What Doesn’t Kill the Cat

I still remember the names of some of my classmates from when I was in the first grade: Murtaza, the red-faced Iranian kid who loved jumping around and yelling the moment there was no teacher in the room; Naveed, a quiet boy who could already sketch better than I ever will; Colin, a plump kid who was always trying to make his dad sound much cooler than I knew he actually was; Manoj, who was every teacher’s favorite because his dad worked at the school; and Asif Christopher, who was Naveed’s cousin. I only remember Asif’s last name because it was the same as my dad’s first name, which I remember thinking was odd.

One day Asif asked me if I wanted to fight. I don’t think I knew what a fight was yet but it sounded interesting so I agreed. The next thing I knew, he had kicked me hard in the knee and I feel to the ground in pain. I must have looked so distraught that he concluded the fight was over. I think he actually felt bad about kicking me because he went out of his way to be kind to me afterwards.

I don’t think anybody asked me if I wanted to fight again until high school.