I was finally four. According to Ma, this was the milestone where a child's brain was sufficiently cooked enough to be sent away for "study." She handled the administration with the efficiency of a general and hand-sewed my uniform herself. To be fair, she had little choice—standard uniforms were expensive, and the stores didn't stock sizes for potatoes.

  On the morning of my debut, I stood in the mirror. I wore a bright green pinafore, the checkered fabric catching the light as it draped over my white short-sleeved blouse. The hem brushed my knees, neat and proper. My black school shoes shone against crisp white socks pulled up to mid-calf. My long brown hair was swept to the right and tied with a single cherry-red ribbon that bobbed every time I moved.

  Ma clasped her hands over her mouth, her eyes shimmering with a mix of excitement and terrifying pride. "I have to keep this as a memory!"

  She dashed into her room and returned with a camera, immediately circling me like a wildlife photographer. Click. Click. Click. From every angle. Too many angles.

  Then she said, "Give a little twirl, dear."

  A twirl? From a potato?

  Faced with her eager eyes, I couldn't refuse. I tried. Very hard. I took a step. Safe. Another.

  That's where everything collapsed.

  My legs crossed where they shouldn't have. The world tipped. I hit the floor and rolled, dignity skidding ahead of me. Ma lunged forward with a gasp, hands outstretched, catching me just before I could crash into the table.

  I peeked up at her. Her pristine hair had surrendered, a single strand sticking out at an odd angle. She stared down at me for a long second, then sighed. "Let's… just go to your school."

  "Heh."

  The smirk was audible. I whipped my head toward the hallway. My sister was leaning against the doorframe, her face twisted in a mocking grin. Rage flared in my tiny chest, but I was currently a captive of Ma's grip. Ma set me down, my feet wobbling like newborn foals, and shepherded us into the car. She dropped Sis at her school, then drove me to mine.

  From the outside, the kindergarten looked like a toy someone had accidentally built at full scale.

  The building was low and wide, painted in cheerful colors already fading under the sun. Cartoon animals grinned from the walls, their smiles chipped and weather-worn. The windows were set low, smudged with handprints at child height, curtains patterned with stars and clouds peeking through. A short fence wrapped around the yard, once bright, now scuffed. Inside it, a slide and plastic rides waited patiently, sun-bleached and tired.

  Ma patted my back and gave me a sharp wink. "You're on your own now, kiddo. Bye~"

  She was gone before I could process the betrayal. I watched the car disappear around the curve, then turned to the chaos of the gate.

  Parents were everywhere—crouching, bending, adjusting collars, and wiping tears with tenderness. Small hands clung to bigger ones. Some children marched forward like tiny conquerors; others stalled at the threshold, gripping their parents' trousers as if the building smelled of doom instead of glue and crayons. I even heard one parents told their son not to be befriend with lower class people. Hmph! Not that I care.

  Looking at the road, I frowned, Ma left me.

  With nothing left to do, I gripped the straps of my bag and waddled toward the entrance.

  Eventually, I found my classroom: Sun. A smiling sun logo sat beside the door, its rays uneven, like a child had drawn them in a hurry.

  I stepped inside and nearly recoiled.

  The interior was an assault on the senses. The walls were an aggressive, loud yellow that seemed to generate its own heat. Paper suns and lopsided cutouts clung to every surface. Low shelves overflowed with blocks and books with chewed corners. The room buzzed with a frantic, manic energy—it was a space designed to keep children moving whether they wanted to or not.

  My eyes are melting, I thought. I miss Ma.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  A tear began to prickle the corner of my eye. Suddenly—BAM.

  Something slammed into my back. I stumbled, my center of gravity shifting dangerously, but I planted my feet and held firm. I wiped my forehead. Phew! Falling twice on the first day is a big no no.

  The person who hit me, however, did not have my structural integrity.

  "WAAAAAHHHH!"

  A siren-like cry erupted behind me. I turned to see a boy sprawled on the floor, sobbing as if his world had ended, his feet drumming a rhythmic tantrum on the tiles.

  Wait. I recognize him. He is the kid with those snobbish parents.

  Teachers and parents swarmed him, offering hushed comforts and frantic distractions.

  I shook my head. A boy. Crying. Ma would be so disappointed. If Ma had a boy and he cried, Ma would beat him upside down. Thank goodness, I have no brother.

  I reached into my pocket and felt the crinkle of plastic. A memory surfaced: Ma kneeling down this morning, pressing a sweet into my palm. "This candy isn't for you, Llyne. It's for annoying kids who won't stop crying. Use it to make the noise stop. Understand?"

  I nodded then. I nodded now.

  I stepped toward the boy and thrust the candy at his face. He blinked, saw the wrapper, and the siren cut out instantly. He took it. The silence was glorious.

  It worked. Ma is a genius.

  Class began shortly after. The teacher, a woman who looked far too gentle to survive a day with us, asked us to introduce ourselves. "Name, age, and your family," she prompted.

  When it was my turn, I stood tall. "Llyne. Five. Family of five: Ma, Sis, me, Racoonie, and Nox."

  Ma always told me, never to reveal my true potential or else weird people would kidnap me. Neither my stats. But the school should have a record so why did the teacher ask? Is she testing us? Who cares. I think I did great.

  "Who's Racoonie and Nox?" a girl behind me whispered.

  "My family," I shrugged.

  The boy in front of me—the same one who had received my peace offering—turned around with a sneer. "You're a fatherless child. A weirdo."

  He pointed at me, and like a pack of hyenas, the rest of the class began to laugh.

  The laughter echoed in my ears, but then I heard a different voice. Ma's voice, from the day she bought my school bag: "Llyne, if a kid bullies you, don't hold it in. Release it. Show them who's the boss."

  A wide, serene smile spread across my face.

  "Hey," I said softly.

  The boy turned back, expecting me to cry. Instead, I balled my tiny fist and launched it. It wasn't just a punch; it was a physical manifestation of Ma's parenting philosophy.

  CRACK.

  The boy flew a full meter backward, blood blooming from his nose like a sudden flower. The teacher shrieked. Children scrambled. I stood there, my fist still outstretched, my smile never wavering.

  Ten minutes later, I was in the principal's office. The principal, a man who looked nine months pregnant despite being male, sat behind a desk while the boy's parents—a pair of snobbish, horse-faced individuals—screeched about assault.

  The door flew open. Ma marched in, looking like a storm cloud in a sundress. She ignored the adults, knelt in front of me, and checked my limbs.

  "You seem fine," she noted.

  "Your child punched my boy!" the mother yelled.

  Ma turned to me, her eyes intense. "Did you win?"

  I gave her a victory sign.

  Ma's face softened into pure, unadulterated pride. "Dear. You have grown." She glanced at my stomach as if she was insinuating something. "Internally."

  The room went silent. The principal coughed, mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "Ma'am, this is a grave matter. On the very first day, the child assaulted an innocent boy out of the blue—"

  "Llyne," Ma interrupted, her voice dropping an octave. "My child's name is Llyne."

  She looked at me. "Is that true?"

  I pointed at the boy, who flinched so hard he nearly fell off his chair. "He called me a fatherless child and a weirdo."

  The parents scoffed. "Well, it's true, isn't it?" They began to hurl a fresh wave of insults at Ma, calling her a failure and a delinquent-raiser. Ma just stood there, taking it.

  I grew worried. Ma isn't going to do anything? Why?

  The principal sighed. "I think it's best if Llyne apologizes."

  Hmm... I guess I should. Violence is not good. I pouted and opened my mouth. "I—"

  "Hah!"

  Ma's voice cut through the room like a blade. She cracked her neck and began folding up her sleeves. "I've heard enough of this." She leaned over the desk, slamming her palms down so hard the pens jumped. "My child isn't apologizing. You are."

  The principal recoiled. "Excuse me?"

  "And she's quitting," Ma added, "Clearly the school doesn't deserve her."

  The principal, trying to regain control, pulled a document from his drawer. "Fine. If you wish to withdraw, sign this and pay the fine for damages and breach of contract."

  Ma nodded slowly, a heavy, dangerous grin spreading across her face. "Really now?"

  She raised a fist into the air. My instincts screamed. I turned and bolted out the door just as a sound like a thunderclap echoed through the hallway.

  BANG!

  Ma's fist met the desk. The wood splintered, a perfect crack racing through the center as a cloud of dust erupted. The parents were frozen in terror while the principal fell off the chair and was struggling on the ground.

  "There's my signature," Ma called out, sweeping the dust off her clothes.

  She walked out of the office, grabbed my hand, and waved lazily over her shoulder. "If you want to fine me, you can try."

  We walked out of that kindergarten hand-in-hand. Ma was furious, shouting back at the teachers who tried to follow us. Eventually, word got around, and every kindergarten in the district blacklisted us. Ma took it upon herself to be my teacher after that.

  She wasn't exactly "teacher material". Why? That's because her lesson plans usually involved survival drills and how to spot a lie, rather than the alphabet. I ended up having to learn everything myself. But as I sat at our kitchen table later that day, looking at my Ma, I realized I'd already learned the most important lesson: Never start a fight, but always, always finish it.