A Kindergarten Camaraderie

Emily LaLiberte

There was always a considerable amount of tedium in my life when I spent my days at kindergarten, which was five days out of seven of the week. Time seemed to loop itself around the clock hands slowly, as if to make a statement as I would sit alone, organizing a Barbie Dream House or making “potions” out of anything I could lay my fingers upon; whether it be glue, finger paints, or rocks. If my little opening scene from Macbeth didn’t make the other children want to become friends with me, then my abnormal hair color was certainly a turn off. Due to my Dutch lineage I, unfortunately, carried with me a pale complexion, consisted of paper white skin and creamy egg-shell tufts that sat upon my head. In addition to this, I had a strong, aggressive will for fighting whenever someone decided to jeer at my ashen attributes. This surprisingly happened a lot and I tended to get teased mercilessly for looking like a blank sheet of paper.

I flipped children off swings, threw woodchips and tantrums, and had refused to conform to the teacher’s not so polite requests, landing me in a rough spot for making friends and my parents pleased. They, my multiple teachers, had tried to swerve my behaviors from experimenting with periods of sweets prohibition to limiting my time in craft time, which was absolute blasphemy in the eyes of a child; craft time being worshipped like it was by many of the ankle-biters.

And in a miniscule act of rebellion, I flung my shoes off my feet and pranced about the playground, rain hitting my bare ties and pooling down past them to form ant lakes under my feet. My pink, tattered backpack bounced on my shoulders as I dashed about, my feet trying to meet up with where my mind had free range. My eyes danced about the large expanse of playground equipment as my feet encountered the rough tarmac below me. My stormy eyes settled on the sandy head of a fellow kindergartener who appeared good-natured, his oversized khaki shorts and his smitten look had given me that impression. He also struck me as the sort who preferred to be alone, giving me an advantage, since he was not in a group where I could stick out like a sore thumb. I trotted over to where he sat in a clubhouse, gazing over the land much like a feline spectating the lay of its home. He must have seen me coming over to meet him, for he had a confused look in his eyes that was then replaced by a small, innocent smirk.

I dashed up the ladder, my sugar high from this morning’s chocolate pancakes getting the better of me. The blonde seemed a bit perturbed by my actions, but decided to let it go as his voice rang out to greet

me. “Hello,” he uttered, unsurely but stood strong in his tracks. “Want to play together?” he queried, putting the multiple sand toys he was playing with aside to accommodate for me. I complied, nodding my head and grasped at the star-shaped sand mold and made myself comfortable in the space set aside for me. The oaken jungle gym creaked as I perched myself in my spot. I had the sudden terrible thought that the wooden contraption might fall out from under us; however, I kept this to myself, not wanting to scare off my new companion.

“I was baking a cake,” he exclaimed, showing me the gelatinous much inside of a baby blue pail. At this age, children generally accepted that anything can be considered food if you have enough pixie dust and some imagination. If you pretend it could be food, even mud in a “Curious George” bucket could be a delicious pastry. I nodded yet again and added a maple leaf to the goop. He smiled softly, enjoying my company on that dreary day. He then pointed in the direction of my backpack. “I like your bag,” he remarked, shaking his head up and down slightly to show his appreciation of my rugged sack that ripped at the seams.

“Thank you,” I uttered quietly, remembering my manners. “So, what’s your name?” I questioned, emptying my bag of its remnants; a woven blanket with a satin lining, bearing Piglet from Winnie the Pooh, a tin of star shaped candies (so much for candy prohibition), and a Barbie themed makeup set full of lip gloss and nail polish. I tied the blanket around my neck, wearing it like a cape as I began to take the items from my makeup case.

“Casey,” he said proudly, as if his name was something earned. “What about you?”

“Emily,” I mouthed plainly, shaking the small bottle of nail polish in my fleshy hands. Casey gazed down to the nail polish in my hand with a wondering glance and then replied with a simple:

“That’s nice,” with an award winning smile. There was a silence that range through the air and I used to my advantage, grabbing one of his honey-colored hands in a sudden motion. Only the rain on the pavement was audible. The blonde let out a startled breath, not expecting my next move. The dramatic scene unfolded slowly between us, especially for poor Casey.

“W-what are you doing?” he questioned as I brought the brush with hot pink liquid to his fingertips. He flinched when the brush met his fingernail and the cold polish overflowed onto his hands because of my own unsteady, inexperienced hands. He persisted “What are you-

I cut him off. “Be quiet,” I mumbled, focusing on my handiwork. The nauseating smell of the polish made me cringe and I covered my mouth with the crook of my arm. I then brought out of my kit a miniature zebra print nail file and brought them to the tips of Casey’s tiny fingers, doing what I had seen my mother do on countless occasions when speaking with relatives over the telephone or reading one of her fashion magazines. I then put a clear lacquer on the hot pink finger nails, while the pink liquid oozed out of the tipped over container onto the wooden planks of the play house. I then examined my masterpiece of paint smeared fingers and a disturbed profile; my work here was complete.

“There,” I cheered, wiping the excess polish from my fingers onto the hem of my denim dress stitched with a poppy and wildflower print.

“You look beautiful now.” I giggled as I observed the sandy haired boy investigate the polish that adorned his nails. I cast Casey a warning glance, ceasing my chortling, and spoke solemnly the way only a four year old could “Don’t you smudge them,” Casey then took his pinky finger and wrapped it around mine in an act of sealing our pact.

“I pinky swear I won’t,” He piped up, a bit worried of my reaction. A moment of silence passed then came the question that still binds us to this very day.

“Do you want to be my friend?” he asked, gazing at me with large and curious brown puppy eyes. I shook my head excitedly, gaining a smile from him.

“Sure,” I muttered cheerily. And with that, we spent the rest of our time making pretend pastries, exploring for adventure in immaterial, and forming an unbreakable bond, which, I might add, still lives up to this day. As for myself, I can say now that I’m very grateful for bringing my makeup kit to kindergarten that day.