old, with a wild mop of dark hair and thick rimmed glasses. The rest of your classmates start picking teams to play dodgeball or football or some kind of ball, but you make your way to the very edge of the fence-offed playground and settle yourself on the ground with a book in hand. You don't bother watching as you open to your bookmarked page and start reading, halfway through a woman's testament about contacting her dead grandmother.
Everything else melts away until suddenly something hard connects with the side of your head, causing you to topple over on your side. The laughter of children grows closer, and two boys your age loom over you with matching sneers on their faces.
They tell you you're weird, call you loser and freak - the extent of their fourth-grade vocabulary. You simply shrug and sit back up, reaching for your book and continuing to read. Eventually they go back to their game, and only then do you turn to face the fence and allow yourself to cry.