When I was in elementary school I used to sit next to a girl named Margret. Margret had a problem with her nose, it wasn’t that it was a huge forty year old nose on a ten year old face. The problem with Margret’s nose was that it produced too much mucus, way too much mucus for one person to make. Sometimes she would run the back of her hand across her nostrils to wipe it clean, but most times she would simply use her finger to clean it. She was a nose picker, picking her nose all day long. Once, I picked my nose in class and the teacher made me go wash my hands immediately, but she never said anything to Margret about her nose picking. I guess it was either because she knew that if Margret didn’t pick her nose then her nose would fill with mucus and she would drown on her own boogers. How does a teacher explain to a parent that their kid drowned on their own mucus? I think that the real reason she never said anything to Margret was the fact that Margret was a giant girl who was so mean and tough that the teacher was afraid to tell her anything for fear that she would get beat up by a booger spewing ten year old.

Margret would push her finger so far up her nose that I think at times she would actually touch her brain. I would try to avoid looking at her, but every once In a while I would look over at her and she would be in her little booger world with her finger up his nose, when she saw me looking at her she would slowly pull her finger out. On the end of her finger would be a long slimly booger that would go on forever. I’m sure that if someone were to measure it, it would be some sort of world record. If she saw me looking at her she would one of three things. One thing she would do was swing his finger and the booger would wrap around her finger like tetherball would wrap around the pole when we were on recess. The other thing she would do was stick it under her chair. I would hate to look under her chair because I knew that if I did I would see stalactites of dried boogers under there. The third and most gross of all was that she would eat them.

No one really liked to play with Margret, mostly because she was so mean, but also because her hands were always boogery (I made that word up). The only time anyone really played with her was when we had to, like during PE. I remember one day in PE we had to play baseball and since she was the biggest, meanest kid in the class she was the pitcher and boy could she pitch. She could throw that ball by you and make you look like a little girl trying to hit a fastball.

Although Margret and I sat next to each other we really didn’t like each other. I didn’t like the fact that she was a booger-face and she didn’t like the fact that I called her a “booger-face,” so when she threw the baseball and hit me right on my eye I had a feeling that it was not quite the accident she claimed it was.

I remember standing at home plate waiting for her to pitch the ball and thinking that I wasn’t going to let her strike me out. The first ball came hard and fast. I swung at it with all the strength that was in my ten year old body.

“Strike!” yelled the coach from behind me.

“what do you mean strike?” I asked as I gave him my are you blind look.

“It came over the plate and you swung at it. It’s a strike.” The coach gave me the ‘I’m the authority figure and if I say it’s a strike then it’s a strike’ look.

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe, something I’d seen one of the professional baseball players do in a game once. I’m sure it didn’t look as cool when I did it as when the pro player did it, but I was a kid – what did I know about being cool?

I got ready for the next pitch and while I still thinking about getting ready the ball flew by me.

“Strike two!” the coach yelled.

“What?” I turned to him. “I didn’t even swing at the ball. How could it be a strike?”

“The ball came right down the center over home plate. It was a good ball and you didn’t swing so it’s a strike. Keep your eye on the ball next time”

I looked at Margret and I was determined not to let her strike me out. I stood there concentrating like I had never concentrated in my life. I wasn’t going to let that booger-face strike me out in front of the whole class. I watched as she pulled her arm back and then threw the ball. I could see the ball coming right at me, getting bigger as it got closer, then I heard the sound of the bat hitting the ball and then something strange happened. Everything went dark and all I could see was a lot of colored sparks shooting in all directions like a firework show on the Fourth of July. It was as the pain ran through me and I fell to the ground that I realized the sound I heard earlier was not the sound of the bat hitting the ball, but it was the sound of my face hitting the ball.

Everyone ran toward me and I thought I heard the coach say, “that’s not what I meant when I said keep your eye on the ball.” I think he laughed a little bit, but I’m not sure that he did or if it was just my imagination.

They took me to the nurses office and put some sort of bag with cold, blue gel on my eye. The nurse asked me to name some of the letters on the eye chart. I laid in the nurses office for most of the day. I don’t know if I was lucky or if I just had a hard head because I didn’t get a huge black eye or anything that would make me look cool. I just had a small bruise over my eye that hurt every time I poked it.

“Hey,” The creepy voice made my blood run cold. I looked toward the doorway and standing there larger than life was booger-face Margret. At first I thought she had come to finish the job and kill me. My mom was going to be so mad because she asked me to take the trash to the curb that morning and I'd forgotten - now I'd never take the trash out because I'd been killed by a booger-face girl - oh man, was my mom going to be mad. ”Mrs. Bostwick  told me to come and say I was sorry.” She ran the back of her hand across her nose wiping away a stream of mucus. She than added, "even if I'm not" and she stuck her tongue out at me.

“I’m okay.” I said. “I hardly even felt it.” I rolled my eyes back in my head and instantly regreted it because it hurt. "Besides," I said,"you throw like a girl."

“Yeah,” she said. “whatever.” I didn’t like the way she said that, but I didn’t say anything else to her, because I wasn't ready to die yet - I still had to take the trash out at home. “Well, I’ll see ya later shortstuff.”

“I’m not short!” I yelled after her.  She would pay for this…I began to plot my revenge

…but, that’s another story.