Today I am finally going to win the monkey bars game. Time for recess, and the sky knows we are about to play because even the clouds are hovering to watch us. The first two boys who get to the bars are pretty good swingers, but they swing down the middle to grip the shorter bars. It's like gripping the rungs on a ladder. I swing on the sides, using my momentum to shimmy along at a fast pace. My blood blisters finally broke last weekend when I was digging holes in the yard, so I know there will not be as much pain this time. That's why I'm going to win. I have nothing holding me back.
We wait for the fourth grader. As the undefeated champion, she tells us who races and who wins. She swings like me, across the sides, which is why I adopted her technique. I might as well learn from the best, right? But today, I am going to beat her. She has me race against a girl who has never played our game before. I could have overlapped her twice. When it is the fourth grader’s turn, she goes against one of the faster boys and uses her long arms to swoop like a lemur swoops from vine to vine. She wins.
Finally, I get to race her. We agree to do four laps. When she says to go, I hear everyone calling for me to win as we both swing along the side of the bars. The clouds are clapping as I hear thunder in the distance. A few tears drop on the tip of my nose, and I pretend the clouds are rooting for me. Palms stinging, my hands skip across the surface of the bars. I am pretty sure another blood blister is forming underneath the one that had popped, but I keep going. The fourth grader’s moves are steady and confident, but she is too sure of herself because she does not seem to notice I am as fast as she is. I push myself harder during the third lap, and I tell myself I can beat her. I hop along, lifting myself so high, my hands barely get a chance to touch the surface of the bars. Someone yells out “finish,” and we both stare at each other, puffing out air at our posts, waiting to hear the results.
Three or four kids dub me as the winner, and I push my head up slowly to meet the fourth grader’s gaze. She stares at me as if I just stole her birthday present, mumbles something about stupid blood blisters and leaves to find something else to do. I smile as broad as a wire hanger and turn to share my happiness with the others, but no one is smiling like me. They are waiting for me, because now that the fourth grader has been defeated, I am the person who is supposed to say “when.”
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