My name is Arthur Bell. I’m five years old and don’t go to school yet. That comes after this summer. My address sounds like a nursery rhyme a little; at least that’s what I think when I say it to myself or out loud. “14-29 Canterbury Road.” I like the way it has a little beat. Anyway, I have a few friends in the neighborhood. But there’s one my parents don’t like, and one who’s mean to me. It’s funny that they live next door to each other, just down the street.
The one my parents don’t like is Freddy Fallon. He likes to play with me and he’s real friendly and shows me his toys, his scooter, stuff like that. He talks slow, and he makes funny movements with his fingers all the time in the middle of sentences. I don’t know why, he just does.
Once he invited me into his house for some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we made them ourselves. It was so much fun I went home and made some peanut butter and jelly myself. My mom asked me how I learned to do that, and I said, “Freddie Fallon!” She looked unhappy and asked about what I was doing with him, so I told her.
“Ben!” she yelled, calling for my father.
Then both of them bent down and explained that since I was only five, and Freddie was 15, it wasn’t good for me to play with him. “He just seems like he’s your age because…” They didn’t explain, but I got the feeling there was something wrong with him. But I still liked him.
The other friend was Jeffrey Zedner. I knew it was okay to play with him because he was five, too. I’d been to his house for his birthday party, except my mother got the date wrong and I showed up at his door, dressed up holding my birthday present, and his Mom said, “Oh, no, it’s next Saturday.” I walked home sad.
Jeffrey and I played outside together, but one day he hit me in the face, hard, for no reason. I looked at him for a minute, and I think I started crying but it hurt so much I couldn’t tell if I was crying or just feeling the stinging. Jeffrey laughed and I just went home and didn’t tell my Mom about it.
The next day, Jeffrey hit me again. I ran away. When I got home my mom asked me what was wrong.
“Jeffrey Zedner socked me. Twice.”
“We’ll discuss this with your father.” Was I in trouble?
My father came home from work and took me into the den. We sat down and he said, “When someone hits you first, it’s okay to hit them back.” Then he showed me how to box. It was fun, boxing with my dad. He didn’t really hit me and he showed me the right way to make a fist. You don’t put your thumb next to your pointer finger like I was doing, you wrap it around so it covers your middle finger. “You can hit better that way,” my dad said. He knew a lot about this and I was glad he taught me.
The next day was Saturday. I remember because my parents were both home. After breakfast, I looked out the window and there was Jeffrey Zedner. “Mom--I’m going out. Jeffrey’s there.”
I walked up to Jeffrey and he didn’t even say hi. He just hit me in the face. This time I knew what to do. I made a fist, pulled my arm back, and hit him as hard as I could. He started crying and just stood there. I backed up from him and just watched. There was some blood coming from his eye. I turned around and went into my house and Jeffrey just stood there and cried. “Mom, Dad, Jeffrey hit me again.
“Oh, no.”
“Did you hit him back?” my father asked.
“I sure did. Hard.”
“Great, that’ll teach him.”
“Yeah-- he’s crying!”
“I hope you didn’t hit him too hard,” my father said. “He’s probably crying because he’s surprised.” My father looked at me to see what I thought.
“Well, he’s bleeding.”
“Bleeding? A lot?”
“No, just a little.”
“His lip? His nose?”
“Nope. His eye!”
“HIS EYE?!” they said at the same time. Then my mother said we’d better go outside and see what’s going on.
We took Jeffrey to his house and my dad talked to his dad. I got the feeling something had gone wrong but I wasn’t sure. My dad and I walked home and he wasn’t mad. Just quiet.