  When I think of nursery school, I think of the blue and red patterned rug we all used to sit in a circle on. The rug had some sort of a circular chart imprinted on it, one that told the seasons and the months and the days of the week. There were trees and cars on the rug, and smiling children of all races holding hands within the circle. To this day, I still visualize the seasons in that large, looming circular shape. Winter is north, and proceeds clockwise, with fall ending up in the east.
I remember always sitting down squarely in Fall during story hour or nap time. I also remember chasing a boy named Abraham around the playground during one particular playtime. There were a bunch of us girls, and we unanimously decided to tackle this unassuming, soft-spoken blond boy for the purpose of kissing him. Abraham was shocked and probably scared silly when he learned of our purpose, and proved to be a tough catch. My best friends during those two years were Krista Morgan, Dana Atschuler, Sara Bromley, and Tamara Sue Dutton. Krista’s mother’s name was Dale and went insane after the divorce. I remember her only in her alternate persona, Strawberry Shortcake, though ostensibly she only wore that costume for children’s birthday parties. Dana was a bored-looking girl with a shiny brown ponytail who had an older brother I might have been in love with. She was a great swimmer and I remember us scuttling out of our bathing suits in the concrete locker room of the Newfield Swim Club, eager to dash out to the playground swings after a long day in the water. Sara Bromley was small and had a heavy dark fringe of hair and wore fashionably baggy sweaters. We cracked up one night to the point of hysterics at her house while telling the “I C-U-P” joke to our bewildered parents, who had been enjoying a glass of wine in the living room.
Tamara Sue Dutton was my poor friend who lived in a trailer (ok, a small house) with her mother. She was blond and very pretty and I remember a particular pink ruffled jumper she used to wear, but that’s it. Then there were the twins, whom I was fascinated with but didn’t know all that well. Being twins, I suppose they were pretty self-contained. One of their names was Lisa—I don’t remember the other. They wore identical brown shaggy pageboys, navy blue Fair Isle sweaters, and a slow, sleepy expression on their faces. I remember that one witnessed the event of my tripping and skinning my knee on the big rock face we used to climb over and play on.
Her eyes widened a bit, but she said nothing and didn’t offer to help. Though the event was memorable in itself, that bloody knee is permanently visible in one of my nursery school portraits, a lone blemish on my chubby white leg, the red patchwork of scratches just north of my Strawberry Shortcake lace-up sneakers (my first since graduating from Velcro). Unlike the skinned knee, the Birthday Party would have receded into oblivion if not for the picture of my twisted, tear-stained face of agony, surrounded by the surviving balloons—those that had not popped, that is. (I’m not sure, come to think of it, why someone would have snapped a photo of that particular horrible moment.
Was it my mother? ) The sound of the exploding balloons had alarmed me so that I panicked and burst into a flood tears. Unable to finish my cake and “get on with it,” I had to be consoled by a team of teachers for the rest of the afternoon. My poor mother had taken the afternoon off from work just to bring those goddamn helium balloons and that cake over to my school, and all for naught—the “happy birthday” ended in a fit of hysterical tears instead. Apparently, the other children were totally unperturbed—delighted even—by the sound of the balloons popping, and were confused by my horror. Is that why I came to loathe being the center of attention? Already in the spotlight by the occasion of my birthday and the impromptu party, my hysteria over the balloons was all the more conspicuous, and subsequently puzzled over.
What a weirdo, they must have thought. There was a strange annual fair at my nursery school—an Episcopalian church—that has muddled in my mind with the memory of the Land Of Make-Believe on “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” Clad in my summer playclothes, as I wandered through past the ponies and barrels where people would bob for apples, I felt very much as though that woman with the high pitched voice, clutching a puppet, would come over and engage me in a game of Make-Believe.
I remember that there was hay there. Lots of it, and little prizes like small flip books printed on thin paper, and charms for the ubiquitous charm bracelets that every little girl wore at the time. That was at the end of nursery school. Kindergarten was taught by Ms. Ehren, a wild-haired, denim-jumpered Jewish woman who loved children and behaved in an eccentric, child-like way herself. Ms. Ehren comforted me and told me I was “A whole new Emily!” when I got a horrible hacksawed haircut that spring. Ms. Ehren was sympathetic in a way I did not yet understand, as demonstrated by her gentle disciplinary methods when dealing with the unruly black children in our class. Ms. Ehren was prone to making well-intentioned but utterly misleading declarations like, “Tomorrow we’re traveling to the Mezzezoic Era, so pack your bags!” Telling my parents nothing of what I imagined to be an illicit and unconventional trip, I decided that the Mezzezoic Era was something akin to Florida, where our family visited every winter. Trembling with excitement the next morning, I shoved a few bathing suits in my backpack before boarding the school bus, frantically trying to imagine how on earth Ms. Ehren was going to get all of us on the plane, to the Mezzezoic Era, and home again before dinnertime. Would we be away for more than one day? Would my parents be worried? Still, I trusted Ms. Ehren and ultimately decided that secrecy of her plan was best—she would take care of the details.
Kindergarten was also memorable for my obsession with the School Store, which conveniently set up shop for one lunch period a week in the hallway right around the corner from Ms. Ehren’s classroom. The School Store sold things like colorful pencils with fluorescent grip divots, erasable pens (how’d they do it? ), and mechanical pencils in girly shades of light blue and pale pink. As the School Store schedule was woefully unpredictable, however, I never had enough money for these delicious trinkets. Look, but don’t touch, said the derisive looks given to me by the hopelessly wise and mature sixth graders who minded the Store. to be continued... 
