A second grader at our school had a couple of wild days. Thursday she got exasperated with a boy in her class, who up until then was her “boyfriend.” Apparently she didn’t want to even hear his voice after she told him they were “breaking up.” When he protested, she hit him. Telling her side of the story after she got in trouble, she put her hand on her hip and waved her hand through the air dismissively, like a miniature scorned woman, “I told him not to talk to me.”
Friday I was with her for an hour. For awhile she was fine, doing some work. Then she got bored. So of course, she wanted to go to the restroom. The classroom has its own small bathroom, and she made a big production number out of dancing over to it, trying to get all attention focused on her. She did some pretty impressive dance moves, laughing at her own cleverness. She closed the bathroom door, and whatever else may have been going on in there, she started singing. She was belting out Christmas ballads in a deep, gravelly voice like a torch singer in a smoky nightclub.
Too old too soon.
That hand on the hip. That laugh. That voice. They will haunt me.