We were just children on the playground. I was a tall and chunky girl, and you were even taller and so much more graceful. What grade were we in? I swear it was the third grade; it couldn’t have been anything more. I was on the swings as you pushed me, and as the bell was called and I dug my feet into the ground to walk inside with the rest of the class. I heard you walk up behind me, and you said my name. I turned. You asked me to come to your house for the weekend, to spend the night.
That Saturday, I went to your house. I remember all so clearly. I sat on the floor, and you brushed my hair. “Can I tell you a secret?” you asked, and I looked up, and nodded. It didn’t take you long to kneel beside me on the ground and bend over, cupping your hand around my ear: “I think I like girls like I should like boys.”