Fourth Grade

“I know more Chinese poems than you do!” George sung at the top of his lungs in his high, shrill voice.

“Yeah? Try me!” I challenged, always eager for competition.

We recited poems, one after the other, until I was too tired and too embarrassed to continue. People were beginning to stare at us from the other side of the playground.

“Hey, come on! I know you know more,” he taunted.

“Shhh, I don’t want to play anymore, okay?” I snapped back, running to the trees that surrounded the playground, jumping to pluck off the honeysuckles. He looked a bit hurt, but I didn’t care. He had so much foreign pride; it wasn’t healthy.

When the teacher called us back into the classroom, I skipped ahead, eager to sit away from George. I began sniffling and wiped my nose, when I realized that my nose was bleeding.

George jumped up and raised his hand.

“I’ll take her to the clinic!” he offered excitedly.

I groaned, but I followed him outside.

“Here, hold your head up like this,” he commanded, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling. “It helps the blood flow go back. Make sure the tissue paper’s in there tight. My dad told me all about this,” he said proudly.

He was right; my nose stopped bleeding before we even got to the clinic.

Maybe being Chinese had its advantages after all.