An elementary school playground after lunch is so much more than just a measly forty-five minutes of free time. Recess is the way the world, the way the cosmos, works. Everywhere something is happening and in some places everything is happening. Recess is absolute chaos.



Here I am, seven years old; I am on the swing set. The line for the swings is long, longer than the line for four square. There are only three swings on the swing set, all are occupied by me and my friends. We are supposed to jump off the swings, into the air, and back down, hands first, to the ground. We should have jumped by now; we are not planning on it. We’d much rather sit lazily, twisting at the chains, twirling around, talking to one another. We are sure that we are the coolest kids ever.



The boy next in line, his name is Ivan Dimitrov, has been waiting to swing on the swings for fifteen minutes. Neither my friends, nor I are going to get off the swings. He has been making loud sighs and eye rolls for a while now. He just doesn’t get that we are not going to get off the swings. This is our spot. This is what we do every recess.



The playground is all about hierarchy. My friends and I clog up the swing sets, the boys play soccer on the muddy field – they’ll definitely have to change from their outdoor to indoor shoes when we go back inside, the weirdies pretend they’re cowboys and ride on sticks behind the jungle gym, nobody plays on the jungle gym, the fourth graders play four square, and everyone else just walks around. I guess there is always that one kid who sits on the bench who is crying because he got hit by a ball or something and now his eyes are all red and his mouth and nose covered with snot and in between gasps of air he will start biting on his t-shirt collar, so by the end of recess there is this big wet mark where his mouth was. That kid is typically Ivan D.



One time Ivan D, Evelyn M, and I had a race to see who the fastest kid in our class was. I was going to win that race, but Ivan started to chase me midway through. Ivan Dimitrov chased me to the edge of the playground, up against the empty tennis courts, and pushed me against the wall. He said something like he was Spiderman and I was Mary Jane and then he tried to kiss me. I screamed and kicked him in the crotch.



Ivan is tired of waiting for us and ran off to go get the teacher. My friends and I all look at each other. They jump off of the swings and start running. I am about to when the back of my collar is snatched by someone with long fingernails. I know who that person is. My face gets all splotchy and hot. My eyes sort of start to burn and my tongue feels all swollen in my mouth.



“Oo-why are yooou being mean to Ivan, JULIA ?” my stomach grows small.



That person is Ms. Villy. She is the second grade assistant teacher. I do not like her. She does not like that I write in cursive. We haven’t learned that yet, here in BOOL-gah-REE-YA, but that is the only way I know how to write. That is what I was taught in Mexico. She doesn’t care. Behind her back, we all call her a bird. She has that kind of nose.



I splutter something stupid and apologise to Ivan. The whole time Ms. Villy is glaring at me with her eyes black and cold, behind her Ivan Dimitrov is smiling like the ass he is. I really hate Ivan .



Ms. Villy doesn’t think I am being sincere. She makes me get off the swing, so Ivan Dimitrov can play on it. I am crying now. I hate this. Ivan sucks. Ms. Villy sucks. I hate them. This isn't fair.