THE GIRL

Every summer, as soon as school ended, I would go to my grandmother's house in the countryside, where I helped her. What truly enchanted me was making the bread, which we baked in a large wood oven.
That year, the holidays began on the wrong foot, amid the rebellion of adolescence: that of assertion.
I insisted that I wanted to venture alone to a distant hill that had always attracted me, to conquer the world.
My grandmother, smiling, told me, as a challenge, that if I wanted to it then I couldn't give up.
I accepted with a haughty smile, but in truth, several times I had to grit my teeth to make it there. Halfway up the slope, the ruins of a house provided me with shade.
I had just settled in when I heard indistinct shouts not too far away. I hid behind a half-wall as two boys wearing metallic-grey jumpers, looking like bullies, approached.
Barely daring to breathe, I remained motionless, watching them.
They noticed me straight away:
"Well, who do we have here, a pretty lost flower," they said, mockingly.
I sprang up, grabbing a long stick with a wide end, like a baker´s shovel, fallen at my feet and hurled it at the boys, taking them by surprise.
The scorching sun of that afternoon dazzled me, but I could have sworn I saw them twirling through the air, plummeting into rows of yellow sorrels, which shuddered in astonishment under lines of light traced in the dust.