We were 8, and our school had a rule that boys must wear a cotton vest under their white school shirts. One day, Tom came to school without it. The teacher said, “If you’re so desperate to show off your body, do it in front of everyone,” and started to rip the shirt off his body.
That’s when we were all horrified to see the deep, purplish bruises along his ribs. Faded yellow ones too. Some looked old, some fresh. Tom’s face froze. Our teacher, Mr. Clive, stepped back like he’d touched a hot stove. We didn’t understand everything at that age, but we knew bruises like that weren’t from falling off a bike.
No one laughed. No one teased him. Even the class clowns sat in stunned silence.
