My voice shrunk back into my throat. My face grew hot and my cheeks twitched with embarrassment, releasing the corners of my mouth from their smile. I dropped my eyes to her shiny red clogs, unsure how to carry myself, suddenly feeling awkward in my body. 

I had wondered what it would feel like to let my voice be loud and confident; to assert dominance without apology. Now I knew, and I never wanted to feel it again. 

Moments before and a lifetime ago, the teacher with the red clogs had opened the recess door and dozens of little feet had scurried out onto the blacktop. Every day, rain or shine, we would all race for the king square on the four square grid, which the boys usually secured because they were willing to shove their way to the front of the line and press themselves up against the door before it opened. 

“Old school. No cherry bombs,” the king would announce, bouncing the ball once before pushing it into an adjacent square to start the game. Nobody knew how to play any other version besides old school, but announcing it was half the fun of being king. 

The game always started gently with a few civilized passes, then someone would decide to draw the first blood and send the ball skidding through someone else’s square. Within a couple rounds, you had a good sense who was allied with who, and who had a target on their back. The girls were always allied by default, but alliances with the boys depended on how confident they were feeling on that particular day. The cockiest boys would never ally with a girl. The smart ones would build a silent trust with the girls they knew had the power to turn every other girl against him. We all knew, though, that in the precious moments when the rally gained momentum and the ball bounced rhythmically from hand to pavement and the tension grew in a silent crescendo, it didn’t matter who you were or how many alliances you had. In those moments, everyone was a predator and everyone was prey. 

            I got a spot second in the queue, and watched as the first two victims were knocked to the back of the line. Occupying the king square was the smug little leader of the boy pack who took his title much too literally. His minions held the squares below him, prepared to purify the court of threats to their alliance. There was nothing I hated more than a tyrannical fourth grader, and every cell in my body wished to dethrone him. 

            The joker square was waiting for me. I hopped inside the spray-painted box, dancing on my toes, feeling the tingle of adrenaline in my fingertips. With my feet in the grid, everything seemed more alive. My brain felt faster. My vision sharper. My center of gravity lower. 

            The play began. Thump, ping-thump, ping-thump… The ball flowed between squares rhythmically. Then the cadence changed, and a rocket of a shot flew towards my square. It ricocheted off my foot and into the grass. “Shoe shine! Redo!” we exclaimed collectively. I bounced up and down in place. I wanted to show them that I could hold my ground; that I was just as good as any of them when I wasn’t outnumbered 3:1. 

As the ball was returned faithfully to the king, I let my voice rise in a demonstration of the power I felt I possessed. “I’m gonna beat you,” I chanted, looking up through my eyebrows. “Huh!” I added in a deep voice, copying the end of a cheer my soccer team shouted before each game. 

The competition was unphased. Behind me, however, I heard a scolding voice aimed at my back. “Hey!” I whipped around. The teacher with the red clogs looked at me with her forehead scrunched over her eyes. Her head shook slowly back and forth as she took a step towards me. “We don't do that.” Her voice was firm but gentle and reeked with disappointment. She cocked her head to the side and softened her eyes, as if to say, I thought you were better than this. I wished she had said more. I wished she had told me who “we” were and where the line was between do and don’t. I wished she had said enough to make me hate her so I could believe she was wrong. But she didn’t, because she knew how easily a “good girl” could be shamed.