wine and cheap perfume

You are in gym class. You are ten years old. You are a fiercely competitive, highly skilled dodgeball player. You play as if your life depended on it, three times a week, for twenty minute intervals. You do so in ill-fitting navy blue gym shorts with your school’s acronym, “U.N.I.S.", stamped across your right thigh.
Next month it will be badminton. The P.E. teacher, Deborah, likes to mix things up. The game has just come to a close. Your team won. Now it’s time to stretch. You are quite flexible; you bend down and press your palms on the gym floor. You lunge to the left; then to the right. You sit down. It’s time to touch your toes in this position. Laura, the classmate sitting to your left, is Swedish. She hasn’t lived in New York for long and her English is poor. She is the class outcast. Not because she is Swedish (after all, you attend an international school), but because she doesn’t listen to Technotronic or Paula Abdul, wears barrettes with farm animals on them, and has a habit of trying to speak colloquially and failing.
“Oh my GODS!” she shrieks.
You continue stretching. You don’t realize that her comment was directed at you.
“What is WRONG of your KNEE?” she squeals.
You turn your sweaty head towards her to see what she’s squealing about. You see her index finger pointing towards your leg. You look down.
“Oh my GOD!” you shout. You have never seen anything like it. One of your knees is knobby, beige, and about the size of a tangerine. The other is swollen, red, and about the size of an NCAA basketball.
“What is WRONG with my KNEE?” You shout.
“That is the WAY gross!” she exclaims.
You glare at her. “Shut up. You don’t even speak English."
A small crowd has clustered around you. They are silent, eyes wide, drinking in the monstrosity that is your knee. Truck-shaped Deborah jogs over, flat-top smooth and still, whistle flapping against her large, low-slung breasts.
“Alright, alright. Settle down. What’s going on here?”
“Look at this KNEE!” squeaks the Swede.
Deborah leans in, concerned. You bury your face in your hands. You feel like a leper. You want to disappear. You hear people laughing.
“Baby, do you feel okay? Does your knee hurt?” Deborah is worried.
“Yes. No. I mean, I’m okay,” you whisper.
“Baby, let’s get you to the nurse’s office. Your knee needs to be checked out. Can you walk on it?”
For some reason, this question infuriates you. “Yes I can WALK on it!” you answer. “I just played DODGEBALL for TWENTY MINUTES!” You are trying not to cry. You are embarrassed.
“Hey now. Don’t raise your voice. Come with me.” You stand up and pull a poly-cotton wedgie out of your butt. You watch people watch you walk, as if you’ve suddenly morphed into an alien. You walk just fine, thank you. Laura is angry. She knows she has already re-assumed her position of class outcast. Your swollen knee in no way rivals the social crime that is her goat-shaped hair-clip, or her shameful misuse of early 90’s sayings like “Cowabunga, dude.”
Your classmates quickly lose interest. There is no dramatic spectacle. No laborious baby steps, no theatrical wincing. You watch them file into the locker room, not understanding why this has happened to you.