We were ten. I liked to read at recess in the shady turret of the tallest slide. The others were busy chasing each other around the field, I could be alone there - most of the time.

She had come again. The shadow of her head fell on the pages my nose was buried in, and I looked up at that half-cocked grin I had learned to associate with misery.

She began her taunting tirade with the basics: loser, nerd, freak. Nothing original, but enough to set me on edge. Then the harsher attacks. Friendless. Worthless. A waste. Better off dead. I tried to keep from crying, to convince myself that I didn’t believe her, but I did. I had heard it all before.

I stood, the book still dangling from my fingers. Sensing my need to flee, she sidestepped and blocked the slide. I fixed my gaze on hers. Her grin widened. I wanted to slap it off her face.

“What’ch gonna do, huh?” she said softly, her voice a menacing whisper. She stepped closer to me, taller. “Huh?” Her breath deepened, and her fingers flexed. I froze. My gaze wavered. She jerked and I flinched, shriveling inside. “That’s right, nothin’,” she spat, “‘cause you are nothin’. Just like your mom.”

I saw red. The book connected with her lower jaw and I dropped it, my palm cramping. The blow knocked her back a step. She bared her teeth like a rabid animal about to charge. Without hesitation I leaned sideways, lifted my foot, and slammed it into her stomach, hard. She backpedaled, one step, two. Her third step fell on air over the slide.

Time slowed down. Her grin disappeared, her pupils shrank to pinpoints as her eyes opened in ovals, big as eggs. Her hands grasped for an imaginary handhold, fingers stretched out in slow-motion like tentacles, and I stared uncomprehending for a moment. In that second I imagined her on the ground, bruised and bloodied, lip busted open, her arm shattered in seventeen places.

Suddenly I saw myself in her fearful eyes. I had been her, once, my own mother’s unrecognizable face burning down on me as I teetered at the top of the stair. It had taken months for that arm to heal. The trust never did.

I lunged, and time resumed. I caught three of her fingers with my left hand, clamped my right down on her wrist. I buried my feet in the floor and pulled, leg muscles screaming with effort. At last, she toppled on top of me. She pushed off, kicked me in my side, and left.

We would never be friends, she and I, but we had a new understanding. We had seen our own demons in each other’s eyes. I was hurt and shaken but had never been more proud. I had finally stood up for myself. And I had shown mercy. I was not like my mother. I would break the cycle.