Lost Moccasins

I vividly remember my first day of kindergarten. On the way back from using the bathroom I saw an older boy with his pants pulled down. The principal was screaming at him in the hallway, while mercilessly beating the boy with his hands.

Because I knew how to read, my teacher completely ignored me, sticking me in a corner with books while singing the alphabet with everyone else. When it was time to put on our shoes for recess, I realized in horror that my beautiful white rabbit fur moccasins that my Mushom gave me were stolen.

Later, we were given a performance test in the gym where we had to hang as long as possible in a chin up. This wiry girl beat everyone in class and received a red excellence badge. I got only a bronze badge, and I was tough.

After the bell, I remember walking gingerly over the asphalt littered with pebbles in my sock feet. I had to cross over solid concrete school grounds, then make my way across a stretch of long alleyways to my home.

I lagged behind my brothers and noticed the same girl who won her red excellence badge doing cartwheels, giggling and laughing with her siblings. She lost her footing and came crashing down, skinning her knees and crying.

I was slightly gleeful in an ugly, not wanting to be way. Getting home, I was immediately punished for losing my moccasins. After, I went to the living room and stared out the window at the leaves that danced in the sunlight and breeze.