7 years old
Claire huffed and stomped. She was getting tired of looking.
“Jamie,” she whined, “come out! I don’t wanna look anymore.”
She plopped down on the grounds, not minding the mud and dampness seeping into her pants. She sat there for what felt like hours before Jamie snuck up behind her and shoved her shoulders, yelling “HA!!! Gotcha! Ye couldna find me again!”
“I don’t like playing with you, Jamie Fraser,” Claire grumbled, arms crossed, pouting.
“Aye ye do. We play every day after school. And ye say that every time ye lose. Ye’re just a sore loser is all.”
“Shut up. Am not.” Claire turned away from Jamie as he knelt and leaned over her.
Jamie tipped over laughing and rolled onto his side on the ground.
Claire started to get up and said, “You’re mean. I’m going home and tell Mummy!”
Jamie sobered up and quickly grabbed her arm. “Dinnae go, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m only teasing ye.” He held up his crooked pinky finger. “I pinky promise I willnae do it anymore.”
Grudgingly, Claire raised her crooked pinky finger, twining it around his and they squeezed pinkies.
“I’ll push ye on my swing.”
Claire brightened up at the offer. “Alright!”
Jamie grabbed her hand and they took off at a run.