Kindergarten for losers

The first day of kindergarten was spicy.

Mother dressed me in a white button-down with brown slacks that belled at the bottom — bell-bottoms cover casts easier than today's skinny jeans. I sported a matching jacket. On the left oversized lapel, my mother had safety-pinned an index card with my name and address. She covered it in a translucent plastic bag in case It got wet. I looked at the sky. I didn’t feel like getting wet. Not today.

My crutches burned pink welts into my biceps with each toddle. I was crying, pleading for her to slather petroleum jelly in my pits. She handed me over to some adult escort and ensured I’d be sitting most of the day. He was bearded and stank of old spice and cigarettes.

The wooly man checked me off his list and escorted me to the fifth room down the hall from the double door entrance. The smell of chalk and warm lunchboxes replaced the escort's aroma. I hung up my coat.

At the far side of the room was a circle of boys attempting to build a cardboard castle. The red bricks tumbled. An old woman with the ruler told them to share. They weren’t listening. It was clear that, with or without her direction, they wouldn’t finish the construction.

Cries erupted from the far-right corner as a fat kid in a small corduroy parka pulled a blond girl’s ponytail. The old woman smacked the ruler in her palm and advanced on them. I was sure he would have welts like my underarms when she was done. I scanned the empty plastic chairs for a comfortable spot.

There she was.

Loose curls flowed in the stagnant air. We met eyes and passed a stream of information with a single frozen expression. She was wearing pink shorts. Odd for a chilly September day. She didn’t have any shoes on, mostly because she had no legs.

I introduced my self as Brian. And she did as Brigette. I appreciated the alliteration, took the chair next to her, and we colored outside the lines.

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