ASSIGNMENTS:
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B. Davin
Mt. Clemens, Michigan USA
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REPORTS:
PREVIOUS NEXT
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I started the sixth grade three weeks after my father died in a school where I knew absolutely no one. I thought I might make friends with a boy named Lymon who wrote all of his assignments on yellow, loose-leaf paper which he transported in binder-less, crumpled up wads in his backpack. Lymon didn't seem to desire anyone's friendship. One afternoon, during a gym class game of flag football, Lymon scratched a shallow, inch-long cut into my right forearm near my wrist. It probably would've healed without leaving a scar, but I picked at the scab every day, trying to make it worse. Once it had had time to heal and I had a scar to show off, I approached Lymon during a lunch period and explained to him what he had done to me-how he had given me this permanent markÑthinking that this would somehow segue into us becoming fast friends. Lymon wasn't interested. He changed schools shortly thereafter. This was fourteen years ago.
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