At that time we had just moved to the suburbs. There I learned of an abandoned crabapple orchard which exist nowhere in the city. At harvest time boys would often go there and engage in a war of all against all, using crabapples as weaponized projectiles. They could really sting, but the potential joy of inflicting pain overcame the aversion to experiencing pain oneself.
Jacques got hit hard by one such globose pome. To my surprise, he started bawling like a baby. Since he was past the age when it was appropriate for boys to cry, I was confused; perhaps it was a defect of country folk. Nevertheless, since he was in my sixth grade class, I felt an obligation to comfort him. But then, I was even more surprised when he suddenly stopped. He said to himself aloud, “Where is Mrs. F.? Doesn’t she hear me crying?”
So he was just trying to get attention from some mother on the street, whom he apparently knew. Perhaps she knew his ruses or was reluctant to go outside during the war, but she never appeared.
That was when I learned about “simulation” for which he should have received a yellow card. Now I never assume that outward emotional manifestations necessarily correspond to inner states. Jacques was never a playmate after that incident.
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