““That boy—he pushed me. He’s so mean!” “And you’re surprised? He’s mean to everyone who lets him. C’mon, little Lys. I thought you were better than this.” His words surprised her. “Better?” “Maybe you are a crybaby.” “I am not!” He shoved her until she staggered back and dropped into the puddle again. She stared up at him with shock. “You’re going to let me do that?” he demanded. “Wh-what?” “Get up!” Shock gave way to anger as she got to her feet. She glared at him, her small fists clenched at her sides, her tears forgotten. “That’s better,” he said. “You don’t cry when someone pushes you down. You get up. You get up and you fight back. And pretty soon nobody’s going to shove you anymore because they’ll see it’s not worth it. You won’t let anyone push you around and make you cry. Got it?” At the time, Lysandra didn’t understand what he’d been trying to teach her. All she knew was that her skirts were muddy and her mother would be angry that she’d spent so long gathering nothing but dirt. Get up. Again and again. There are those who would push you down into the mud and laugh at you. They wanted to see tears. They wanted to see defeat because it made them feel better about their own sad little lives. But sometimes it was hard to rise back up. Sometimes the mud grew so solid and so thick around you that there was no escape. And the taunting laughter never stopped. Suddenly,””
