And when she wasn’t busy showing off, she’d just sit on the curb with the ball between her feet, staring at our house.
My mom didn’t understand why it was so awful that “that cute little girl” had held my hand.
She thought I should make friends with her. “I thought you liked soccer, honey. Why don’t you go out there and kick the ball around?”
Because I didn’t want to be kicked around, that’s why.
And although I couldn’t say it like that at the time, I still had enough sense at age seven and a half to know that Juli Baker was dangerous.
Unavoidably dangerous, as it turns out. The minute I walked into Mrs. Yelson’s second-grade classroom, I was dead meat.
“Bryce!” Juli squeals. “You’re here.” Then she charges across the room and tackles me.
Mrs. Yelson tried to explain this attack away as a “welcome hug,” but man, that was no hug.
That was a front-line, take-’em-down tackle. And even though I shook her off, it was too late. I was branded for life.
Everyone jeered, “Where’s your girl friend, Bryce?” “Are you married yet, Bryce?”
And then when she chased me around at recess and tried to lay kisses on me,
the whole school started singing, “Bryce and Juli sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G… ”
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