The Folder at Breaktime.

I was about nine when a new boy joined our primary school in Scotland. Peter had moved up from England. He was a bit awkward, but he stayed over at my house once and we got on well enough. A few days later I found a pair of Y-fronts in my cupboard that weren't mine. They were his. They were badly soiled. Instead of returning them quietly, I slipped them into a clear plastic folder and took them to school. At break time I charged five pence for people to look. I told myself it was just a joke. Then someone grabbed them from me and ran. The playground erupted. Peter was chased while his own humiliation was waved in the air. I remember laughing with everyone else. What I don't remember is him ever trusting us again.