Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

I was hurling insults and spitting at anyone they could, my words dripping with malice, but no one dared to step up. The scene brought back
memories of Jonah that night, when he had confronted my dad. My actions came before my thoughts could catch up. Before I knew it, I was
mimicking him. I spat back at them with all the venom I could muster, my face a mask of defiance. "If you ever talk trash about my mom again, you
might as well be ready to lose your tongues, because I'll make you regret it!"
People are drawn to strength, and admiration often starts with imitation. I stormed through with an aura of intimidation, but by the time I reached the
alley, my bravado crumbled and my legs wobbled. It was my first fight, my first real act of courage. Aunt Marie caught me just in time. My lips were
trembling, as pale as leaves.
"Does it hurt, Lana? I was so helpless. I didn’t help," she said.
"This little scrape is nothing. I'm tough," I assured her, steadying myself and giving my chest a confident pat. "Aunt Marie, from now on, I've got your
back!"
She pulled me into a hug, laughing and crying all at once. When we returned home, Jonah took one look at our disheveled state and his face
darkened. He asked Aunt Marie what happened, but she stayed silent. Frustrated, I laid out the whole story of how they had tormented Aunt Marie.
Without a word, Jonah grabbed a wooden stick and headed for the door.
"Jonah, get back here! No fighting!" Aunt Marie commanded with authority.
His forehead veins were pulsing as he turned back, anger radiating off him. "It's always the same! Am I supposed to just stand by and watch them
bully you?"
She closed her eyes, tears choking her voice. "Please, I'm begging you, just stay calm."
In that silent standoff, Jonah finally relented. Few kids can ignore their mother's tearful plea. I couldn't, and neither could Jonah.
After Aunt Marie retreated to her room, Jonah sat by the door, staring out at the oak tree without a trace of emotion on his face. I sat beside him and
leaned in to whisper, "Jonah, revenge is best served cold. I've got all those bullies memorized!"
Worried he might not believe me, I counted off on my fingers as I described them. "There was a woman in her forties, with short hair and buck teeth,
looking like a garlic bulb—she started the insulta. Then a lady in a pink dress, long hair, holding a little boy no taller than a leek—she pinched Aunt
Marie several times! And a loudmouthed woman around fifty, with a voice like a foghorn, who said the nastiest things!
"And then...

"And then...
"Finally, a long-haired woman with a flat nose, face painted like a stage performer—she grabbed me and yanked my hair!"
Something about my recounting tickled Jonah's funny bone, and he turned away, stifling a laugh. "Didn't peg you for someone who holds grudges."
He gently touched my forehead, tracing the three scratch marks. "Does it hurt?"
I was about to say no, but honesty won out. "It hurts, hurts like hell. And my hair's practically been yanked out!"
Jonah pulled me onto his lap, placing my hand on his head. "Then you can yank mine out."
His hair was soft under my fingers, but I shook my head. "Revenge should be on the right person. I want to yank out that stage performer's hair."
He nodded. "Alright."
...
I don't know what Jonah did behind the scenes, but the next time Aunt Marie and I went to the market, everyone was all smiles and respectful, no one
dared to gossip to our faces. Whatever they said behind our backs, well, that was a different story. Later, I found out Jonah had dug up all their dirty
laundry, making sure they thought twice before messing with us again.