When I was ten years old, I nearly pushed a girl into a gorilla pen at the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston, Massachusetts. Her name was Melanie Frank. She was the kind of kid who raised her hand to be team captain during recess and who always had a clan of ­smooth-​brained followers around her. She wasn’t particularly cute or ­well-​dressed, but she maintained her place at the top of the elementary school hierarchy by making sure kids like me felt like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

On the bus ride to the zoo for a field trip, Melanie had sat next to her friend Mackenzie: a duo who referred to themselves as “M&M,” incessantly whispering and periodically giggling. I’d been sitting alone in the seat behind them when Melanie began to sniff the air like a bloodhound.

“Do you smell that?” Melanie asked Mackenzie.

I sniffed. I didn’t notice anything outside of the plastic scent of the seat in front of me.

“No, what?” Mackenzie asked.

“I think Lillian farted,” Melanie chuckled, glancing back at me.

A wave of giggles erupted on the bus, and various eyes flickered over to me. Passing gas was a cardinal sin in elementary­ school—​­a time when it was generally frowned upon for girls to have buttholes. I shifted in my seat, wondering if I should defend myself against M&M’s false claims or stay quiet. I opted for silence and looked out the window as my face burned. After a moment, a sharp, ­egg-​­like scent wafted over to me. I realized that Melanie had used me as a decoy for her own foul actions.