It started at six years old--along with the introduction to public education and the indoctrination into sitting still and raising hands.    People always claimed kids were mean, but Ara knew just how awful kids could actually get. She was six--a first grader--with a hello kitty backpack and light up shoes. He was six too--in her class--but he dragged around a beat up knapsack and wore flip flops all through winter.    In her defense, Ara didn't know what it meant to be poor. Ara's family lived comfortably, well supported by her father's thriving medical practice and the commissions from her mother's art gallery. Jimin had no such luck. His dad manned a cash register at Walgreens while his mom stayed high on and cheap . He ate inconsistent meals and wore the same clothes for days on end.    Ara didn't understand. She was six. There was no voice in her head warning her that not everyone in the world lived the charmed life she enjoyed. So Ara bullied Jimin. Day in and day out, mercilessly, she threw taunting words and sharp daggers of scorn.   Of course, she was six, so her name-calling remained at the same level as "meanie head" and "stupid", but for Jimin--another child--her words hurt.     Then it all changed in third grade, when Jimin's dad divorced his wife to marry a wealthy widow and the boy moved into the blue two story house across the street from Ara. He got to wear new clothes and had three meals a day. He and Ara became fast friends, thanks to the marvel of youthful acceptance and forgiveness.   Together the two terrorized the neighborhood, mud bombing stop signs, chalking up driveways and continually attempting to capture the weiner dog belonging to the eighty year old man next door.     When middle school rolled around, Jimin and Ara drew even closer, becoming more inseparab