We had almost this much fun.
In second grade, one of the educational activities was playing kick-the-can with an actual tin coffee can. Now, I've never been athletically inclined, so I'm half-running rather aimlessly and occasionally waving my foot in the direction of the scuffle (to make it look like I was participating, see) in the midst of a bunch of rambunctious kids hyped up on taffy, trying to hit their feet against a hard metal object with sharp edges. Great idea, right, Parent-Faculty Association?
So I'm shuffling around, growing a bit excited as the can comes close. I make my move to kick the can and proceed to trip on my mother's long skirt. I fall flat on my face as the can-kicking continues around me. As I lift my head to get up from the ground, Brent Rayford kicks the can right into my forehead.
Did it hurt? A little. But the shocker came once I stood up: I felt sweat pouring down my face, so I go to wipe it with my hand, but it's not sweat -- it's blood. I faint.
I wake up in the nurse's office. They've called my dad and are having him come get me. He takes me to the hospital, where I get three stitches. Dad doesn't think I should go back to school, but I want to -- to show everyone how tough I am and how they are all pansies for switching from a can to a soccer ball as soon as I was injured and also to receive the apology I knew Brent Rayford would give.
That apology never came. We spent six more years at that school together before parting ways, and although we were on civil terms, I still have not forgiven Brent Rayford. If I ever see him again, I'll show him my small scar and then punch him in the face.