"There's 'bout to be a--WHAT?!--girlfight!"

In first and second grade, there was this girl in my class, Jane, who became my enemy. I can't remember the reason behind our mutual hatred of one another. Most likely, it was a completely random and arbitrary thing. We'd insult each other behind teachers' backs; we'd constantly look for opportunities to humiliate each other during the gymnastics class we took together; we'd sabotage each other's art projects. It never came to physical violence, although it might have if I hadn't moved to California for a year following second grade. After my return, we were never in the same class again. I hear she's doing a lot of drugs now, which makes me happy. I may be older and wiser, but that doesn't mean I like her any more.
In fifth grade it happened again, at a new school with another girl who had the desk next to mine. She picked on everyone, but her central target was me: the stereotypical quiet, bookish girl with glasses, nicknamed "the walking dictionary." Finally, one day in class, I leaned over, pointed to a textbook photo depicting a particularly ugly dog, and said, "Hey, look, they put your picture in here!" She slapped me across the face, so I slapped her. By this time we had the attention of the class, who couldn't believe I was capable of fighting back. Even the teacher was shocked as he assigned us both detention, despite the other girl's objections that I had implicitly called her a bitch and therefore deserved it.
These days, when girls dislike me, it's for different, slightly more rational reasons, but the feeling's exactly the same: the knowledge that somewhere very nearby is someone who wishes that you, personally, didn't exist, and that there is next to nothing you can do about it. At least by now I've learned not to hate back.