MY RESENTMENT OF BOWDEN ARMSTRONG went back for a decade. As young boys, Bowden and Knox were little devils, constantly up to no good. They found it hilarious to torment the younger children at the schoolhouse.

That dreadful day when my torment began, I passed Bowden and Knox resting against the old oak tree in the schoolyard, eating their lunch, as I headed to the outhouse. Bowden was so dreamy, with long eyelashes that brushed his cheeks. All the girls had a crush on him.

He’d come to Charleston the year before with his grandpa and his little brother, Stone. Father said his parents had died in a shipwreck off the coast of Georgia a few years ago. My heart went out to him; he was barely thirteen and his little brother was younger than me. I could relate to the pain of not having a mother, but being orphaned, with no parents at all, I couldn’t imagine. When he’d started school the previous year he’d became inseparable friends with Knox. Everyone liked Knox; he was easy and laid back.

I sat down in the outhouse still dreaming of Bowden’s smile and his eyes, which looked like jewels swept up from the bottom of the ocean. They sparkled when he laughed and changed color when he was mad. As I sat there with my undergarments around my ankles, I thought, I’m going to marry that boy someday.

Suddenly the outhouse began to rock back and forth, and I gripped the rickety old seat to steady myself. Then with a snap, the seat gave way, and I squealed as I went bottom first into the pungent sewage below. I found myself wedged down in the hole with only my feet dangling out. I quickly tried to dislodge myself but it was too late; the outhouse went over sideways and I was rolling. I felt the wetness and slime of the contents of the hole splashing over me as I tumbled out.

Wiping watering eyes, I looked up to see Bowden and Knox holding their stomachs, roaring with laughter. The other children gathered around, pointing and laughing. Some held their noses against the smell while others looked on in shock and bewilderment. I collected myself from the ground, rage rising up in me as I fought back tears. I swore to myself, I hate that boy with everything in me.

“I hate you, Bowden Armstrong. I’ll never forgive you. Ever!” I screamed, and stomped my foot.

Ms. Ellen, the schoolteacher, arrived on the scene. She looked at me in horror and turned her gaze on those two boys. Their laughter ceased. Ms. Ellen took them both by the ears and escorted them to the side of the school, where she ordered them not to move. She shouted to the other children to get into the school and wait.

She smiled down at me, her expression full of pity. “I think those boys must have taken a liking to you, Willow. Boys do things like this when they like a pretty girl.”

I remember frowning at her as I angrily wiped away my tears. That wasn’t the first time I’d been told that kind of explanation, about boys teasing girls because they liked them. I called it a bogus statement and an adult’s way of trying to make you feel better.

I stood in sheer humiliation with the whole school’s waste covering me. Ms. Ellen’s voice was but a mumble as I turned my eyes on Bowden and Knox. The boys were looking at the ground. Bowden shifted his feet back and forth in the dirt, and Knox’s face was shadowed with regret. I looked at Bowden, from his feet right up to his head, and said over and over in my mind, I hate you, Bowden Armstrong, with every ounce of my body. From that day on I fought to suppress the humiliation I relived every time I heard the mention of his name or saw his face.