I'd just tried a new wrestling move on you, saying, "Don't worry, I won't hurt you." Your newly shaved head squeezed between my legs, I jumped then landed. The key—Glen next door had told me—was to make sure I didn't bend my knees when I landed.

I bent my legs.

Your face smashed into my carpet. Blood escaped your nose and, instinctively, I yelled, "Don't get any on the carpet!"

My mom would kill me.

"Fuck you," you said, then ran out of my house.

I deserved to be punched by you. Twice probably. You weren't really violent though. You didn't like wrestling as much as I did. You were always the last to jump into a pile-on when we played "Smear the Queer" at school, and it was always half-hearted, as if you didn't have the same desire to harm as the rest of us.

You didn't punch me though. You broke into my Hotmail somehow—you were better at computers—and deleted all my emails. I called you and asked why.

"Maybe you shouldn't have hit me!" you yelled.

"I had emails from my dad in there," I said. "That's the only way I get to talk to him..."

Then you hung up, leaving me to stare at your faint bloodstains on the carpet through blurred eyes.

- MJ