Mean girls.

Watching my children play and interact with other children naturally makes me think of my own childhood. Recently the Count has been overly polite with his friends.
“Would you please like to play with me please? That would be really great if you would play with me, please.”
“Oh, thank you, I would love to share that car with you. Its beautiful. Thank you. Thank you.”
I’m not kidding. He has said these things.
And while I would love to ask my mother if I went through a similar phase of playground niceities, I can save myself the long distance call and just let everyone know now that I was a raging, evil, horrible, mean girl bitch.
No, really.
I wish I were kidding. I wish I could tell you that I was nice. And if you were to ask anyone I grew up with if I was nice, they might break into a cold sweat and, out of fear, tell you “Oh, yeah…her? She was nice. Supernice. Really supernice. She didn’t bug you, did she? You’re sure you’re not wearing a wire??”
Ok, ok, so maybe I wasn’t that bad. But there is one instance, in particular, that I can clearly remember that makes me think on my good days you could call me Nelly Olsen. And on the bad days, well…
Now, all I ask is that you remember I was a very, very young girl. And, at the time, I had no idea how bad this particular situation really was. And when I look back, I am horrified.

I grew up across the street from my Aunt. She had two daughters. Her youngest daughter, lets call her Maggie, was a real tomboy. Still is, as a matter of fact. This is only important to note because Maggie was the kind of girl who would take her dirt bike to the top of the tallest slide at the park and try and go down with “no hands.” She would leap off the top of her two story house into a pile of leaves. She would tie ropes from tree branches and climb up and down all day long. She would also lay a piece of cardboard in the driveway, smear it with baby powder, put on some parachute pants and breakdance…but that’s another story. She also got on top of a table at my wedding and swallowed a goldfish..but that’s another story too.
Maggie and I were playing in my Aunt’s backyard one afternoon when a girl (our age) from down the street came to join us. Kelly. Poor, poor, poor Kelly.
We didn’t like Kelly. We called her Kelly Smelly. And for the record, she eats her belly with jam and jelly, or so we said over and over and over and over again.
My Aunt had a HUGE apple tree in the backyard. That same tree also housed Maggie’s treehouse. My Aunt had told us in no uncertain terms that we could not begin playing until all the apples that feel from the tree were collected and thrown into a garbage can. So, in that begrudging way kids do, we began to pick up the apples. Until Kelly Smelly showed up, that is.
Upon Kelly’s arrival Maggie and I scurried up into the tree house.
“Hi! Can I come up and play with you guys?” Said poor, poor Kelly.
“Sure!” said Maggie and I, giggling amongst eachother.
“You can come up…but you have to pick up all the apples first.”
Kelly Smelly, always trying to fit in to the already close cousin crowd, agreed.
As she picked up every single apple in that yard and threw it into the green, plastic, trash can…Maggie and I played in the tree house.
After Kelly Smelly finished she began to climb the ladder. Maggie and I huddled.
Giggled.
Giggled some more.
And in a move that would eventually haunt me forever, we pushed Kelly off the ladder once she reached the top.
She lay screaming on the ground. And, at first, we giggled some more.
Then we realized she was hurt. Uh-Oh. Bad. And instead of any sense of nurture or love kicking in, fear kicked in for both Maggie and I.
We were going to be in trouble. BIG trouble.
We panicked. And with our hearts pounding the only thing we could think to do was get Kelly Smelly home. But we had to get her home without anyone knowing it was us that did the damage.
So we picked her up, she screaming with a broken leg, and we put her in the garbage can with the apples. It had wheels. We wheeled her the 4 or 5 houses down the block, rang her doorbell, and ran.
We left Kelly there, in a trash can, on her front porch, for her mother to find.
Of course Kelly told her mother everything. And of course as soon as they got back from the hospital, cast and all, her mother came marching down to my Aunt’s house.
Maggie and I heard that knock on the door and knew we were doomed.
We could hear the muffled adult voices at the door. We could hear my Aunt call my mother over from across the street. We could hear my Aunt and mother’s footsteps coming down the hall.
This was it. My life as a 7-8-year-old girl was over.
The door opened, we were accused of our crimes and then…then…
I denied everything.
Maggie denied everything.
Our mothers, never really liking Kelly Smelly’s mother, as I found out much later, believed every word we said.
We never got in trouble.
We never served our time.
And it wasn’t until a Christmas not too long ago that Maggie and I fessed up.
Both my Aunt and mother told us how they fought Kelly Smelly’s mother on the matter,
“If our girls say they didn’t do it…they didn’t do it!!!!”
I spent years trying to catch Kelly Smelly’s eye in my elementary school hallway. And my middle school hallway. And my high school hallway. I was always nice. I always said hello.
Can’t really blame her for never really giving me a heartfelt “Hi there” back.
I hear Kelly Smelly is a cop now. If she ever pulls me over, I totally expect to have drugs and murder weapons planted in my trunk. And to be jailed forever on trumped up charges. So if you read about me, you know, in prison, know I didn’t really do whatever crime I was sentenced for…but for another…

*editor’s note: when I first told this story to the Kaiser many years ago, he didn’t realize the trash can had wheels. And he was under the impression Maggie and I rolled a girl with a broken leg, sideways in the can…tumbling over and over like clothes in a dryer.