I confessed to the accident, and opened the door in surrender. I thought for a moment maybe she’d stick my nose in it, the way my own mother used to stick our dog’s nose in his pee when he pissed where he wasn’t supposed to. But she took the carpet from beneath me and handed me a pair of Kenny’s old shorts to wear for the rest of our playdate, my very own scarlet letter so that all could bear witness to my shame.

That evening, I left Kenny’s house in those shame shorts, carrying my own clothes in a plastic bag, with my head held high, just as Hester walked with her letter before me.

•  •  •

I couldn’t help but think that I somehow deserved what happened.

Earlier that day, my schoolmates and I were eating lunch in our classroom. The gymnasium we’d normally eat in was closed for the assembly, so we were eating at our desks instead, which felt intoxicating, like we were doing something forbidden. Everybody was already hopped up on assembly energy, but now we were especially animated, fidgeting in our seats, screaming across the room, tossing bits of food when the teacher turned her back.

Austin was the boy who sat behind me, a huge lug of a kid, nearly twice as tall as the rest of us and almost twice as thick. If this were a fairy tale, Austin would be the ogre child we’d all run from when he emerged from his swamp. And I’d feel bad about that comparison, but Austin was kind of an asshole, one of those boys who was friendly only until someone better came along, so I treated him with similar respect.

We were drinking from our cartons of milk, those tiny paper boxes that are nearly impossible to open, made of that kind of thin cardboard that gets immediately soggy after the first few sips. Austin was halfway through a long sip when I turned around and made a funny face—my repertoire of humor in first grade was limited to gurgling noises, knock-knock jokes, and funny faces—and he choked back a mouthful of spittle and milk with a furious scowl.

“Don’t!” he screamed with genuine anger. “These are my nice pants! I can’t ruin them!”

This made me laugh even harder.

Each time he’d pick up his carton, I’d turn around with my fingers halfway up my nose, my cheeks puffed out, and my eyes crossed, and Austin would cry back, “Stop! If I get milk on my pants, my mom’s gonna kill me!”