Cinnamon Bun

Standing 5’6’’ in sixth grade, the muscular girl with a dirty blonde ponytail was a giant. Large reddish freckles covered her face and arms. They seemed even more vivid against the bright red uniform polos and navy blue shorts we wore everyday. She had thick long legs and arms that ended in slender fingers with strong milk-white nails. Like a spider, she would pick a new prey each day from those already tangled in her web of reach, having been trained well by three older brothers with equally arachnid personalities.

“You’re nothing; just like ash in the wind!” she chided a quiet brunette named Ashley daily. “Ashley is ashy; Ashley is ashy.”

“Well then you’re just like tar, Tara,” Ashley said as we stood in line once. Only once.

Tara stomped her leg like planting a sturdy tree trunk. “It is incredible that you actually are the stupidest person I have ever met!”

At our lunch table that day, Ashley walked over to sit in one of the green plastic chairs down the table from Tara and the boys. Tara used her long-legged advantage to kick the chair out from under her and Ashley smashed to the floor. She screeched. Laughter echoed through the cafeteria.

The worst of Tara’s bullying happened during snack or lunch time when the teacher’s attention was elsewhere. During snack, our class was allowed to eat or just take the air outside on a square cement patio lined with wooden benches. The grounds of our school were covered with gigantic oaks trees that had massive, moss-covered branches and trunks so thick they must have been hundreds of years old.

The oaks cast shade over the patio; making it pleasantly cool. I often brought a book to enjoy during snack time while I ate the slice of banana bread my mom had packed for me. There was a microwave in the lounge just inside from the patio that we were allowed to use. I did use it whenever I opened my red lunch box to the pleasant surprise of a cinnamon bun.

One sunny September morning my cinnamon bun was rotating in the yellow glow of the microwave. I leaned back against a table in the lounge, reading a book. The deep smell of wet coffee grounds seeped from the trashcan, lulling me into my story. Tall Tara banged open the door to the lounge. She skipped across the room, stopped just inches to my left, and pulled the scrunchie out of my ponytail.

I whined. “Why do you have to be so mean to everyone all the time?”

“Because it’s fun!” She jumped in front of me, popped open the microwave, and tossed my beloved cinnamon bun frosting-first into the trash can. Turning on her heel, she pranced merrily out of the room to leave me seething and hungry.

After a few minutes, my hunger won out and I took the mini-pizza out of my lunchbox to heat. Watching the seconds tick, tick on the microwave gave way to my fury. I popped open the microwave, grabbed the pizza, bolted out to the patio, found Tara, and shoved my mini-pizza right in her face. Of course, I got in trouble; had to write a letter home telling my mother what I’d done.

She dropped the letter on the kitchen counter. “You still haven’t eaten, have you?” she said, and went to the microwave to heat a cinnamon bun.