This is My Message to You

Yellow

YELLOW

My hometown is pretty small: It didn't take long for everyone to learn that Connor Kjellan and Riley McMahon were both the best of friends and worst of enemies. It was just as likely to hear us screaming at each other as it was to hear us laughing. I'm sure our entire block hated us for the ruckus we caused, playing soccer and racing our bikes in the street, pressing our handprints in every block of new cement, picking the neighbors' flowers to use in our games.

Our teachers knew early on to keep us separate. Boys had cooties in elementary school, anyway, so while I still played in the backyard with Connor at home, at school I didn't like to associate with him. He wrestled with and tackled the other boys in our grade and got sent to the principal's office and earned himself the rep as the wildest kid around.

Somehow the teachers still loved him, though. No matter how many times they had to pull him aside to talk to him or how many tears he caused, he never got in enough trouble to really make an impression on him. At the time I thought it was completely unfair. Now I realize that his blue, blue eyes were a powerful factor even back then.

Whenever Connor had to stay inside during lunchtime recess because of his bad behavior, I made sure to walk past the window and stick my tongue out at him when his supervisor wasn't looking. He always made funny faces back at me, totally unperturbed by his punishment, just counting down the seconds until he could get back on the soccer field.

I only joined him one time.

Despite the common knowledge that Connor and I fought like cats and dogs, our forced separation in most classes actually had a good effect on me (plus my parents would have killed me if I got in as much trouble as he did, unlike his). Since I didn't have his charm factor, I gained my teachers' approval by being a good student and always answering questions. Sure, Connor made fun of me for being a know-it-all, but at least I got to play outside at recess.

But one time in third grade, he made me so angry in class that my good reputation, so carefully built over the previous three years, almost flew out the window. I don't even remember what he did initially – probably one of his usual stupid attempts to annoy me, like throwing spitballs at me or making fun of my soccer team – but I know that it was free time and we stood in the reading corner shouting at each other.

Our teacher came over and told us to quiet down, informing us that she was changing our colors. To Connor, this was an almost daily occurrence. To me, this was one of the most horrifying things I could hear. Color codes were a big deal in grade school. A green card signified good behavior, while bad behavior could get you switched to a yellow card or even a red card. I'd never had anything but green.

You'd think I would have shut up when my color was changed to yellow, but no. As good a student as I tried to be, that kind of compliance just wasn't my personality – it still isn't. When one thing goes to shit, I dive in head-first and bring everything else along with it.

Stuffed animals may have been thrown. I may have knocked Connor into a bookcase. He may have yelled some words at me that he shouldn't have known.

Needless to say, my color code went a bit past yellow that day.

And I found myself inside for lunchtime recess.

"No talking, please," said the supervisor the moment Connor opened his mouth as we sat inside watching the other kids play. Of course, that didn't deter him; he just waited until she wasn't paying attention and then inched closer to me to whisper in my ear.

"My mom can take us to the park after school, the one with the good soccer nets."

I had been doing my best to ignore him, determined to give him the silent treatment for at least a week, but damn, he really knew how to sway me, even at eight years old.

"My mom gave me two brownies in my lunch," he added. "I didn't eat them yet."

What's a girl supposed to say to that?

"You have to be goalie first," I whispered back, my arms still crossed tightly across my chest. After all, he'd caused me my first yellow color change.

"...Deal."

We shook pinkies (boys still had cooties, even if we shared brownies). That afternoon we played soccer in the park with the beautiful new nets on freshly mown grass until the sun started to set. And I made sure to nail him with at least one of my shots.

You know. Just because.