The bus stop is only two blocks from our red brick ranch house in suburban Detroit. There are about eight kids, most older than me; I am a first grader in 1969.

It is a promising spring day, greenery bursting everywhere, even the ubiquitous lawns singing a viridescent song. I am standing by myself, lunch box swinging. A clump of perfect dandelions sprouts from the base of the stop sign. I stoop to pick them, a pretty bouquet.

         “Aw, lookit, Luise picked dandelions for the teacher,” sneers someone behind me. Holding my little arrangement of posies, I turn to see my classmate Mary Travani leering at me. I notice her fake smile, mean eyes, and rumpled shirt. She lives across the street with her large family, their yard perpetually strewn with bicycles and toys. "Leave me alone Mary!" I quaver. Then, whack! She slaps my face.

The dandelions tumble to the gravel like golden confetti. Her lips curl in glee. She turns her back to me. A tear bubbles in my eye, my cheek throbs. The bus comes into view, trundles toward us, belching exhaust.

         Mary is taller than I am, giving me an ace view of the back of her neck. Grimy. Her pores are filled with dirt. A demarcation line where her mother wiped with a washcloth, not quite far enough, clean on one side, dirty on the other. She steps away, clambers up the big steps. I pause to let the others climb aboard and I understand. My world is squeaky clean, properly clothed, well fed, and kind.