I was only ten-years-old the day I killed Steve Beeman. Before you condemn me, though, you should know that he deserved it. Beeman was mean. He was a bully, older than the rest of us, and took great pains (or rather, gave them) to remind us that older means tougher. "Here comes Beeman," ruined many promising summer days.

It was mid-morning and the guys and I were sprawled among the bare roots of the big Oak in old Mrs. Loblenz’s yard. She hadn’t chased us away yet, so we enjoyed the shade, pulled at the thin, tough grass, and planned how best to use the day. That’s where Beeman found us.

His greeting was usually four-lettered, though sometimes it was ominous silence accompanied by a quick headlock. That day he went straight to the point. "Who thinks he can take me?" He assured us that he was an easy target because of a horrible concussion and ghastly slash he suffered the week before, the result of a bicycle accident. A large white patch covered the wound on his forehead. He continued to taunt his way around the circle with no success. "How about you, fat-boy"? He looked straight at me (though I wasn’t fat: I was husky; that’s what mom said and I knew of no reason for her to lie about it).

I could’ve avoided him. I could’ve let it go. I always had before, but that day I didn’t. For some reason, that day I didn’t think about the pain my body and pride might suffer. I didn’t think about the punishment I would receive when mom and dad found out, and I certainly didn’t think about hurting Beeman. Instead, I went for him. I tackled him around the waist. I took him down with a hard thump, and for a while we flogged each other in a blur of shirt and fist and face and dirt and sky. A few of the guys yelled encouragement to Beeman, hedging their bets that I would be whipped. Others loudly advised me to hit or kick in places that might give me the advantage I would surely need. I wondered how to tell if I was winning, but the fight ended before I could figure that out. Almost as quickly as it started, it was over. Beeman was on his knees, both hands to his head, howling like Uncle Georgie’s hunting beagles when a rabbit runs past the pen. The long wail ended with, "My head, my head, omigod, my head," a horrible chant he repeated as he stumbled away from the madman killer and toward his home.

We were stunned.

"What are you gonna’ do?" someone asked. "I don’t hear him anymore. Suppose he’s okay?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. From the pit of my stomach, where it left a sick spot, fear spread slowly toward my head and toward my legs. When the two connected, I ran. I ran hard. I ran down the street, up the bank, and onto the porch. I ran through the front door, up the stairs and never stopped until I threw myself on the bed, bear-hugging my pillow, nearly paralyzed with dread. "How could this be happening to me? Why didn’t I think about what I was doing?" I sobbed. I knew that soon I’d hear the sirens. The phone would ring. Mom would come upstairs, pale and shaken. She would ask why I did it. She would tell me that people must consider the results of their actions before they do something so terrible. But it would be too late. As I lay on my bed Steve Beeman died. Not the real Steve Beeman--the one in my head, the only one that mattered. He died again and again in horrible ways, all my fault.

The afternoon slipped away. Time passed and the dread slowly released me. There were no sirens. The phone never rang. I ventured outside in the early evening to learn that Beeman didn’t die (he wasn’t even hurt badly) and I was a hero. The load that lifted from my ten-year-old shoulders was indescribable! I hadn’t killed Steve Beeman after all. I was reborn.

I didn’t see much of Steve after the fight. I still avoided him, and he avoided me. And I never threw another punch, at him or anyone else. Over the years I’ve consciously developed the fine arts of diplomacy and compromise. Though the crisis of that day existed only in my head, I’ve never quite lost the feeling that somehow I was given a rare gift--a second chance to do it right. Occasionally someone will ask, "How can you be so diplomatic? How do you always find a compromise?" My usual reply is, "It’s a gift." I learned that consequences must be considered. They would understand had they been me the day I killed Steve Beeman.