The seat of lonely children: the swings. You sit alone on the playground, toes dragging in the woodchips below. You are small for your age (seven and a half) with black hair cut into the shape of a bowl and sneakers that flash when you walk. The bus had left before you could reach it – your backpack, purple with black straps and an awesome picture of rockets and space people, had ripped in the middle of the hallway as students trampled over you and your papers, anxious to get home and play video games – and you weren't sure how to get home. So you wandered to the playground. A teacher had approached you about an hour ago and asked if you were waiting for someone. Too embarrassed to say otherwise, you said your mom was coming now from the grocery store. The teacher smiled at you then and went back inside the squat brick building that was your elementary school. His tie fluttered into his face before he made it through the doors and you laughed to yourself.
You'd been alone now for a while, though. The sad remains of your bag lean against the poles of the structure holding you up. Idly, you push your feet off the ground. Little red lights flash on the yellow of the woodchips and you begin to swing. But then something hits you in the back, just as you arc backward, knees pulling in for momentum, and you fall off the swing and land face first on the ground. Your hands smart from the woodchips and your breath is haggard. Your lip is bleeding, you realize. A warm copper taste touches your tongue. Someone laughs loudly behind you. “Can't even stay on a swing! What can you do, besides eat rice and talk funny?”
Gritting your teeth, you push yourself to your feet, brushing the chips from your hands on your pants. “I asked you a question!” The same voice calls out, high and nasally. It's Jerry and his stupid, ugly rattail. He'd been after your blood since that presentation about family at the beginning of the year. You don't know why, exactly, but you think it's because you look different from everyone else. It wasn't like you had done anything to him. You want to cry, but you don't. Instead, you glower at him. He laughs at that. “What? No speak English?”
“SHUT UP,” you yell at him all at once, the air forced from your lungs, your fists clenched tight. You have never before yelled at him and he looks scared for a second before his mouth flattens into a thin, grim line. His eyes practically turn red with rage. Oh, no. You stumble backwards, tripping over your own feet – your stupid sneakers light up from the impact, as you fall onto your butt. But you don't even have time to apologize or raise your arms in defense before the bigger boy is on you. He is yelling, but you don't understand what he's saying. He doesn't hit you, but he does grab the front of your shirt.
“Don't ever tell me what to do,” he growls at you finally. His breath smells bad and you squeeze your eyes shut and look away. He shakes you. “You hear me?”
You manage to stutter a 'yes' and he drops you. You fall back onto your elbows and he stomps away. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder where his parents are. He's alone, too. The rest of you decides now is the time to start crying, so that's what you do, sitting there in the woodchips, hands to your eyes as your lip bleeds.