There is a certain guilty fascination in the way a teacher's ruler could flash down and strike a desk, and the heavy eyes would snap open as quickly as the CRACK! would reach the ears. Her head would pop up, and the Jack-In- The-Box would look up at Mrs. Beliveau in a disoriented fear and start crying. The rest of us, once the teacher severed the cord of attention that was tied to the unfortunate girl, would find something incredibly interesting about the letters of the alphabet that surrounded the blackboard.

"You must pay attention in my class, little girl! There will be no falling asleep, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" The eight-year old focus of her wrath could do nothing except nod weakly.

Mrs. Beliveau spun around and strode up to the head of the classroom. She still held the ruler in her right hand, a sword with which she could threaten us into obeying.

She placed the ruler gently on her desk, picked up a piece of chalk, and began to write gibberish on the board.

Quietly, a murmur went through the crowd, and they whispered this:

Little Miss Goodnight, Little Miss Goooooodnight...

Wake up...

It was not until I was old enough to hear about Vietnam that I was able to draw a comparison with what I knew as recess. It did not really matter what the weather was outside; two feet of snow or two hundred puddles, bullies can always find something creative to do to your face. It was always the smaller kids, the kids who were too smart, or too loud, or too weird-looking. I was all of the above. I was the fastest runner in grade school, and with good reason; if six kids with the collective intelligence of a brick wall and the size to match come running up to you yelling, "Hey, meat! Ever tasted yellow snow?!?", feet must fly. As a result, many of those recesses were spent in a blur. Faces smeared by, voices came and went and came again, and there were no hands stretched out to help. There were plenty around after they caught you and the red on the snow matched the red of your blazer, but during the chase, in a playground with a hundred other kids, you're all alone.

But even through all of this, there were some who got teased and yet somehow avoided the pain and terror of constant physical persecution. And it was always someone like me, someone who couldn't afford to stand to one side and just watch, who would notice this. Little Miss Goodnight would always be in the same place every day, in the corner closest to the side doors, her eyes closed, her body resting against the cold brick, and you could swear that you could see the wall stealing the heat away. A small, weary girl that seemed to find more comfort in the red-bricked wall than on the playground. But the bell would ring, and as I would race to the doors, hoping that there wouldn't be a late blow, I would usually see a teacher shake her awake and pull her to her feet.

Little Miss Goodnight she was, and her name was well-earned.

But for a while she would become my friend, as such things happen among eight-year olds.

There was a day, a day that whispered flurries and shouted snow, and I had managed to avoid the Nazis for several minutes. Still, you had to keep moving, or else they'd find you frozen to the spot. And so I was walking up to the side doors, shivering slightly, and Little Miss Goodnight was sleeping in her usual spot. As I came up to her, she startled me by opening the shutters to her eyes and looked at me. I stared back, and she seemed so much older than me, and I wondered whether you grew older while you slept, and the more you slept, the older you got. Her mouth opened, and the most frightening words came out.

"They're waiting for you around the corner."

Her eyes closed, and she went back to sleep.

My jaw was still somewhere around my ankles, and I had to reel it in. I could do nothing but believe; was my mind imagining shadows over there by the corner? I looked back at the enigmatic form against the wall, but there were no clues, no answers. But I had to know, if only to satisfy my curious mind. Inevitability is a beast that knows no slumber.

The usual protocol is simple: avoid the bullies at all costs. That's the smart thing.

So I ran right past the corner and I never saw them, but I heard them well enough, and their cries of surprise and dismay only spurred me on.

Somehow the days became steadily colder, until the teachers would no longer stand outside, but waited just inside the doors for the recess bell to ring, cigarette smoke obscuring their warm faces. We were left to freeze to death, little popsicles of kaleidoscopic colours littering the drifting playground snowscape, hoping desperately that we will melt. Little Miss Goodnight started coming out with a large blanket, and every time I ran by, she seemed like a tent with a head poking out. I was keeping warm; not staying in place for more than thirty seconds will do that. The funny thing was that my main nemesis, Shane, was smaller than I was. But, like all great dictators and villains, he surrounded himself with a rat-pack of big, dumb enforcers. They would prowl around, terrorizing children with the promises of pain that echoed all around the playground, and rumour had it that fun was something only kids at other schools were allowed to have.

The day had gone by well up to that point; it seemed that the shadowy fists had other things on their mind, and so I walked aimlessly around the playground, dreaming, looking at the other kids and dreaming that I had friends I could play with, friends that I could talk with, laugh with, be seen with. They seemed so far away, behind a sheet of glass, as if they were unreachable; if I tried to touch one of them they would scream in disgust and fear and shatter like an icicle bashed over some poor kid's head. There was Little Miss Goodnight in the corner, and I thought about moving closer, to see if she was actually sleeping. The hand grabbed my shoulder

"Hey, meat! Where ya been?"

and yanked me to the icy ground. When my head hit, it made a brittle cracking sound. My swimming eyes threatened to freeze up, but I could still see beyond the frost, and Shane was grinning like he'd only just now discovered his true calling in life.

"Oh, did you fall? Gotta watch that ice, meat!" Shane laughed, and stuck out his hand. His gang formed a ring around my prone body. "Here, I'll help you up." Still groggy, I reached up and took his hand. He pulled up a bit... and then let go.

My head hit the ice again, and this time I had to fight desperately to stay in the game.

"Sorry 'bout that; hands are so damn cold, you know?" The gang laughed as one and I felt several quick kicks to the body. I curled up into a ball, waiting for the next blow

(the sweet whistling sound of a snowball hurtling through the air)

and blinked as Shane's head snapped forward, white stuff exploding outwards. Everyone stood in shock as the bully yelped in pain. Once again, instinct was still playing with a full deck, and so I took the chance that the gods saw fit to give me.

I got up and ran.

"GET HIM!!!"

I looked back and was heartened to see that rage often fosters stupidity; they were all running after me, instead of splitting up and going the other way round the school. Children scattered as the human bullet flew past them, the undertow pulling the battering rams close behind. Running, running, and the feet that flashed beneath me seemed not to touch the ground, but there was no time for wonder, only running, running, until the heart within stabbed and stabbed at my strength, but fear kept the race going. My mind dimly registered several snowballs falling weakly to my left and right, and as I rounded a corner, I snuck a peek at my watch.

10:19.

Eleven minutes until recess was over.

I had time to let a dismayed oof! go as I slipped on some ice and kissed the ground. I slid several feet, only to stop in front of a little girl with a blanket for a tent and stars for eyes. A moment of hesitation passed; a moment filled with days and weeks of cautious conversation and hopeful smiles. Then she waved me under the blanket, and I scrambled to safety. Trying to hold in my panting breath, we listened as the brute squad came rushing around the corner and past us, screaming and yelling. There were likely several kids who had seen where I had hidden, but there has always been an unspoken code of honour among the persecuted. Besides, no one wants undue attention.

The chaotic noise slowly faded, and I wondered how long it would be until somebody used what little brain matter they had and found me.

"You're welcome." The voice was quiet and kind.

I flushed, and stammered, "Thanks." Silence for several seconds, and then I couldn't stand it.

"It's dark under here."

I thought I saw a smile. "But it's warm."

Nodding, I felt several aches and pains in my body, and realized that the position I was in was not a comfortable one. I shifted, huddling my body next to hers, and tried not to allow any tears get through. Thoughts of the previous few minutes played in front of my mind. That snowball...

"Did you see who threw that snowball? If Shane catches him..." I peeked out while saying his name, scared for a moment that by simply uttering his name, he would magically appear.

He did not.

"I did."

"Really? Who was it? You weren't too far away."

She smiled again, and I was confused for a moment. "No, no," she whispered secretly. "I threw the snowball."

My eyes widened, and I peeked out again. Nothing out there, but there was something in here, oh yes, something wonderful.

"Gee, uh, thanks again. I... thanks a lot." My whole body shuddered with excitement as I realized that I had found my first friend. "You must be a good shot," I said in amazement.

"Lucky." Suddenly it was getting really hot underneath this blanket, and I looked at my watch.

10:27.

"I better go. Don't want them to find me here." Don't want them to find me here with you, I thought. Can't let them hurt you, too. She grabbed my arm, and for a second I thought her eyes were those of a hunted animal.

"Are you fast enough?"

I smiled nervously. "Yeah, I'm fast enough."

She slumped back against the wall. I barely heard her mutter, "I wish I was." Indecision held me frozen for a few seconds, but then I heard the rumble of the brute squad coming back, and that decided me.

Something more had to be said, but I couldn't think at all. My mouth opened, then closed, and I left. She didn't look up, and I didn't look back.

I ran to beat the devil.

She continued her habit of sleeping in class and sleeping at recess. I continued my habit of hiding in class and hiding at recess. I didn't want to endanger her by being with her, but at the same time I wished fervently that I lived in a place where bullies were punished with the death penalty and I could walk and talk wherever I wanted, and I could sit beside Little Miss Goodnight and sleep along with her. I thought about the summer with a renewed hope; instead of biking along trails and playing by myself in the backyard sandbox, I would have someone else to play with. But summer seemed so far away, months, years, decades away, and the bitter cold clawed at my nose and the tips of my fingers and pulled me down.

I came to class on a rather warm, sunny Friday morning, hoping that some of the snow and ice would melt away so that I could watch the runoff water make Mississippi rivers down the hills and roadways, and I could make dams and the water and I would stage great battles. I noticed that Little Miss Goodnight was not in her seat, and I thought that finally she had slept in late enough to miss the bus. I was surprised that such a thing hadn't happened before, but I shrugged and daydreamed about the Pine Street hill, and how the dirty water would follow the jagged edge of the asphalt, digging rivulets in the sand.

"Children, can I have your attention, please?"

Mrs. Beliveau stood at the head of the class, her face a curious mask that I had seen many times before on other adults, something I eventually learned was a total denial of emotion.

"I have sad news, children. One of your classmates, Angela DuChamps, passed away in her sleep last night."

Who was Angela DuChamps? Suddenly my body felt extremely heavy; I knew who she was. Mrs. Beliveau was still talking, but I only wanted to sleep, as if that would help.

"This afternoon, our class will visit Angela in the funeral parlour, and then attend mass at three."

Sleep, please can I sleep, all I want is to sleep, let the blanket come over me and caress me, the eyelids heavy with sand, the limbs heavy with sadness, the mind heavy with resignation.

With my eyes used to the brightness of the day, the funeral parlour was incredibly dim. We filed in one by one, and for a wonder there was no shoving, no banter, no line jockeying. All the children understood the requirement of respect in such a place, because herein lies death. The room that Angela DuChamps, formerly Little Miss Goodnight, laid in was a long, narrow affair, with bright flowers flanking her coffin, denying the sadness. A red carpet led up to the small coffin, and each child walked up to the coffin, looked in, and then left the room. To the right was a priest, softl y chanting, and to the left was Mrs. Beliveau, her eyes shimmering. Eventually, it was my turn, and I walked alone, each step, my feet were flesh, then lead. I could hear the priest, and the coffin was a few feet away. I did not ask for this, I don't want to see her

(and yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death)

I don't want her to be dead, death happens to people on television, people in Africa, people in wars, old people

(I will fear no evil)

old people die, kids don't die.

I stepped up to the altar, and I looked at the sacrifice. Her eyes were closed, her hair combed neatly on both sides, wearing a lovely summer dress that would have been perfect for a sunny day, a solemn smile touching the serenity of her face that glowed brightly in the dim. She was asleep, and any minute now, she would open her eyes and look at me and ask me if I was fast enough, and I would say yes I am, and she would turn away sadly and wish she was, but this time I would not run, I would stay with her and talk with her and protect her and show her wonders that have never been imagined, wonders that only children can dream about, and I would tell her about the little rivers that the melting snow carves in the soft mud, and we would go together and push sand here and there, and she is sleeping, can't you see that, she is only sleeping, and I wanted so much to reach over and grab her and shake her and wake her up so she could prove to everyone that this was all a mistake, she is only sleeping, she always sleeps, that's why they call her Little Miss Goodnight...

I closed my eyes in the hopes that when I opened them, we would be huddling together under a blanket that was a tent, and we would sleep and dream together about flying and running and rolling and laughing, and the sun would shine, the snow would melt, and I could say to her, you are fast enough, and she would giggle and say I know, I know, the world would fall away and all that would be left are soft, playful clouds.

My eyes opened, and she was still there. Yet she was not... Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. A tear rolled down and rested on her forehead. Goodnight, I whispered, and hoped she heard me. The room swirled around me, the twisted face of Mrs. Beliveau thrust itself at me, quietly screaming, and I felt a strong push away from the coffin. I stumbled along, the room stretching out before me, but I could not look back. It was over, she was over, and the stares of the other kids followed me as I crashed into the brightness of the outside, and I fell against a snowbank, crying.

My bruises from the previous day were already beginning to heal, but that day, I knew that there were some bruises that were destined never to heal.

And I am thankful.