HELEN JUSTICE

Helen Justice,
Please pay attention, this concerns you. It was the winter of 1980, and we were in the second grade at Heyl Avenue Elementary School in Columbus, Ohio. You had chased me all the way out to the back fence line for reasons known only to yourself, and then the end of recess bell rang. Time stood still. In an effort to keep me from going inside-- and, perhaps, starting down the road to obeying some primal Pavlovian instinct-- you tried to kick me. Your left boot flew off and landed in my outstretched hand. Shiny red. I still remember the weight of it, and the way the snow sucked up all the sounds around us. I looked at you, you looked at me, and I promptly heaved it into the back of a passing truck. It was a perfect shot, and the driver never noticed. While the look on your face was indeed priceless, it got better as I walked away and left you hopping on one foot in an inch of snow. And for that, I publicly apologize. It was a rotten thing to do, and I don’t blame you for having your older brother, Freddie, kick my ass. We were just kids, and kids can be cruel. I'm sorry.