School was great. At first. My teachers in kindergarten and first grade thought I was cute. When I’d be rude, they’d laugh. One teacher even said she wished she could take me home. Now I look back and wish she had.
At first I think Mom and Dad were good at getting me to school. They couldn’t get me out the door fast enough. Even if I felt sick they made sure I would catch the school bus that stopped at the corner. I only had to walk a few minutes to get there. It wasn’t hard since other kids from my building were walking too. Billy was one of them. He was black too and was a little taller than me. He lived on the first floor, and we would play together on the playground. I would watch Billy hold his mother’s hand as they waited for the big, yellow bus to pull up. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand too. I didn’t understand why Mom couldn’t walk me to the stop, and she told me that holding hands was for babies.
That’s when I first started to be mean. At age seven I’d get on the bus and call Billy a baby. “Baby Billy holds Mommy’s hand.” I would yell until the bus driver made me stop. But it was always too late. Billy would already be crying. He didn’t play with me on the playground after that.