Lightning in the Thistles
by Mickey Kocic
One
It started for Cindy Poillon in 1968, when she was five years old. She had started Kindergarten a few days before. At recess in the yard, she saw a boy from her class off in the distance, looking scared. Facing him was a third grader who kept cuffing him on the head.
Cindy walked toward them. When she was five feet away, she stopped. Neither boy looked like they'd seen her. Cindy's classmate was normal size for a boy in Kindergarten. The third-grader was about Cindy's height and maybe a bit heavier. “Stop bugging him,” she said.
The third-grader turned his face to her and looked like he wanted to laugh. “fresia off, *****,” he said. Then he turned back to the smaller boy.
Cindy didn't understand what the third-grader had said. She'd have to ask her parents what the words meant. But this was a bad time for that. She stepped between the boys, put one palm on the third-grader's chest and stepped on one of his feet with one of hers. She gave him a light push on the chest and took her foot off his foot at the same time. He went back three steps and landed on his butt.
Cindy heard her classmate gasp behind her. The boy hadn't seen what she'd done with her foot, just a light push on the third-grader's chest. But the third grader was getting to his feet and charging her with his head down. Cindy waited and then stepped out of the way. She saw her classmate just standing there, staring, so she grabbed his upper arm with both hands and pulled him out of the way too. The third-grader went flying past, and one of his hands grazed her classmate's cheek. The boy cried out and Cindy saw a nasty scrape, probably from fingernails.
The third-grader had gone about eight feet before landing on his face. Cindy looked around and saw that some other kids in the yard didn't look like they had seen anything, since they just kept playing. But other kids were standing still and staring at them.
The third grader got up and was walking slowly toward them. He looked like he'd totally forgotten about Cindy's classmate. As he got closer, Cindy saw that his face was purple and really stuck out. She had never seen a face like that.
The third-grader got to Cindy and took a big round swing. Cindy put up her arms so her forearms were at a right angle, and his forearm hit hers so the punch didn't land. It hurt but made less trouble than the punch would have if it had landed. He tried with the other arm and Cindy just moved her arms over and did the same thing. Then he tried to kick her and Cindy put her hands together and put her arms down so his shin hit her hands. That really hurt but Cindy knew it wouldn't hurt forever and she'd be okay. It was a lot better than getting kicked.
The third-grader stopped and just stared at Cindy. His eyes were almost closed. She had never seen eyes like that, either.
“If you keep trying to hit me I can keep stopping you,” she told him.
He didn't say anything, and then: “You've got a dick, you ******* lezzie.” He turned and started walking away. Then he turned and spoke again: “You goddamned bulldyke.” Then he turned and kept walking. Cindy didn't understand those things, either. She'd have to ask her parents what they meant too.
Her classmate was just standing there. She reached up and touched the scrape on his cheek, and he winced.
“You have to go to the nurse,” she said.
The boy's eyes went wide. “I can't let the grownups find out! People will kill me!”
Cindy was pretty sure Miss Thomson, the yard teacher, had seen everything, but didn't argue with him. “We can tell Miss Thomson you tripped and fell.”
His face relaxed. “Okay.”
“Come on. I'll go with you.” And they started walking toward where the teacher stood with her hand bell by the wall.
Pretty much every other kid saw them walking together, and Cindy noticed lots of people talking. She didn't care.
“What's your name?” said the boy as they walked.
“My mom calls me Cyn. It's for Cynthia.”
“My name's Bob. For Robert. Don't tell anybody I said that.”
“Okay.”
They didn't say anything for a moment.
“That guy has a brother in eighth grade,” said Bob. “What if his brother's mad?”
“He's not gonna bug you,” said Cindy.
“Is he gonna bug you?”
“Nah,” said Cindy. But she didn't know if he would, and that would be trouble. An eighth-grader could beat her to death.
They were quiet again, and then Bob said: “For a girl you're really nice.”
Cindy thought that was funny but just smiled a little bit. “Thanks.”
When they got to the teacher, it was Cindy who told her that Bob had slipped and scraped his face on the ground. She lied that she had an upset stomach and asked to see the nurse too. So another teacher took them both to the nurse's office, and Cindy waited outside while the nurse looked at Bob's face. The recess bell rang, and Cindy heard noise in the halls as the kids went back to class. Bob came out and didn't look at Cindy as Mrs. Robwotham took him to class. Cindy told the nurse she was feeling better. The nurse gave her a pill anyway.
Mrs. Rowbotham was taking Cindy back to her class when Cindy looked at her and said: “That kid who was bugging Bob has a brother in eighth grade.”
Mrs. Robwotham looked at her really quickly, but she didn't say or do anything stupid. She just smiled. “I'll make sure that everything is okay. Don't worry.”
“Thank you,” said Cindy, and looked away. They didn't speak any more.
In class the other kids were looking at her and looking at Bob and whispering and giggling. They thought there was something between them. Cindy didn't care but felt sorry for Bob.
Nothing happened for the rest of that day. Cindy's parents didn't say anything important. She didn't ask them about the words the third-grader had said because she thought it wasn't the right time.
The next day Bob wasn't in class. The kids who had been whispering and giggling were quiet. One girl asked Cindy if she was okay. Cindy said “Yeah” and they didn't talk any more.
When she was lined up for the school bus a girl from fourth grade came up to her. “Hi, are you Cyn?”
“Yeah.”
“You know Colin?”
“No.”
“He's the guy who beat on you yesterday. They sent him to a different school.”
Cindy frowned. “Why?”
“Because eight other guys would have killed him. No guy beats on a girl and gets away with it.”
Cindy said nothing. She wondered if Bob were in a different school too because of her.
“I'm Anne,” said the big girl. “If you want to talk about anything just find me. Okay?”
“Thanks,” said Cindy. “See ya.” She looked away and didn't see when Anne left. The school bush came and she got on and rode it home.
Cindy wanted to talk to her mother that evening but didn't know what to say, so she thought about it. She was still thinking about it after she went to bed. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
by Mickey Kocic
One
It started for Cindy Poillon in 1968, when she was five years old. She had started Kindergarten a few days before. At recess in the yard, she saw a boy from her class off in the distance, looking scared. Facing him was a third grader who kept cuffing him on the head.
Cindy walked toward them. When she was five feet away, she stopped. Neither boy looked like they'd seen her. Cindy's classmate was normal size for a boy in Kindergarten. The third-grader was about Cindy's height and maybe a bit heavier. “Stop bugging him,” she said.
The third-grader turned his face to her and looked like he wanted to laugh. “fresia off, *****,” he said. Then he turned back to the smaller boy.
Cindy didn't understand what the third-grader had said. She'd have to ask her parents what the words meant. But this was a bad time for that. She stepped between the boys, put one palm on the third-grader's chest and stepped on one of his feet with one of hers. She gave him a light push on the chest and took her foot off his foot at the same time. He went back three steps and landed on his butt.
Cindy heard her classmate gasp behind her. The boy hadn't seen what she'd done with her foot, just a light push on the third-grader's chest. But the third grader was getting to his feet and charging her with his head down. Cindy waited and then stepped out of the way. She saw her classmate just standing there, staring, so she grabbed his upper arm with both hands and pulled him out of the way too. The third-grader went flying past, and one of his hands grazed her classmate's cheek. The boy cried out and Cindy saw a nasty scrape, probably from fingernails.
The third-grader had gone about eight feet before landing on his face. Cindy looked around and saw that some other kids in the yard didn't look like they had seen anything, since they just kept playing. But other kids were standing still and staring at them.
The third grader got up and was walking slowly toward them. He looked like he'd totally forgotten about Cindy's classmate. As he got closer, Cindy saw that his face was purple and really stuck out. She had never seen a face like that.
The third-grader got to Cindy and took a big round swing. Cindy put up her arms so her forearms were at a right angle, and his forearm hit hers so the punch didn't land. It hurt but made less trouble than the punch would have if it had landed. He tried with the other arm and Cindy just moved her arms over and did the same thing. Then he tried to kick her and Cindy put her hands together and put her arms down so his shin hit her hands. That really hurt but Cindy knew it wouldn't hurt forever and she'd be okay. It was a lot better than getting kicked.
The third-grader stopped and just stared at Cindy. His eyes were almost closed. She had never seen eyes like that, either.
“If you keep trying to hit me I can keep stopping you,” she told him.
He didn't say anything, and then: “You've got a dick, you ******* lezzie.” He turned and started walking away. Then he turned and spoke again: “You goddamned bulldyke.” Then he turned and kept walking. Cindy didn't understand those things, either. She'd have to ask her parents what they meant too.
Her classmate was just standing there. She reached up and touched the scrape on his cheek, and he winced.
“You have to go to the nurse,” she said.
The boy's eyes went wide. “I can't let the grownups find out! People will kill me!”
Cindy was pretty sure Miss Thomson, the yard teacher, had seen everything, but didn't argue with him. “We can tell Miss Thomson you tripped and fell.”
His face relaxed. “Okay.”
“Come on. I'll go with you.” And they started walking toward where the teacher stood with her hand bell by the wall.
Pretty much every other kid saw them walking together, and Cindy noticed lots of people talking. She didn't care.
“What's your name?” said the boy as they walked.
“My mom calls me Cyn. It's for Cynthia.”
“My name's Bob. For Robert. Don't tell anybody I said that.”
“Okay.”
They didn't say anything for a moment.
“That guy has a brother in eighth grade,” said Bob. “What if his brother's mad?”
“He's not gonna bug you,” said Cindy.
“Is he gonna bug you?”
“Nah,” said Cindy. But she didn't know if he would, and that would be trouble. An eighth-grader could beat her to death.
They were quiet again, and then Bob said: “For a girl you're really nice.”
Cindy thought that was funny but just smiled a little bit. “Thanks.”
When they got to the teacher, it was Cindy who told her that Bob had slipped and scraped his face on the ground. She lied that she had an upset stomach and asked to see the nurse too. So another teacher took them both to the nurse's office, and Cindy waited outside while the nurse looked at Bob's face. The recess bell rang, and Cindy heard noise in the halls as the kids went back to class. Bob came out and didn't look at Cindy as Mrs. Robwotham took him to class. Cindy told the nurse she was feeling better. The nurse gave her a pill anyway.
Mrs. Rowbotham was taking Cindy back to her class when Cindy looked at her and said: “That kid who was bugging Bob has a brother in eighth grade.”
Mrs. Robwotham looked at her really quickly, but she didn't say or do anything stupid. She just smiled. “I'll make sure that everything is okay. Don't worry.”
“Thank you,” said Cindy, and looked away. They didn't speak any more.
In class the other kids were looking at her and looking at Bob and whispering and giggling. They thought there was something between them. Cindy didn't care but felt sorry for Bob.
Nothing happened for the rest of that day. Cindy's parents didn't say anything important. She didn't ask them about the words the third-grader had said because she thought it wasn't the right time.
The next day Bob wasn't in class. The kids who had been whispering and giggling were quiet. One girl asked Cindy if she was okay. Cindy said “Yeah” and they didn't talk any more.
When she was lined up for the school bus a girl from fourth grade came up to her. “Hi, are you Cyn?”
“Yeah.”
“You know Colin?”
“No.”
“He's the guy who beat on you yesterday. They sent him to a different school.”
Cindy frowned. “Why?”
“Because eight other guys would have killed him. No guy beats on a girl and gets away with it.”
Cindy said nothing. She wondered if Bob were in a different school too because of her.
“I'm Anne,” said the big girl. “If you want to talk about anything just find me. Okay?”
“Thanks,” said Cindy. “See ya.” She looked away and didn't see when Anne left. The school bush came and she got on and rode it home.
Cindy wanted to talk to her mother that evening but didn't know what to say, so she thought about it. She was still thinking about it after she went to bed. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
