Every school has them. Mine were named Samuel and Eddie.
Samuel's favorite weapon wasn't his fists. It was a cheap Bic pen. He'd unscrew the barrel, wad notebook paper into tiny spitballs, and use it like a blowgun. From across the classroom, I'd hear the soft pfft before feeling a wet paper pellet hit the back of my neck or stick to my sweater.
The class would snicker.
I'd raise my hand.
"Mrs. Johnson, Samuel's doing it again."
She'd stop the lesson, look over her glasses, and ask Samuel if it was true.
He'd flash the sweetest, most innocent smile you ever saw.
"No, ma'am."
"Samuel, don't do that again."
"Yes, ma'am."
Five minutes later...
Pfft.
Another spitball.
It became our daily routine.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder if Samuel picked on me because I was an easy target or because we looked so much alike. We both had the same awful bowl haircut.
In my case, it wasn't a fashion statement.
It was my mother.
Mom was a nurse. She could start an IV with steady hands, comfort frightened patients, and probably save your life in an emergency.
But give that woman a pair of scissors, and all bets were off.
Every few weeks she'd sit me on a kitchen chair, place an honest-to-goodness mixing bowl over my head, and trim around the edge. She'd step back with the satisfaction of an artist finishing a masterpiece.
I, on the other hand, walked into school looking like I'd lost a fight with Tupperware.
Kids notice things like that.
Especially bullies.
Samuel should have known better.
He'd spent years making my life miserable, and I'd spent years letting him.
Recess was usually his favorite time of day. Teachers were watching, but not closely enough to catch every cruel word or every little shove.
The schoolyard was still soaked from days of rain. Muddy puddles covered the playground, and every step made a squishing sound.
I was minding my own business when I saw him coming.
He walked across the yard like he owned the place.
As he got closer, I could smell his awful breath before he even opened his mouth.
"Hey, Lousy Lori," he sneered. "Nice haircut. You look like a boy."
Then he reached out and yanked my hair.
That was it.
Something inside me snapped.
The next thing I knew, Samuel was flat on his back, and I was sitting on top of him with both hands clamped onto his ears, pulling as hard as I could.
He squirmed.
The harder he fought, the deeper his head sank into the muddy puddles beneath him. Mud covered his face, filled his hair, and splattered his shirt. Every time he twisted away from me, he only made himself muddier.
By now, half the playground had stopped to watch.
I vaguely remember hearing kids cheering.
Someone yelled for a teacher.
Strong hands finally grabbed me under the arms and pulled me away before I succeeded in stretching Samuel's ears halfway to Albany.
I stood up, breathing hard.
I brushed the mud off my plaid dress as best I could. My green tights were another story. They looked like I'd wrestled a pig instead of a bully.
Samuel wasn't nearly as dignified.
He was crying.
The teacher marched us both to the principal's office, but Samuel took a detour to the nurse's office first. Apparently, muddy humiliation wasn't the only injury he'd suffered.
That evening, I sat at the kitchen table pretending to do my math homework while secretly wondering how grounded I was about to become.
The phone rang.
Dad answered.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop...
...but our kitchen wasn't exactly Buckingham Palace.
After a few moments he said, sounding genuinely puzzled,
"I don't have a son named Larry. I have a daughter named Lori."
There was a long pause.
Then a voice exploded through the receiver so loudly that even I could hear it.
"YOU GOT BEAT UP BY A GIRL?"
Silence.
A few more apologies.
Dad hung up.
I waited.
Surely this was the part where I got the lecture.
Instead, he walked over, rested his hand on my head, smiled, and said three words I'll never forget.
"That's my girl."
Then he turned around and walked back into the living room.
It was the only fight I ever got into as a child.
It was also the last time Samuel ever called me "Lousy Lori."
I didn't know it then, but childhood has a way of teaching you who you are.
Sometimes it teaches you through kindness.
Sometimes it teaches you through Samuel and Eddie.
And sometimes, apparently, it teaches you that when someone pushes you far enough, there comes a moment when you finally push back.
That muddy playground wasn't just the place where I fought Samuel.
It was one of the first places where I discovered something about myself.
I wasn't as helpless as I thought I was.