May 2022

Months after an embarrassing incident at school, Emerson is faced with a difficult decision The most traumatizing thing that happened to me in all of elementary school took place in the fall of third grade. What is this? Oh, what happened to poor eight-year-old Emerson? Did a dear pet die? Was she tragically injured? No. Stuff like that doesn’t really happen to me. The worst moment in that year was possibly the most embarrassing thing to happen to me. Ever. Or at least it seemed like that. And it had consequences. It all started on a sunny November afternoon near the end of the school day. Ms. Algieri, my teacher, sent us outside to put an assignment in our backpacks, which were hanging on hooks on the outer wall of our classroom. I wandered outside with everyone else and unzipped my backpack. When we had put the paper in, we walked back to the class for science. Or most of us, at least. Not me. I didn’t head back to the class. Somehow I forgot about science and decided it was the end of the day. Absently humming a cheerful tune, I hitched up my backpack and skipped over the blacktop, around a row of classrooms to the playground. That morning, my friend Ashley and I had decided to meet there at the end of the day so we could walk to choir after school together. I noticed that her class hadn’t been released yet. Mr. Kahl always holds them back later than us. At least he hands out Jolly Ranchers. Maybe Ashley will have some—sour apple or blue raspberry, hopefully.  I skipped over the tanbark and clambered up to the top of the jungle gym. I was sitting there when my teacher came hurrying out over the blacktop toward me, black flower-print dress bobbing up and down with her bouncing jog. Her round, freckled face and dark smiling eyes, normally paired with a wide smile, were now squeezed into an expression of worry. I couldn’t see why, though. Why was she running toward me, anyhow? Suddenly time seemed to stop. In a glance I realized there were no other kids anywhere on the grounds, with the exception of a pair walking through the breezeways to a bathroom together. Normally, the place was flooded with students walking home or stopping at the playground. I froze. I realized my mistake. I began to panic, and my face turned bright red, prickling uncomfortably. Looking around, I wondered how I had ever missed the silence and stillness of the grounds. Untitled I chanced a glance at my classroom, which had one big window with a nice view of the playground. I knew this view very well. Sitting in the classroom you could easily see the part where I was climbing. The window was dark, and from my angle I couldn’t see my classmates inside. My imagination formed a detailed picture of what their faces looked like at the moment: Sophie staring in curiosity, Jamie in confusion. Bella whispering to Olivia. I was sure Diego and Jonah were holding back giggles. My imagination also created a very detailed and fleeting image in my brain of what my classmates were seeing right now, looking out the window. Me, sitting eight feet off the ground, backpack on, an hour before class had ended. To this day, this view my imagination created seems like a memory. My imagination was rampaging, running wild, making everything worse. The prickling became close to unbearable. This was absolutely terrible. Everyone, looking at me. Teacher, worried. Me, mindlessly wandering the playground when school hadn’t even ended. I quickly shot down from the playground and headed to Ms. Algieri. I didn’t dare look her in the eye. “I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. Tears built up and pressed behind my eyeballs. No. Nonono! You can’t be crying! You’re in school right now! Your classmates await you! But I couldn’t stop the persistent tears. Before we had even come back to the classroom, tears were full-out streaming down my face. I hung up my backpack, still staring at my shiny, navy blue sneakers, and absently noted that my shoe was untied. I heaved a loud sniff. I tried with all my might to keep a neutral face, but my face was bright red and my eyes were puffy. Before I stepped into the classroom, I wiped my face on my sleeve. Hard. All the heads of my classmates turned and stared at me. This brought a new round of hiccupping sobs. I covered my face in my hands and stood there for what seemed like hours, when in reality it was no more than ten seconds. Then Ms. Algieri had the sense to excuse me to go to the bathroom. At first I just casually strolled out of the classroom, trying to look calm and careless. I looked at none of my classmates. But then the reality of life set in, and I began to jog out over the blacktop to the safety of the secluded bathroom stalls. When I got there, I sobbed in a stall. Soon my friends Nao, Katherine, and Sofia came over to comfort me. They mostly patted me, handed me wet paper towels, and quietly murmured soothing words. I don’t really remember much about that. Just that I was very grateful that they didn’t laugh (out loud, anyhow—some silly voice in my head confidently informed me that they were holding back mountains of giggles). On top of everything else, I also had a new reason to be embarrassed because I had seen how puffy and red my face was and how tearstained my cheeks were in the bathroom mirrors. My imagination was rampaging, running wild, making everything worse. The prickling became close to unbearable. Eventually I calmed down, and my friends and I headed back to class. People still stared at me, and I had tears in my eyes for the rest of the day. Small sniffs could sometimes be