, 
, We-Write #9image from https://www.pexels.com/
"A first sentence is all it takes to get the story going. Just start writing and see where it goes," suggested Mrs. Mowry as she handed out the composition notebooks. Some of her students eagerly grasped them, while others reluctantly dropped it on their desk. With a shuffle they each pulled out their pencil cases, although Charlie already had his half-chewed pencil in hand.
The classroom was especially cheerfully decorated, from the colored pin boards hanging on the walls to the beanbags in the reading corner. Even the chairs the children sat on were varying shades of blue. Some of the students were shifting in them, mostly out of anxiety or excitement.
"Mrs. Mowry, do we need to write in pencil?" asked one of the younger girls, Alicia. Her utensils of choice were falling out of their case in a myriad of colors.
"So long as I can read it you can use whatever you want." The teacher smiled as the girl excitedly picked up a bright blue pen, and then a green one. "But I do recommend one color at a time."
Charlie was continuing to chew on his pencil… He felt a little jealous and even stupefied, casting a helpless look at the rest of the class and seeing everybody writing away. The first sentence that was supposed to be really easy and natural according to Mrs. Mowry, kept on slipping away like the ice on the skating ring under the foot of a novice skater. It’s not that Charlie had nothing to say. He just couldn’t produce those rosy pleasantries like, no doubt, the teacher’s pet Alicia would write.
Actually, his writing stupor was because of her. That is not because of her per se, but because of what she did or rather because… Charlie couldn’t quite formulate in his mind what was that tangle of thoughts and frustrations that stopped him from writing the infamous first sentence.
On the brake, before they went to the class, Charlie was looking in the window at the treetops that swung on the wind behind the winnows when, suddenly, he felt a blow to his right shoulder that made him rock forward. Charlie instantly turned around. His body tensed preparing to respond to the perpetrator by whatever actions that were appropriate to the situation. He swung his right hand in preparation but stopped his movement in the midst of it as he realized that the initiator of the blow was Alicia.
“Why did you hit me?” Charlie screamed.
“Because I can,” Her cute face that usually carried almost pious expression during class meets was now naughty and even a bit contemptuous. She was absolutely calm and composed as if doing her shores “…and you can’t hit me back, coz you’re boy and boys can’t hit a girl back, mmmmm” the last sound corresponded to her sticking her tongue at Charlie, taunting him.
Charlie knew that she was right. He knew this to his very core and on his own would never have risen his hand in the direction of a girl. He knew this because his mom has always told him: “You don’t pick on girls.”
“But ma…, what if she…”
“…under no circumstances” she interrupted him, “…none, you got that? None!”
And when Charlie turned his head away from mom and looked at his dad, looking for the support his dad confirmed mom’s assurance with the wink and a smile “suck it up, man, suck it up.”
Mrs. Mowry has always said the same thing.
“If I ever I see a boy bothering a girl…” she looked around the classroom sternly, “we don’t accept this type of behavior here, we say NO to any kind of aggression!”
Charlie understood that and was in a complete agreement with his mom and Mrs. Mowry.
But he DIDN’T do anything! He was not bothering Alicia! He was minding his own business looking at the trees. And yet, she punched him from behind like, like….here he mentally said such a bad word the meaning of which he didn’t even understand but knew that it was a bad one that older boys said under similar circumstances.
Charlie felt hurt. Not from pain. Alicia didn’t punch hard. He could have taken a much harder punch and not cry. But from the realization of his helplessness. What made him mad was her assurance in her impunity. If he’d reciprocated in this situation he’d be the guilty one. He’d be called a bully and be taken to the principal, where he’d be shamed and screamed at. But if he wouldn’t and someone would see how she punched him and he’d just suck it up, he’d be a laughing stock. “Girl beat you up, Charlie, huh?”
Sure, a boy shouldn’t hit a girl. He shouldn’t initiate anything. That was fair. Ok, he shouldn’t reciprocate if she did it by accident or if she's mad or something. That was ok with Charlie. But what can he do if despite assurances of his mom and Mrs. Mowry that Alicia was the one who initiated the violence? If she was the bully, that special kind of bully, who can enjoy complete impunity? How’s that was fair?
Thus, Charlie sat and looked at a blank piece of paper. A treacherous tear fell from his eyes on it. Charlie sniffed, whipped it from his eyes, smeared it on the paper and quickly looked around to make sure no one has seen his shameful tear.
“You didn’t write anything Charlie? How come?” Mrs. Mowry mounted above him looking at the blank page. “Come on, Charlie, don’t space out! A first sentence is all it takes to get the story going.” She smiled approvingly and tapped him on the shoulder.
