I remember you. I remember how the auditorium smelled of sweat and Clearasil, and sounded like a thundercloud begging to be freed. I was happy they herded us there for a school production; glad not to be in math. Mr. D was my math teacher, and overlord of my homeroom. He took pleasure in sending me into the hallway as punishment for crimes I didn’t know I had committed. He knew the Principal would likely walk past and see me sitting at the desk he made me drag through the room and out the door. He knew I would be called to his office for yet another tongue thrashing. I wondered if he was salivating with anticipation of that moment. Yes, I was glad not to be in math, until you.

I remember you, you’re the boy who sat in the row in front of mine. You had three other guys on either side of you; laughing and joking around. I wished the play would begin so everyone would be quiet. I remember how you suddenly turned around and grabbed my sixth grade breast in your hand, whipped back around, and told your friends in a loud voice, “Yep, they’re real.” I felt sick, flushed with anger, humiliation, and embarrassment. You laughed, they laughed too; each turning their heads just enough to glance at me with one knowing eye. Just as the tear I wanted nobody to see escaped my water-soaked eyes, the lights went down and the curtain up for the play to begin.

I remember you, but do you remember me? I think if a person is going to scar another person, they should have the decency to remember them. Even if that were the only horrible thing happening in my life at that time, I would remember you. What did you do after school? I went home to my terminally ill father, and a mother whom I could never tell what you had done. That night I buried my head into my pillow and sobbed for hours.

”I think if a person is going to scar another person, they should have the decency to remember them/it” * Just Be Just*