Manuel likes to eat the enormous crayons in the wooden box. First he bites off a chunk of the yellow one, swallows it, grins and reaches for the red one.
I’m 6 years old, in Miss Allison’s first grade class and I like to observe my world.
Between bites of crayon, Manuel spoons thick, white paste from the jar that sits on our little table. The paste smells nice I think, like parakeet feathers. Manuel eats the paste. He only eats paste and crayons when I am at his table.
My friend Lancey is in my class and she and I are in love with our friend Darice’s cousin, Little Frankie. (It’s a small town.)
At recess and lunch my girlfriends and I turn into big horses. We slap our legs and race wildly across the vast, hard dirt playground. We are shiny brown horses who whinny and chase the boys who scatter before us.
I hate being a horse. I hate chasing boys. I can’t see the point to this mad galloping and racing and boy chasing.
But, I am 6 years old and this is what my country girl friends love to do. I want to be with my friends.
This is how it starts: (more…)