A skull-crushing scream brought me out of my reverie, and my jaw reflexively dropped open as I staggered backwards. Within seconds, I found myself trapped in a prison of multicolored legs, my ears filled with a cacophony of moans, "tsk-tsks," and angry scoldings. Confused, I looked left and right for a viable escape route. Finding none, I sank to the ground in defeat. Switching to survival mode, I passively focused on the red-tipped finger moving inches from my nose. To me Sarah was exotic. With a lone dimple poised near the left corner of her mouth, the softest, most bouncy of a wiggly brown hair, and chocolate brown eyes to match, she looked like an exquisitely drawn children's book character magically come to life. Of French and Turkish descent, Sarah was truly exotic by the white bread standards of my southern hometown. I was a nuisance to Sarah. Younger, prone to "disruptive" mischief, and still struggling to climb the left slope of some developmental bell curves, I had nothing to offer a girl as elegant and perfect as Sarah. Kenny, though. Handsome, precocious and possessed of more than ample self-confidence, Kenny was a force. How I longed, in my simple two-year-old way, to be as strong and cool and funny as Kenny. Unfortunately this was not the case. My pathetic fate was to serve as Kenny's favorite prop to demonstrate his fortitude to Sarah. Sweet and gentle Maeve was the fourth leg of our figurative table. A white-haired blonde with glasses, pigeon toes, seemingly muscleless legs, and a flat stomach, Maeve was kind to everyone and friends with no one, which, even then, I perceived as a more unfortunate fate than my own. . In the nursery hierarchy, Maeve and I were the servants. We were the servants, the p......middle of paper......the only weapon I had at my disposal: my teeth. The warm, slightly sweet meat was incredibly soft and I was transfixed. If it hadn't been for the suddenness of my victim's deafening protest, I now fear I might have drawn blood, not fully aware of how deep my incisors had sunk. Noise. Tears. Red nails. Mom's legs everywhere. The immediate consequences of my crime are a confusion of rapid impressions. But I remember with crystal clarity what happened the next day and the days that followed. That bite earned me the respect of my kindergarten peers. Do I regret biting Sarah? As a relatively civilized and conscientious person, hurting others is not a means of retaliation that I typically resort to. Yes, I am, and I'm sorry. But the aftermath of the accident has given me a simple philosophy to live by in situations where I feel belittled or unfairly accused: Be fierce..