He didn’t know what he was doing. How could he? He was only 7. But he did know that the kid on the other side of the fence was saying something, taunting him, perhaps calling him names. He didn’t know what he was doing when he put his toes up on the wooden fence that towered over him and climbed up to get a better look.

Why was this kid yelling at me? What did I do? He sounds familiar.

Maybe he’s the boy from down the street. The brother of the girl my older sister sometimes hangs out with. Brian? Mark? Did I say something to him? Why was he mad at me?

He cautiously peeked over the spiked fenceposts, holding on tightly with both hands as he used them to pull himself up. It was him.

What was his name again?

He quickly ducked back behind the safety of the fence.

He didn’t say anything back to the boy on the other side of the fence. The boy yelling at him from the ground below, behind the neighbor’s blue garage. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He was confused.

I know he saw me. Now what? Why is he still yelling? Why can’t I understand what he’s saying? He’s gotta be speaking English. He knows who I am, right? He knows my sister. He knows my house. Why can’t I understand what he’s saying to me?

He tried to think back. Think back to when he’d somehow upset the neighbor boy. But he came up empty. He was being distracted by the yelling boy. Even if there were thoughts there for finding, he’d have overlooked them.

I’ve gotta ask him what he wants. I’ve gotta ask him what I did. I’ve gotta know what I did wrong. Just one more look, he’ll see it’s me, and he’ll stop yelling at me. He’ll see it’s me, and he’ll teach me the secret language he’s been using to yell at me. Once I learn it, we can talk to each other without anyone else knowing what we’re saying.

Both hands still gripping the tops of the fence, toes starting to slip off the narrow ledge below, he begins to stand up. Slowly, making sure not to startle the yelling boy, not to interrupt the tirade of sounds he’s hurling over the fence.

He had no clue what he was doing. He only wanted to find out what he had done wrong. He couldn’t have known the boy on the other side of the fence was reaching down to grab something. He couldn’t have known the verbal attack would soon have a physical partner.

He raised his head. First, his crown of shiny, blonde hair, the kind of silky hair only little kids have, then his little boy forehead, followed by his little boy nose.

Then the white light. The fast, backward fall. The ground.

There wasn’t any pain. How could there be? He was only looking over the fence.

It was quiet. No more shouting. No more unintelligible infectives. Only birds. Summer sunlight broken into shards by the leaves of the backyard oak. And then the tears.

The tears came quickly. The dull, thudding sensation soon after. There’s nothing like little kid tears. Little kid crying. They tend to throw their entire bodies into it. Heaving. Shaking. Snot and tears and dirt and sniffing. A nearly convulsive act, a directed outward, emotive performance seeking approval and attention.

He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t know what he’d done. But he did know that his mother would hear him. She had to. She’s inside. She’ll come and get me. She’ll fix it.

And she did come.

What did you do?

I don’t know. It was the neighbor kid.

He threw something at me. He was yelling at me, and when I looked over the fence to see what he wanted, he threw something at me. Maybe a rock. A clump of dirt?

What did you say to him? Were you calling him names? Why did you make him throw something at you?

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I said. Maybe I did say something. Maybe it was me.

He’ll remember this day for the rest of his life. In 5 years, 10 years, when he’s 50. The backyard fence, the swingset, the yelling kid, the brightness, and the falling. And the crying.

He’ll always have the bump in the bridge of his nose to remind him. He’ll remember sitting on the couch holding his cat, Whiskers. The same cat he’d torture and harass. He’ll recall his eyes swollen nearly shut, a black-and-purple mask around them like smeared Halloween makeup, his head topped by a red-and-white paper Kenny King’s crown.

The two black eyes.

Decades later, his sister will send him a scanned picture. Something she’d posted on Facebook. Thought he’d like to see it. Maybe it was days after the yelling boy and the fence. Maybe it was weeks. What mattered was that someone took it. Someone deemed the moment photo-worthy.

He’s smiling. How is this little boy smiling? He looks happy—just a little boy in feetie pajamas with two black eyes, holding a cat, and wearing a paper crown.