My morning radio show was talking about ways to tell someone that they smell bad.

I wish to heck I could've heard more of it, because I need a good way to tell a couple of people in my office that 1) daily application of deodorant is not optional; and 2) if you can smell your own perfume, you're using too much of it.

But instead I got to hear about a really bad way to tell someone that they stink, which involved a story about one of the DJ's experiences in the fourth grade.

And it made me think of Paul. (Not that Paul. Or that one. Another Paul.)

Paul was a classmate when I was in elementary school. I didn't like him very much, but I was such a sad, shy little child that I didn't have many friends at all anyway. But Paul liked to embarrass people, so I especially didn't like him.

My only clear memory of Paul: Fifth grade. We were both in the classroom during recess, which meant that we were largely unsupervised; the hall monitor would poke her head in every few minutes, but that was about it.

I don't remember why I was inside during recess. Finishing some project, I think. I remember that Paul was inside because he was in trouble for something. He was wandering aimlessly around the room in an effort to amuse himself. Every time the hall monitor poked her head into the room, she'd say, "Sit down, Paul," and he would go to his desk and sit down, and then get up again as soon as she left.

He eventually wound up in front of the hamster cage. (Why is it that it seems all elementary school classes have to have pet rodents?) "Hey!" he said. "Hey, Carol, c'mere!" (I went by Carol - my middle name - until I was in the 6th grade, when I became Elizabeth. It wasn't until 7th grade that I became Liz.)

"What?" Even then, I hated being interrupted.

"Come here!"

Reluctantly, I got up and went to see what he was so excited about.

"Look!"

"What?" As near as I could tell, the hamsters were sleeping.

"They're humping!"

They really weren't. They were sleeping. But this was the fifth grade. "Oh, gross!"

Paul edged closer to me, grinning wildly. "What's gross about it?"

I was in the fifth grade, and concepts like personal space didn't really exist. I didn't understand why he was making me feel so uncomfortable. "It just is. Yuck."

He leaned even closer, conspiratorially. "It's not gross," he said. "Your parents had to do it to make you!"

Intellectually, I knew that, but it's not something that most people really want to think about. Especially as kids. Parents just don't do things like that. I fled back to my desk, and Paul laughed at me while I quietly hated him.

Some time after that - I don't remember if it was weeks, or months, but it was still the fifth grade, because I left that school after that year - Paul died.

That was abrupt, wasn't it?

It was just as sudden for me. I was whispering to my friend Nam before school started one Monday morning when the principal came into the room. We all sat up straight and stopped talking and she went to the front of the room and laced her fingers together and said, "Paul died this weekend."

And my first thought was, Oh, good.

Seriously. Watch out for those quiet kids. They're full of hate.

I got more details from Charles, who was exactly one year older than me and who was a good friend of Paul's. He hadn't just died, of course. He'd been killed. Playing alone in the woods near his house, some stranger had found him and strangled him until he'd passed out, and then dropped him face-down in a puddle.

I played alone in the woods near my house a lot.

The whole school assembled in the chapel (it was an Episcopalian school) for a memorial service.

Remorse hit about two hours later. When it had sunk in enough that dead was dead, that he was really and forever gone. And I didn't really regret hating him - he'd been one of my most persistent tormentors - but I felt pretty guilty for that moment of satisfaction when I'd learned he was dead.

I wound up in the principal's office, sobbing. I remember I'd had to force the tears, because I didn't think the principal would understand that how I really felt was nauseous. She offered to call my parents and send me home, but I refused. It wouldn't have helped. She was bewildered by my reaction - she knew that I hadn't liked Paul very much - but I couldn't tell her why I felt so bad. I didn't want to confess to having been glad that he was gone.

It was the first time that anyone I knew personally died.

Hell of a thing to come out of a 5-minute radio blip, isn't it? Betcha wish I'd talked instead about Penny or my wonky glasses.

--Liz