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My fourth grade classmate Davy was something out of the 19th century. I remember him as a boy 1）dandy who once wore an 2）ascot and had a face so pale I’m surprised he didn’t die young from 3）tuberculosis. He had a concave chest， ruddy cheeks and a runny nose， and his voice， deep yet nasal and sing-songy， made me think of poetry when， tomboy that I was， I’d rather be playing 4）kickball.
Maybe that’s why I bullied him.
That sunny afternoon when we were 9 years old， Davy and I were 5）milling around with some other kids during 6）recess， doing nothing much on a concrete stoop near the playground. I don’t know why or whose idea it was， but we told Davy to lie down on the ground， and we took turns walking on him. I knew Davy better than some of the other kids—we’d performed a magic show together on Meet the Teacher night—and I remember taking a few steps and then becoming angry with him. Why wasn’t he fighting us？ We soon let him go and that was the end of that. Davy never said much of anything to me again.
Then， a few weeks later， I realized I was actually angry with myself. I was ashamed， also scared that people would find out. How could I have done such a thing？ What kind of awful， evil person was I？ And what would my parents think if they knew—or my teachers or the principal？ And how would they punish me？ The entire incident only took a few minutes but I found myself thinking about it for what became my very own eternity.
At school I studied the other kids who walked on him with me， but they all seemed fine. Even Davy was the same， except a little quieter. And he never looked me in the eye.
I was walking down the hall one day when I saw some kids trying to knock the books out of Davy’s hands and Davy was snarling back at them with that quavering， oddly 7）melodious voice. I stepped in front of him and told the kids to leave him alone. They did， but Davy didn’t thank me. He just righted his books and went on his way. As I watched his hunched little body 8）skulk its way down the hall， I remember promising myself that， no matter how hard it might be， I would always do my best to stick up for 9）underdogs.
A short time later， our teacher announced that Davy was moving， and I wondered if it was because of me. I hated the thought as much as I hoped this would make everything finally go away. I decided to make up for my behavior； I would say goodbye to Davy and hopefully we’d part as friends. If I could muster enough courage I might even apologize for what I’d done. I went to his house and knocked on the door， terrified. His mother answered. Davy wasn’t home. I thought the whole neighborhood could hear my sigh of relief. I asked her to tell Davy that I wished him luck in his new town. She thanked me for being “such a good friend，” and I just stood there unable， or unwilling， to move. Davy’s mother waited for me to say something else， but I couldn’t. She slowly closed the door.
I ran all the way home， thinking she couldn’t have meant what she said， could she？ What did she know？ Did Davy tell her what I did？ My heart 10）throbbed in my chest. I was sorry I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye， but I was relieved that I didn’t have to face Davy. I ran into my house， went straight to my room and thought that maybe now I could get on with my life.
But then I thought of Davy. What would he think when his mother told him I had stopped by？ What if she told him that she thanked me for being his friend？ I felt sick and wondered if the feeling would ever go away. And then I wondered how Davy would go on with his life， knowing he had laid himself down on a concrete stoop all those years ago， on that sunny afternoon when I was a bully.
我四年级时的同班同学戴维简直就像那些19世纪的古人。我记得他那时系着宽领带，一副花花公子般的模样，脸色苍白，我都惊讶他怎么没因肺结核而夭折早逝。他胸部凹陷，两颊红润，鼻子流涕，嗓音低沉却带着鼻音，像哼着歌儿似的，那让我想起了诗歌，而那时的我“假小子”一个，宁可踢足球去也不舞文弄墨。
可能这就是我欺负他的原因。
那年我们九岁。在那个明媚的下午，我和戴维，还有其他几个小孩在课间到处转悠，在操场旁的水泥梯级上没什么可做。我不知道原因，也不清楚是谁的主意，但我们叫戴维躺到地面上，然后我们一个个轮流踩在他身上。我比其他孩子更了解戴维——我们曾一起在“老师见面之夜”表演过魔术，我记得自己踩了几脚，然后对他生起气来。为什么他不跟我们打起来？我们很快就放他走了，事情就这么完了。戴维自此再没跟我多说话。
然后，过了几周，我意识到其实我是在发自己脾气。我感到惭愧，而且害怕别人发现。我怎么会做出这种事来？我是个多可怕、多丑恶的人啊？要是我的父母——或者我的老师、我的校长知道了我的所作所为，他们会怎么想？他们会怎么惩罚我？整件事只发生了几分钟，但我觉得自己一辈子都会在想这件事。
在学校，我观察了一下其他和我一起踩过戴维的孩子，但他们看起来都毫无异样。甚至是戴维也一样，只是比以前更安静了。而他从不正眼看我。
有一天，我沿着礼堂走，看到一些小孩试图将戴维手上的书打翻，戴维则用他那颤抖的带着奇怪韵律的声音对着他们怒吼。我走到他前面，叫那些小孩别惹他。他们走开了，但戴维却没有谢我。他只是收拾好他的书，继续走他的路。当我看着他那弓着背的小身子灰溜溜地沿着礼堂走，我记得自己许下承诺，无论会遇到多大的困难，我永远都会尽我所能为弱者抗争。
没过多久，我们的老师宣布说，戴维要转学了，我疑惑那是不是因为我的缘故。我讨厌这种想法，但同时也希望他的离开会让所有的事情烟消云散。我决定为自己的行为作出补偿，我想跟戴维道别，希望我俩能以朋友的身份道别。如果我能积攒足够勇气的话，或许我还能为自己的过错道歉。
我走到他家，敲了门，心情恐惧。他妈妈出来应门了。戴维并不在家。我想所有邻居都听得到我释怀的叹息。我请她跟戴维说，我祝福他在新的镇上交上好运。她向我道谢，说我是“这么好的一个朋友”，而我只是站在那儿，不能，或者说不愿意，离开。戴维的妈妈等着我说些其他什么的，但我说不出口。她慢慢地把门关上了。
我一路狂奔回家，想着她说的一定不是真心话，会是真心的吗？她知道些什么呢？戴维跟她说了我的所为吗？我的心在胸口抽搐。没有机会说再见，我很遗憾，但同时我也很是释然，因为我不用面对戴维。我跑进屋子，径直走到我的房间，想着或许现在我就可以继续自己的生活了。
但接着我想起了戴维。当他妈妈跟他说起我曾造访的时候，他会想到什么呢？如果他妈妈跟他说，她谢了我，因为我是他的朋友，他又会怎么想呢？我感到恶心，并且疑惑这种感觉是否会消失。然后，我想知道戴维将如何继续自己的生活？当他明白到多年前，在那个明媚的下午，他自己曾躺在水泥台阶上，而我是一个欺负他的人。
Maybe that’s why I bullied him.
That sunny afternoon when we were 9 years old， Davy and I were 5）milling around with some other kids during 6）recess， doing nothing much on a concrete stoop near the playground. I don’t know why or whose idea it was， but we told Davy to lie down on the ground， and we took turns walking on him. I knew Davy better than some of the other kids—we’d performed a magic show together on Meet the Teacher night—and I remember taking a few steps and then becoming angry with him. Why wasn’t he fighting us？ We soon let him go and that was the end of that. Davy never said much of anything to me again.
Then， a few weeks later， I realized I was actually angry with myself. I was ashamed， also scared that people would find out. How could I have done such a thing？ What kind of awful， evil person was I？ And what would my parents think if they knew—or my teachers or the principal？ And how would they punish me？ The entire incident only took a few minutes but I found myself thinking about it for what became my very own eternity.
At school I studied the other kids who walked on him with me， but they all seemed fine. Even Davy was the same， except a little quieter. And he never looked me in the eye.
I was walking down the hall one day when I saw some kids trying to knock the books out of Davy’s hands and Davy was snarling back at them with that quavering， oddly 7）melodious voice. I stepped in front of him and told the kids to leave him alone. They did， but Davy didn’t thank me. He just righted his books and went on his way. As I watched his hunched little body 8）skulk its way down the hall， I remember promising myself that， no matter how hard it might be， I would always do my best to stick up for 9）underdogs.
A short time later， our teacher announced that Davy was moving， and I wondered if it was because of me. I hated the thought as much as I hoped this would make everything finally go away. I decided to make up for my behavior； I would say goodbye to Davy and hopefully we’d part as friends. If I could muster enough courage I might even apologize for what I’d done. I went to his house and knocked on the door， terrified. His mother answered. Davy wasn’t home. I thought the whole neighborhood could hear my sigh of relief. I asked her to tell Davy that I wished him luck in his new town. She thanked me for being “such a good friend，” and I just stood there unable， or unwilling， to move. Davy’s mother waited for me to say something else， but I couldn’t. She slowly closed the door.
I ran all the way home， thinking she couldn’t have meant what she said， could she？ What did she know？ Did Davy tell her what I did？ My heart 10）throbbed in my chest. I was sorry I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye， but I was relieved that I didn’t have to face Davy. I ran into my house， went straight to my room and thought that maybe now I could get on with my life.
But then I thought of Davy. What would he think when his mother told him I had stopped by？ What if she told him that she thanked me for being his friend？ I felt sick and wondered if the feeling would ever go away. And then I wondered how Davy would go on with his life， knowing he had laid himself down on a concrete stoop all those years ago， on that sunny afternoon when I was a bully.
我四年级时的同班同学戴维简直就像那些19世纪的古人。我记得他那时系着宽领带，一副花花公子般的模样，脸色苍白，我都惊讶他怎么没因肺结核而夭折早逝。他胸部凹陷，两颊红润，鼻子流涕，嗓音低沉却带着鼻音，像哼着歌儿似的，那让我想起了诗歌，而那时的我“假小子”一个，宁可踢足球去也不舞文弄墨。
可能这就是我欺负他的原因。
那年我们九岁。在那个明媚的下午，我和戴维，还有其他几个小孩在课间到处转悠，在操场旁的水泥梯级上没什么可做。我不知道原因，也不清楚是谁的主意，但我们叫戴维躺到地面上，然后我们一个个轮流踩在他身上。我比其他孩子更了解戴维——我们曾一起在“老师见面之夜”表演过魔术，我记得自己踩了几脚，然后对他生起气来。为什么他不跟我们打起来？我们很快就放他走了，事情就这么完了。戴维自此再没跟我多说话。
然后，过了几周，我意识到其实我是在发自己脾气。我感到惭愧，而且害怕别人发现。我怎么会做出这种事来？我是个多可怕、多丑恶的人啊？要是我的父母——或者我的老师、我的校长知道了我的所作所为，他们会怎么想？他们会怎么惩罚我？整件事只发生了几分钟，但我觉得自己一辈子都会在想这件事。
在学校，我观察了一下其他和我一起踩过戴维的孩子，但他们看起来都毫无异样。甚至是戴维也一样，只是比以前更安静了。而他从不正眼看我。
有一天，我沿着礼堂走，看到一些小孩试图将戴维手上的书打翻，戴维则用他那颤抖的带着奇怪韵律的声音对着他们怒吼。我走到他前面，叫那些小孩别惹他。他们走开了，但戴维却没有谢我。他只是收拾好他的书，继续走他的路。当我看着他那弓着背的小身子灰溜溜地沿着礼堂走，我记得自己许下承诺，无论会遇到多大的困难，我永远都会尽我所能为弱者抗争。
没过多久，我们的老师宣布说，戴维要转学了，我疑惑那是不是因为我的缘故。我讨厌这种想法，但同时也希望他的离开会让所有的事情烟消云散。我决定为自己的行为作出补偿，我想跟戴维道别，希望我俩能以朋友的身份道别。如果我能积攒足够勇气的话，或许我还能为自己的过错道歉。
我走到他家，敲了门，心情恐惧。他妈妈出来应门了。戴维并不在家。我想所有邻居都听得到我释怀的叹息。我请她跟戴维说，我祝福他在新的镇上交上好运。她向我道谢，说我是“这么好的一个朋友”，而我只是站在那儿，不能，或者说不愿意，离开。戴维的妈妈等着我说些其他什么的，但我说不出口。她慢慢地把门关上了。
我一路狂奔回家，想着她说的一定不是真心话，会是真心的吗？她知道些什么呢？戴维跟她说了我的所为吗？我的心在胸口抽搐。没有机会说再见，我很遗憾，但同时我也很是释然，因为我不用面对戴维。我跑进屋子，径直走到我的房间，想着或许现在我就可以继续自己的生活了。
但接着我想起了戴维。当他妈妈跟他说起我曾造访的时候，他会想到什么呢？如果他妈妈跟他说，她谢了我，因为我是他的朋友，他又会怎么想呢？我感到恶心，并且疑惑这种感觉是否会消失。然后，我想知道戴维将如何继续自己的生活？当他明白到多年前，在那个明媚的下午，他自己曾躺在水泥台阶上，而我是一个欺负他的人。