Dude, I really hope your technique's improved between then and now

Did you have that phase in elementary school where you faked being sick a lot so you didn't have to go? (I realize it's not so much a "phase" for some people, but I was an overachiever; I knew it couldn't last that long without going on the dreaded Permanent Record.) I had this phase when I was eight. It was not because I didn't like my teacher, Mrs. Schumacher; I liked her fine. No, it was because Justin wouldn't stop kicking me in the back during Library.

Justin was a little twerp who clearly was lacking in social skills, and when I was eight I thought he had been placed on earth and in my second-grade class solely for the purpose of making my life hell. Fifteen years of distance lets me see that he was in deep like but too socially maladjusted to show me, so he got my attention however he could.

I have a pretty clear memory of Justin's face, which is a relief since I can't remember his last name for the life of me. He was tall for his age, had medium-to-olive skin, brown eyes, and that weird color of hair that's lost somewhere between brown and grey. Besides being of indeterminate color, his hair looked like it had been cut by a Cuisinart, and random bits of it stuck up in odd directions. (He was only about 10 years ahead of his time with that cut; a classmate of mine in college had it all four years.) Justin wore a jean jacket every day, usually over some sort of ratty T-shirt. I suspect that his family wasn't particularly well-off.

Justin made me cry pretty frequently for a period of about two months, during which I blew my chances at a perfect attendance award. One time I was actually sick, seeing as I threw up on the front steps of the school (I don't remember if my mom, who had just come to get me and was escorting me to the car, went back inside and told them to clean it up. If not, gross.), but the other three or four times I had a mild malaise that was mostly a nervous knot in my stomach from not knowing what new torment was going to be visited on me next. The library lumbar kicking happened on at least two occasions I can think of, and I know he landed a hard punch on my upper arm in the coat room once, besides the usual verbal set-downs and so forth. I wasn't as tough then as I am now. I wish I'd hauled off and socked him across the kisser instead of pretending to be nauseated and calling my mom.

I don't remember telling my parents anything about this problem, although I know I had a couple of girlfriends who were aware and would sit beside me in library to keep an eye on it. I just didn't really have anything concrete to tell my paretns. Other than the fact that he hated me, I didn't know anything about Justin. And come Valentine's Day, I found out I didn't even know as much as I thought I did, as he sent me a black Transformers Valentine signed "Love, Justin" in crooked print. I puzzled over it for days. Then I put it in a box and didn't think about it again until I was 24.

Eventually Justin stopped trying to puncture my kidneys through my skin and actually started being nice to me, and we became decent friends. I never went over to his house, but we did play tag and four-square during recess, and I stopped thinking that his hair looked quite so frightening. On reflection, I find this whole relationship extremely hilarious, since it's an inverse of a pattern that happens to me ALL THE TIME. Like a guy, torment him, eventually become friends with him by some weird twist of fate that's entirely out of my control.

Okay, I'm probably not tormenting them. Intentionally.