The Girl Who Spit in Kindergarten
A slice-of-life vignette of me just being a little turd
Some background before we begin:
Maybe I just didn’t like his cutting technique. He left behind jagged-edged slivers atop our shared scrap pile of construction paper, taunting me.
Maybe his larger presence compared to our other kindergarten peers intimidated me. Back then, they considered him to be a “healthy eater.”
Maybe it was his affinity for “teacher-petness.” He was good at reminding Ms. Brandon when someone had already had a turn as a special helper or line leader. Too good.
Whatever the reason, I was livid over losing the seating chart lottery. My insides reignited whenever I looked to my left, a constant reminder that I was carelessly plopped next to Mario.
How could Ms. Brandon do this to me? To us? Didn’t we have a nonverbal understanding that I couldn’t take changes like this?! The woman was gifted in reward sticker selection evidenced by our returned worksheets, but her seating chart management sucked.
I turned my body a full 180 degrees to that sacred space across the room. It looked so far and unattainable with the other “inside voice” girls. I should be in that empty seat with my back to the non-judgmental bulletin board showcasing class birthdays.
My six-year-old heart bubbled over and sizzled into a pit in my stomach. With all the hate I could muster, I looked at Mario for the audacity of just existing and spit on his Vienna sausage-forearm.
I remember feeling a tension unravel, a release of fortified anger. My eyes widened as I grew hungry for his response.
He didn’t cry. His scrunched-up face displayed his disgust, though. My glinting spray of saliva shined loudly. He stiffly raised his hand, waited for Ms. Brandon to call on him, and told on me.
Mario was usually a big baby. Where did this come from? This act of maturity was unsettling. Now I wanted to wipe his arm with something–his shirt, my shirt, the scrap construction paper. But even at age six, I knew I had invaded his personal space enough for one day.
Ms. Brandon asked if I did it. I nodded my head without looking up, knowing all eyes were stationed on me. The girl who spits.
With bridled shock and swiftness, Ms. Brandon wrote my name on the chalkboard.
My breathing accelerated. My nose tickled. My eyes pooled with tears. Once they spilled over my lids, I knew there would be no respite.
My name had never been up there with the usual heathens. I knew it was my name, but it looked incorrect in some way. Like if you wrote your name on the date line on top of your worksheet or when someone wants to abbreviate your name, but you don’t go by a nickname.
The weight of my moral boo-boo permeated my mind, and I couldn’t take it. I bawled in my seat and continued cutting through snot and stomach knots.
I avoided looking at the chalkboard all day and hated everyone with burning and swollen eyes.
* * *
I don’t know if my mom was notified of my infraction, but I remember not wanting to go back to school ever again.
Little Debbie cakes were often an after school treat, Swiss Rolls being my favorite. I would unravel them with my teeth, lick off the cream, and roll the sheet of chocolate cake up before consuming.
That took skill with little kindergarten fingers, but I’m sure the process was disgusting to watch.
No, I don’t think Mom knew. I slowly indulged in my dessert but looked at her with suspicion. Like she was going to smack it out of my hand any second and ask about the spitting incident. I carefully licked the leftover cream off my fingers.
I don’t remember if I needed to use a napkin or if this clean-up required a heavy-duty handwashing. I only remember the need to erase any trace of partaking of a chocolate reward.
Then it was to the living room for either Care Bears or The Smurfs, with the volume turned down very low.