When I was in fifth grade, my friend K beat me up.
I say she beat me up, because that was the expression in those days. It was actually a series of incidents over perhaps a week or two. An angry shove when the teacher’s back was turned, another shove down the stairs on the way to gym; and then finally, in the hallway after school, hair-pulling and punches in the stomach. I stood there, baffled and afraid, taking the blows. “Stop it,” I said. “Stop it,” she mimicked. Another friend came over and hugged me, making herself into a shield. K just punched her in the back instead. Eventually, K must have walked away; I don’t remember how it ended. I do remember that no adult saw or intervened, and no child in the crowded hallway thought to seek an adult’s assistance. We were in our own world. Fifth grade.
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