I remember it clearly, my first act of premeditated rebellion.

I was in the fourth grade, and at that time I had not yet found myself in a situation that required revolting. I was going about my day at school as any nine year old would, floating through my class, eating lunch, and playing with my friends at recess.

I enjoyed all types of schoolyard games, like tag, soccer, and tetherball, but the mother of all recess tournaments went down on the handball court. My friends and I had made a good name for ourselves on the court, but today I was to show everyone that I was the best handball player in all of the fourth grade. Today, there was a handball tournament.

Highly anticipating the match, I made my way over to the court after lunch. The hot black asphalt burned the bottoms of my feet through my thin rubber shoes, but I did not mind. A soft breeze lifted my hair from my face as the sun warmed my shorts and t-shirt clad self. It was the perfect day for handball. I was ready.

I arrived at the handball court and stood in line for my chance at a one on one game versus the previous winner. I was waiting next to my friend Brian, who greeted me by stepping lightly on my shoe.

“Hey!” I said as he scrunched my purple Vans. I proceeded to kick him in the shins.

Now, I know that sounds super aggressive, but it was not at all. Brian and I had been friends since Pre K, and we had developed our own silly games in the years of knowing each other. One of these games was where we would kick each other in the shins, and since we were just waiting for our turn at the handball tournament, I figured we could pass the time by playing.

I laughed as I continued to give small but mighty kicks to Brian’s skinny legs.

“Ow!” He joked. He let me have a few more goes at him as payback for stepping on my shoe. Just as he was about to start kicking back, a yard lady came up to us.

“Hey!” She said to me. I never knew any of the yard ladies’ names. They all had big sunglasses and pink lipstick and straw hats. “What are you kicking him for?”

Before I could open my mouth to explain myself, the yard lady began shaking her head.

“You’re going to hurt him! You can’t play rough like that.”

I thought this assessment of the situation was stupid. Yes, Brian was skinny, and yes, I was strong, but he and I were about the same height. No way I could hurt him.

The yard lady did not seem to care that Brian and I were similar in stature. She told me to go sit down on the bench for the rest of recess. Being the law abiding fourth grader that I was, I listened and reluctantly made my way over to the bench. I heard Brian snicker behind me.

I sat down on the lonesome plastic bench next to a girl with short brown hair and glasses. The plastic of the bench was jagged and poked into my small legs. The hot sun beat down on me and seemed to melt the tan paint from the bench onto my skin. All the way across the yard, I watched a handball game.

“They don’t come back,” said the girl next to me.

“What?” I replied.

“The yard ladies... they don’t come back. They won’t check if you stay here.”

My wheels started turning. “So they won’t know if I leave?”

“Did they write your name down?” the girl countered.

I thought back. Not one yard lady had asked for my name.

I grinned at the girl and slowly peeled my legs off the sticky, hot bench.

I was going to be the handball champion, the queen of the court, the envy the fourth grade- and no one could stop me.

I don’t remember the outcome of my game. I don’t think I ended up winning, but I sure had not lost. I had just rebelled against the yard ladies, the authorities. Screw queen of the court, I was the queen of that whole dang school. I was a rebel.