Flashback #2

"The tree."

Standing at the front door I felt prepared. I had an apple, my bag and a plan. I can't remember the reasoning behind the plan now but it certainly was the driving force of my adventure that day. Barefoot, I stepped out to the path, the bricks still damp with the morning dew. As a last minute precaution I veered over to what should have the front lawn but had been turned into one of two giant strawberry patches in front of our house. On a whim, the previous year, my parents must of thought we needed a little more strawberry in our lives so they tore out all the perfectly good grass and planted strawberries instead. We all thought this was pure brilliance and their efforts had turned a pretty amazing abundance of fruit. It only took me a moment to fill my pockets with giant ripe strawberries and move gingerly back to the sidewalk. Two minutes later I found myself at our tree. Co-owner of the tree and usual co-conspirator, Jen, wasn't there this particular morning. She wouldn't have approved as my motives were less than noble.
Our tree was a fair sized evergreen...some kind of fir, maybe. It's spiraling branches stretched out giving us enough room to squeeze up and around until we had a pretty clear outlook of the rest of the neighborhood. This morning was especially crisp and clear and I settle down quickly on my sappy throne. The key element of my plan was patience. That and my little bag. I dug out my strawberries which by now were only slightly mushed from my stealthy accent. With one eye on the house across the street I quickly polished them off. One by one the stems floated down like spinning tops. Time was passing and my keister was quickly getting numb from my precarious perch. Undeterred I started in on my apple, trying hard to eat as slowly as a 9 yr. old can. Only after spitting out the seeds did I start to fear that my wait was for nothing.
But then the door opened. A boy, my age but definitely not my friend, slowly walked out of his house onto his manicured front lawn. Apparently his parents didn't know about the advantages of a fruit yard. In one swift motion I whipped open my bag, pulled out a straw and threw a dried pea into one end while bringing the other end to my mouth. With a mighty breath I pulled back my head and then blew as hard as I could. It wasn't a direct hit but it got his attention. While reloading I shouted a threatening stream of adolescent vulgarity of the Scribner variety. It may have come out something like this; "Get back into your STUPID house you MORON!" That was pretty daring for me, but these serious times. I was a girl with a plan and that plan was harassing that boy back into his house. This was no time for pansies. His eyes found me quickly as this wasn't our first encounter. Before he could answer I had a better aimed pea flying in his direction. And then another. And another. Now, this next part I may have slightly altered in the vaults of my memory but as I see it he ran back into the house crying like the yellow-bellied coward I told him he was. It's all a little foggy. And somewhere there is a vague, nagging, memory of him yelling probably more explicit curses my way, fortified with a few small rocks...but I'm doing my best to repress even the idea of anything less than a total and complete triumph on my part.
Minutes later, as I recall, the boy was shaking from fear behind his front door and I was walking with a new spring in my step, whistling a victorious tune while swinging a half-used back of dried peas back and forth.

Now the irony. We moved to Scotland when I was 10. We moved back to the same house on Bridgewood when I was 13. That put me into the unrelenting clutches of Junior High. While settling down into one of my first classes I tried to master the 'whatever...I'm like, totally bored' look as the class introduced themselves. My cool facade was broken when the boy next to me stood up and introduced himself as Jamie. There was something familiar about that face but it wasn't until he looked at me with, with what I'd have to say was a bit of a snooty sneer, that it dawned on me that I was looking at my arch enemy. Puberty had only hit one of us during our time apart. The once scrawny neighbor boy was now a lanky 6 foot tall, pimple faced pre-teen. Possibly the scariest thing on earth. I may have added an inch to my stature, although that is debatable. My once wild unkempt hair was now shorter unkempt hair. Maybe he wouldn't remember? Maybe he'll mistake me for some other girl on the street. A nice one.
With all the courage I could strap on I managed a second side glance in his directions. Our eyes met. And yeah. He remembered me. I sank as low into my chair as possible and I could feel him smirking as he sat back down. Check mate.