A version of this essay can be found in the Spring 2009 edition of the Literary Review.
Randolph Watson
Drop the Potato and Let the Little Boy Go
Grandpa’s in the living room watching Stalag 17 again. Grandma’s sitting hunched over staring at nothing. I used to love visiting her. Now it seems like she is giving up on life.
“I called your Mom yesterday. Did she tell you she’s getting married in three weeks?”
“I’m not surprised. She’s the type who needs a warm body.”
I notice that since she’s lost her eyesight her expression doesn’t change much. “I hope someday you can be friends.”
I don’t laugh, even though I want to. “Not likely.”
“I know she’s made some mistakes. Do you think you can ever forgive her?”
“ I look at her the same way an employer would look at a shitty employee. After you screw up enough, the boss has to let you go.”
“I can still hope.”
I love my Grandma so much that I feel like I’m letting her down by not granting her request. That’s asking me to swallow twenty-something years of uncomfortable situations.
In Grandma’s newfound stupor, she has taken to not speaking unless spoken to. It gives me a chance to reflect on good old Mom.
I’m four again. I’m the sheepish little boy with red hair and He-Man shirt. Mom has dropped me off at school; it’s located inside a local church that’s still in town.
I sit down at the cafeteria table alone. The dark blue plastic chairs are freezing. I try to choke down a rice cake.
Class begins. I color outside the lines with a fat crayon. I listen to a Berenstein Bears reading.
Lunchtime. I don’t recall what the main course was, but they had fried potatoes as a side. I didn’t eat them because they looked like a mushy blob. One by one the kids get done with their food and get ready to go back to class. Mrs. Belcher looked at me as I stood up.
“Where are you going young man?”
I’m silent. Nobody at school ever talks to me.
“You’re not finished. Sit down and eat your potatoes.”
I sit back down and eat a spoonful.
“That’s right--keep going.” I know she’s looking down on me, but I keep my eyes on my sand-colored lunch tray.
I take another bite.“ I don’t wanna eat anymore.”
“I don’t care what you want. You will finish.”
The more I chew, the more I notice the lump in my throat. I’m trying not to cry. The lump keeps getting bigger as I struggle to swallow the food. Tears start to crawl down my face.
“Don’t be such a baby. Do you want me to tell your Mommy how bad you are?”
Through a mouthful of fried potatoes I mutter, “No.”
I didn’t feel the vomit coming, but it was on the floor and I knew it was mine. The
potato-vomit looks like as bad as it did before I ate it.
“You disgusting boy!”
I try to catch my breath between sobs. I’m so embarrassed, but at least the kids have all gone back to class already.
I’m escorted back to class and try not to cry for the rest of the day.
When I get home I’m quiet. Grandma gives me a strange look. “Everything okay sweetie?” I start to cry and tell Mom and Grandma what happened at school. Grandma gets mad. Mom sits there.
The next day Mom took me to school; this time it’s different. She doesn’t drop me off. We walk into Mrs. Belcher’s office and sit. Mrs. Belcher comes in and Mom explains what “he said happened.” Mrs. Belcher looks calm. “That never happened. Randolph, why did you lie to your Mom?”
My heart jumped. I can’t speak because I’m afraid. Why is she lying?
Mom looks from me to Mrs. Belcher apologetically. “I’m so sorry. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Belcher accepts her apology and I’m sent back to class. A short time later I see my Grandma storm past the door with my Mom bumbling behind.
The principal comes to the door and asks my teacher to fetch me and come into the hall. Standing there with four adults, I pull my imaginary shade down so they can’t see me. Grandma is mad again.
“What you did to that baby isn’t right, and you’re lying about it! You didn’t see
how upset he was yesterday! He wouldn’t act like that if nothing happened!” The principal keeps trying to butt into the conversation, but no go. Grandma continues,
“I’ll have this place shut down! I’m taking him out of this school!”
I wonder if she can really do that. I look at my Mom. She has tears in her eyes and her chin is quivering and full of little dimples…it looks like one of Grandpa’s golf balls.
My Grandma puts her hand out to me. I grab it and we leave with Mom following us. I never went back to school there.
I had an admiration for my Grandma after that, but I kept asking myself why Mom hadn’t done it instead. I asked myself why the teacher had lied. Why did she make me eat when I didn’t want to? I had spent what I remember of my first few years believing that people don’t lie. It’s not what a good person does. I was also taught to respect my elders and believe that they had my best interest in mind.
The lesson I learned: people lie. I learned: adults you’re supposed to trust need to earn it; sometimes they don’t deserve it. I learned: the parents you’re born with don’t always look out for their kids like they should…
I still can’t eat any kind of sliced potato.
I snap out of my thoughts and hear Stalag 17 again. William Holden’s voice…as well as disappointment, are things that were synonymous with childhood. I look at my Grandma, remembering the strong person she used to be.
“Do you know that I love you?”
…I’ll miss you when you’re gone.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Another Fall 2008 Non-Fiction Writing Contest Winner
Kevin Branson's Felonious Resuscitation
Risk is usually assessed by the amount of reward one receives for the level of risk one must take, and usually a desperation risk has an inordinately low reward. But once in a grey moon,” usually” does not win the day and the reward for that desperation risk turns out to be higher than anyone could have imagined, such was the case one chilly autumn evening in 1982.
I was living in South St. Louis at the time and went to a party in Kirkwood. Later in the evening, the party got busted by the cops, and everybody scurried out of there like roaches when the lights come on. In the chaos, I lost tract of my ride and found myself stranded with another friend Kenny, who likewise lived in South St. Louis. It was Saturday around midnight, so we thought we might have a chance to catch a bus a few blocks away at the bus loop. After waiting an hour, we realized there would be no Bi-State hero this evening. We were indeed stranded, left only with our twenty two year old legs, but even more so, our twenty two year old sense of adventure and lack of good common sense.
We decided to check the cars in a nearby auto repair shop for one that might have keys in it. Cautiously we crept between and around the injured vehicles, making absolutely certain we weren’t seen. Bingo! A Nova with the dashboard completely absent, but it started right up. In a loud whisper, I called for my soon to be accomplice to,
“come on”. We didn’t get three blocks when we pulled up to a four way stop sign and there was one of Kirkwood’s finest making a left hand turn from our right to left. As he passed by me, window to window, he gestured to me that my lights weren’t on. I responded with a hand gesture of “o k” and promptly made a right hand turn to the third driveway on the right, where Kenny and I exited the rolling evidence. We ran hastily to a nearby church where we could still see the car but could not be seen ourselves. After ten minutes we concluded the coast was clear, so we slithered back into the car and got the lights, wipers, and heater to work. Still pumped with adrenalin, we decide to head for the eastside as all the bars on the Missouri side were already closed.
A couple of hours later, we were headed back to Missouri and opted to stop by a little greasy spoon named Mr. Mac’s and get some breakfast. Kenny was driving as we were going down Arsenal Street from I-55. The car was dying when we came to stop signs, so Kenny was kind of rolling through the plethora of intersections Arsenal Street offers. When, just as we were approaching our seedy destination, we saw the flashing lights of a police car in our rearview mirror. Kenny proceeded to make the left turn he had already signaled to do, hoping the cop would just keep on going. We would not be so lucky, for it was us he was pulling over. Our hearts fell into our gut with a thud as we contemplated spending the next five years in prison. As the officer strolled somberly toward the driver side window, I felt my freedoms slipping away. “Driver’s license and registration please,” he said deliberately. Kenny replied, “I don’t have my wallet, but I think Kevin does.” I was quite certain that my incarceration was about to begin when the officer asked me to step out of the car. Thoughts of flight filled my head, my heart pounded erratically as my clammy hand reached for the handle. The door seemed to weigh a ton, for it separated me from the safety within and my captor on the other side.
As I reluctantly pried my fear frozen body from the anonymity I once had, my legs too shaky to run, I realized, my name from this point forward, would indelibly be tied to this stolen vehicle.
As I was reaching into my back pocket, all of a sudden this woman came running down California Street from a couple blocks away, screaming at the top of her lungs,” Officer! Officer! My baby can’t breathe.” With the reflexes of a puma, Kenny bolted toward the woman like a man with a mission. Turning back after he had run about a hundred feet or so, Kenny, a paramedic in the Air Force for a few years, waved to the officer who was still standing there a little dumbfounded, to “come on.” As the officer began running at full trot toward the woman and Kenny, I felt my freedoms soak back into my veins. Suddenly I found myself standing there alone next to the stolen vehicle and a cold, empty squad car still running with lights a flashing. I turned my attention to the spacious liberty of the opposite direction and began walking briskly toward my new found freedom. I circled four or five square blocks over the course of the next hour to a perch three or so blocks from Mr. Mac’s, where I could see that the squad car was no longer there, but the Nova was. I sauntered my way to the front door to find Kenny sitting in Mr. Mac’s sipping a cup of deserved coffee wearing a huge glowing smile. When I walked in he gushed, “You are not going to believe what happened.” Stoically, he told me his account of how when he and the officer got there, the baby of twelve to eighteen
months of age had turned blue and was not breathing. He then gave the baby mouth to mouth resuscitation while the officer called for an ambulance. For ten long minutes he had supplied the baby’s lungs with life giving oxygen until relieved by the paramedics. Once relieved he turned to the officer and apologized for leaving his wallet on the kitchen table, but before he could say “kitchen,” the officer interrupted him with a conciliatory pat on the back and that he need not worry about it. Moments latter they walked back to the cars, shook hands, and the officer sped off to another call.
There we were, in too much shock of what had transpired to converse in complete sentences, but we completely understood each other. I enjoyed the delectable flavor of scrambled eggs and freedom while Kenny wolfed down a giant portion of hero’s biscuits and gravy .Truly that was the best breakfast either one of us had ever eaten.
The desperation risk we took was grave. Our excepted freedoms were the stake we gambled with so carelessly. But all of it was necessary for us to arrive at a point in time to save an infant’s life. Yes, sometimes rewards are oblivious to risk.
Risk is usually assessed by the amount of reward one receives for the level of risk one must take, and usually a desperation risk has an inordinately low reward. But once in a grey moon,” usually” does not win the day and the reward for that desperation risk turns out to be higher than anyone could have imagined, such was the case one chilly autumn evening in 1982.
I was living in South St. Louis at the time and went to a party in Kirkwood. Later in the evening, the party got busted by the cops, and everybody scurried out of there like roaches when the lights come on. In the chaos, I lost tract of my ride and found myself stranded with another friend Kenny, who likewise lived in South St. Louis. It was Saturday around midnight, so we thought we might have a chance to catch a bus a few blocks away at the bus loop. After waiting an hour, we realized there would be no Bi-State hero this evening. We were indeed stranded, left only with our twenty two year old legs, but even more so, our twenty two year old sense of adventure and lack of good common sense.
We decided to check the cars in a nearby auto repair shop for one that might have keys in it. Cautiously we crept between and around the injured vehicles, making absolutely certain we weren’t seen. Bingo! A Nova with the dashboard completely absent, but it started right up. In a loud whisper, I called for my soon to be accomplice to,
“come on”. We didn’t get three blocks when we pulled up to a four way stop sign and there was one of Kirkwood’s finest making a left hand turn from our right to left. As he passed by me, window to window, he gestured to me that my lights weren’t on. I responded with a hand gesture of “o k” and promptly made a right hand turn to the third driveway on the right, where Kenny and I exited the rolling evidence. We ran hastily to a nearby church where we could still see the car but could not be seen ourselves. After ten minutes we concluded the coast was clear, so we slithered back into the car and got the lights, wipers, and heater to work. Still pumped with adrenalin, we decide to head for the eastside as all the bars on the Missouri side were already closed.
A couple of hours later, we were headed back to Missouri and opted to stop by a little greasy spoon named Mr. Mac’s and get some breakfast. Kenny was driving as we were going down Arsenal Street from I-55. The car was dying when we came to stop signs, so Kenny was kind of rolling through the plethora of intersections Arsenal Street offers. When, just as we were approaching our seedy destination, we saw the flashing lights of a police car in our rearview mirror. Kenny proceeded to make the left turn he had already signaled to do, hoping the cop would just keep on going. We would not be so lucky, for it was us he was pulling over. Our hearts fell into our gut with a thud as we contemplated spending the next five years in prison. As the officer strolled somberly toward the driver side window, I felt my freedoms slipping away. “Driver’s license and registration please,” he said deliberately. Kenny replied, “I don’t have my wallet, but I think Kevin does.” I was quite certain that my incarceration was about to begin when the officer asked me to step out of the car. Thoughts of flight filled my head, my heart pounded erratically as my clammy hand reached for the handle. The door seemed to weigh a ton, for it separated me from the safety within and my captor on the other side.
As I reluctantly pried my fear frozen body from the anonymity I once had, my legs too shaky to run, I realized, my name from this point forward, would indelibly be tied to this stolen vehicle.
As I was reaching into my back pocket, all of a sudden this woman came running down California Street from a couple blocks away, screaming at the top of her lungs,” Officer! Officer! My baby can’t breathe.” With the reflexes of a puma, Kenny bolted toward the woman like a man with a mission. Turning back after he had run about a hundred feet or so, Kenny, a paramedic in the Air Force for a few years, waved to the officer who was still standing there a little dumbfounded, to “come on.” As the officer began running at full trot toward the woman and Kenny, I felt my freedoms soak back into my veins. Suddenly I found myself standing there alone next to the stolen vehicle and a cold, empty squad car still running with lights a flashing. I turned my attention to the spacious liberty of the opposite direction and began walking briskly toward my new found freedom. I circled four or five square blocks over the course of the next hour to a perch three or so blocks from Mr. Mac’s, where I could see that the squad car was no longer there, but the Nova was. I sauntered my way to the front door to find Kenny sitting in Mr. Mac’s sipping a cup of deserved coffee wearing a huge glowing smile. When I walked in he gushed, “You are not going to believe what happened.” Stoically, he told me his account of how when he and the officer got there, the baby of twelve to eighteen
months of age had turned blue and was not breathing. He then gave the baby mouth to mouth resuscitation while the officer called for an ambulance. For ten long minutes he had supplied the baby’s lungs with life giving oxygen until relieved by the paramedics. Once relieved he turned to the officer and apologized for leaving his wallet on the kitchen table, but before he could say “kitchen,” the officer interrupted him with a conciliatory pat on the back and that he need not worry about it. Moments latter they walked back to the cars, shook hands, and the officer sped off to another call.
There we were, in too much shock of what had transpired to converse in complete sentences, but we completely understood each other. I enjoyed the delectable flavor of scrambled eggs and freedom while Kenny wolfed down a giant portion of hero’s biscuits and gravy .Truly that was the best breakfast either one of us had ever eaten.
The desperation risk we took was grave. Our excepted freedoms were the stake we gambled with so carelessly. But all of it was necessary for us to arrive at a point in time to save an infant’s life. Yes, sometimes rewards are oblivious to risk.
1st Place Winner of ECC English Dept's Fall 2008 Non-Fiction Contest
Jennifer Dixon
Sisters in Crime
Heat drips from the popsicles making our hands sticky with red. We work quickly; finishing the popsicles before the unyielding August sun devours them. My little sister sighs deeply and wipes at her crimson stained mouth with the cuff of her t-shirt.
“I am soooo boooored,” she whines, throwing her head down and snapping her sweaty, blond ponytail forward, cheerleader style.
“Trisha, you are soooooo dramatic,” I mock, while wiping my hands on my faded blue jean shorts.
There are three short days left of our break and boredom hangs in the air like an dark rain cloud. Long days of droning teachers and restrictive desks loom ever near, threatening our summer freedom. The smell of pool chlorine, the chime of the ice cream man’s jingle, and juicy, blue-raspberry sno cones will be replaced. Our days will soon be filled with the odor of #2 pencil shavings, the squeak of chalk on freshly washed blackboards, and the bland cafeteria mush served up by disgruntled, hair-net wearing lunch ladies who sport hairy moles like they are the latest fad.
She glances up at me from where she sits on our concrete steps. Aqua blue eyes, so similar to my own, shoot laser beams of contempt in my direction. I study her face, waiting for her sarcastic reply, and notice her freckles have multiplied exponentially since the start of summer. She opens her mouth, ready to let me have it, and is interrupted by the rusty squeak of our screen door. We turn and see Mom poking her head out.
“Girls, I’m gonna run to the store to pick up a few things. You think you’ll be okay for an hour or so?”
“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” I say, ready to assume the role of boss for the next hour. Trisha nods in approval.
Mom ducks back into the house and returns seconds later with keys and purse in tow. She hurries toward the car, yelling out her last reminders over her shoulder.
“You guys know the rules when I’m gone. No using the stove and don’t answer the door for anyone!”
Trisha and I both nod in false obedience, anxious for a whole hour free from parental guidance. She hops into the family Citation, a dull two-tone maroon, and rolls down the window to release the hot, stuffy air. Before pulling out, she calls out the window.
“Be good girls. I love you.”
We wave as she drives away, feeling the weight of authority lift. Trisha and I lock eyes; sly grins overtake our faces. Our previous altercation now forgotten, my sister and I are now ready for mischief…good old-fashioned mischief. We escape into the air-conditioning of our living room and I lock the door behind us, all alone with ideas of trouble.
“So…whadaya wanna do?” she asks, curious to see what bright idea I’ll come up with this time. I am never short of unique ideas for having fun and Trisha is always willing to go along for the unpredictable ride. Let me think…there was the time we washed the dishes while we took a bath in our swimsuits; two chores for the price of one. The time we put a twelve-pound bowling ball on our trampoline, batting it down and playing a warped game of keep away as we jumped around. Trisha sacrificed two front teeth for that day of twisted fun. And, who could forget, canned food art. We lined up different cans of food in the road and watched, hidden from sight, as cars unknowingly became artists. Our climatic excitement was always satisfied by the impending *POP* as the colorful food burst from its tin prison, then *SPLAT* as it sprayed in a thick, abstract pattern over the black asphalt canvas.
“Well, we can’t use the stove. We can’t go outside,” I rattle things off trying to find inspiration on the trail of “cant’s.” Trisha, startled by her own strike of genius, throws her arms up in an “A-ha” moment.
“We can’t use the stove, right? But, Mom didn’t say ANYTHING about the microwave!” Her red stained lips break into a maniacal smile, and with her cheeks still rosy from the heat, she takes on the appearance of a lunatic clown. Her genius in finding this loophole is the catalyst that sparks my best idea yet. I grab Trisha by her chubby wrists and begin ranting.
“Oh my gosh! I just though of something! You know how when Mom bakes and we ask for a taste and we only get like a teeny-tiny teaspoonful. And then she says we can lick the bowl, but scrapes out ever last drop. We could totally make like a whole bowl of icing just to eat. We could have it all to ourselves,” I sputter on, breathlessly, unable to control my excitement. I have spoken words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust. I have cast my spell. Her eyes glaze over and her mouth falls open. She is thinking about the delight she will find at the bottom of a bowl filled with sweet, gooey icing.
I tug her arm, coaxing her gently in the direction of the kitchen. I continue filling her in on the details of my perfect plan.
“Okay. So, I’ve seen Mom make icing a million times. There are only like three ingredients.” I begin going through the cabinets searching for what I need. Trisha stands back, unsure what to do. Then, she thinks of something and jumps on our kitchen counter.
I begin to pile ingredients on our slick, wood table top: powdered sugar, butter, vanilla…What are we missing…? Trisha interjects my thought.
“Hey, don’t we need to dye it?” she asks twisting around from her kneeling position on the counter. She is holding the small box of liquid colors we use for Easter eggs.
“Yeah. Pick out whatever color you want.” She nods and slips a small, dunce capped red bottle from the box.
We go to work like pre-teen mad scientists. Powdered sugar and mischievous giggles fill the air in our tiny kitchen. All is going well until we dump in a whole stick of melted butter and several generous squirts of the red dye. We stir until our arms grow tired, but something isn’t right.
“It doesn’t look right,” my worried accomplice says, disappointed. I have to agree. The bowl is filled with a thin, goopy, lumpy mess of pink. Foamy bubbles have gathered on top from our vigorous stirring.
“Well, we haven’t used the mixer yet. Once we blend everything together it will be perfect,” I coax, unwilling to admit that our Pepto-Bismol concoction would not hold up to icing a Twinkie. She grabs the mixer and plops it in the bowl. Then, disaster ensues.
As soon as she flips the switch the bowl goes into a schizophrenic rage. It twists and turns, leaving the wallpapered kitchen dripping pink like bulimic Barbie threw up her cotton candy binge.
“TURN IT OFF….TURN IT OFF!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Trisha pushes a button and the room falls silent. We meet eyes and share a moment of trepidation. We both know we will be dead once our Mom walks through the door. I’m not sure how she will carry it out, but I will not live to see junior high, kiss a boy, or drive. Trisha will not live to know what it is like to wake up with a dry bed in the morning and her Luke Perry poster will go unkissed forevermore.
“Okay…I think we have time to clean this up,” I say, panicked. Death is looming near, driving the speed limit in a two-tone Citation.
“Trish, we have time.” Her blue eyes are watering, bottom lip shaking. Her purple track shirt is splattered with icing. I run to the sink and grab a wash rag and throw it in her direction.
“Start cleaning!” We go to scrubbing like two janitors who get paid serious dough for a living. I’ve never worked so hard or fast in my life.
“We’re gonna get away with this, Trish,” I beam in her direction. Her face is red and shiny with sweat.
“Why do we always do…” She is interrupted by our squeaky screen door.
“Girls, you need to come help me bring some stuff in,” Mom’s voice breaks my confidence. I glance around and am semi-satisfied with our clean up, but the bowl of icing still sits on the ….
“Girls did you…” She stops in the doorway. We are caught, pink-handed, holding sponges and the best evidence of all, the goop filled bowl screams from the middle of our table. She scans the room, her eyes smoking with fury. Most of the walls are clean now, but a few streaks of incrimination remain. She takes in a huge breath to gather her Mom wits and probably to contemplate the best way to get rid of two small bodies. Trisha and I remain still, trying to appreciate what remains of our lives. I’m sure gonna miss my family, especially Trisha. I glance in her direction and my Mom’s anger grabs my attention.
“What were you girls…You know what, never mind. I don’t know what little pink potion you guys created, but you’re gonna eat every last drop. Your Dad and I work too hard to be wasting food. I hope it tastes better than it looks,” she makes her way over to our utensil drawer and scoops out… two… spoons...whew—not a knife. She slings them on the table. The metallic clatter makes my stomach roll. Trisha and I remain as silent and still as GI Joe soldiers.
“I’m going to bring groceries in and you guys are gonna have your pink dinner and then you’re gonna finish cleaning up this kitchen. Bon appétit,” she smiles satisfied with her wicked punishment. She whips around and stalks out the kitchen door. We do not move or speak until we hear the slam of the screen door.
“Well, I guess it’s time to eat,” I try to make a joke.
“She was real mad,” Trisha says. We sit down across from each other and grab our tarnished, silver spoons. We hear the screen open again, and Mom floats through the kitchen. She is obviously pleased with the Mom justice she has smacked down. She begins unpacking the groceries onto the counter.
“Eat up, girls! Your dinner’s getting cold,” she punctuates her statement with a Cheshire grin, and sidles back out of the room.
“How bad can it be? It’s just powdered sugar, butter, and red dye,” I say, anxious to get this over with. I delicately dip my spoon in the bowl to get a tiny taste. I know, if I go first Trisha is more likely to follow and we can get over this pink hump. I poke my tongue out and close my eyes. The cold glop meets my taste buds and I realize this might not be so bad. Mom thought she was giving us a tough punishment, but this tastes like liquid cotton candy.
“Mmmmm…it’s not too bad,” I let Trisha know it is safe to dive in to the lagoon. She goes for it and the sick face she is wearing dissipates and is replaced by a smile of relief. We alternate dipping, then licking our spoons. My Mom quietly continues to put away the groceries and, eventually, leaves us by ourselves.
After 203 dips, and 202 licks we begin to understand the downside. I am getting nauseous and Trisha is turning a color that could only be named on a crayon. Maybe ‘I’m Gonna Puke’ green. The sound of it makes my ears smile.
It is at this moment, watching Trisha dutifully choke down her portion of this disaster, that I understand; we are in this thing together. The earliest memory I can recall involves her; the day my parents brought her home from the hospital. And from then on out, we have been sharing baths, secrets, and spankings. There is no one else on this planet that laughs at my corny jokes or willingly carries out my stupid schemes like she does. We tend to get ourselves in some messy situations, but we always come out laughing with another shared disaster under our high tops. I am thoughtfully staring at my green hued partner in…No, sister in crime when Mom pokes her head in and tells us we can stop eating.
“You girls need to finish cleaning these walls before your Dad gets home.”
“Okay,” we say in thankful unison. I gladly pick up the bowl and carry the remainder of the sweet nastiness to our sink. I wet a sponge and toss it in Trisha’s direction. She goes to work cleaning the remainder of our gaffe and I begin washing the bowl when I hear my sister speak words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust:
“So, what do ya wanna do tomorrow?”
Sisters in Crime
Heat drips from the popsicles making our hands sticky with red. We work quickly; finishing the popsicles before the unyielding August sun devours them. My little sister sighs deeply and wipes at her crimson stained mouth with the cuff of her t-shirt.
“I am soooo boooored,” she whines, throwing her head down and snapping her sweaty, blond ponytail forward, cheerleader style.
“Trisha, you are soooooo dramatic,” I mock, while wiping my hands on my faded blue jean shorts.
There are three short days left of our break and boredom hangs in the air like an dark rain cloud. Long days of droning teachers and restrictive desks loom ever near, threatening our summer freedom. The smell of pool chlorine, the chime of the ice cream man’s jingle, and juicy, blue-raspberry sno cones will be replaced. Our days will soon be filled with the odor of #2 pencil shavings, the squeak of chalk on freshly washed blackboards, and the bland cafeteria mush served up by disgruntled, hair-net wearing lunch ladies who sport hairy moles like they are the latest fad.
She glances up at me from where she sits on our concrete steps. Aqua blue eyes, so similar to my own, shoot laser beams of contempt in my direction. I study her face, waiting for her sarcastic reply, and notice her freckles have multiplied exponentially since the start of summer. She opens her mouth, ready to let me have it, and is interrupted by the rusty squeak of our screen door. We turn and see Mom poking her head out.
“Girls, I’m gonna run to the store to pick up a few things. You think you’ll be okay for an hour or so?”
“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” I say, ready to assume the role of boss for the next hour. Trisha nods in approval.
Mom ducks back into the house and returns seconds later with keys and purse in tow. She hurries toward the car, yelling out her last reminders over her shoulder.
“You guys know the rules when I’m gone. No using the stove and don’t answer the door for anyone!”
Trisha and I both nod in false obedience, anxious for a whole hour free from parental guidance. She hops into the family Citation, a dull two-tone maroon, and rolls down the window to release the hot, stuffy air. Before pulling out, she calls out the window.
“Be good girls. I love you.”
We wave as she drives away, feeling the weight of authority lift. Trisha and I lock eyes; sly grins overtake our faces. Our previous altercation now forgotten, my sister and I are now ready for mischief…good old-fashioned mischief. We escape into the air-conditioning of our living room and I lock the door behind us, all alone with ideas of trouble.
“So…whadaya wanna do?” she asks, curious to see what bright idea I’ll come up with this time. I am never short of unique ideas for having fun and Trisha is always willing to go along for the unpredictable ride. Let me think…there was the time we washed the dishes while we took a bath in our swimsuits; two chores for the price of one. The time we put a twelve-pound bowling ball on our trampoline, batting it down and playing a warped game of keep away as we jumped around. Trisha sacrificed two front teeth for that day of twisted fun. And, who could forget, canned food art. We lined up different cans of food in the road and watched, hidden from sight, as cars unknowingly became artists. Our climatic excitement was always satisfied by the impending *POP* as the colorful food burst from its tin prison, then *SPLAT* as it sprayed in a thick, abstract pattern over the black asphalt canvas.
“Well, we can’t use the stove. We can’t go outside,” I rattle things off trying to find inspiration on the trail of “cant’s.” Trisha, startled by her own strike of genius, throws her arms up in an “A-ha” moment.
“We can’t use the stove, right? But, Mom didn’t say ANYTHING about the microwave!” Her red stained lips break into a maniacal smile, and with her cheeks still rosy from the heat, she takes on the appearance of a lunatic clown. Her genius in finding this loophole is the catalyst that sparks my best idea yet. I grab Trisha by her chubby wrists and begin ranting.
“Oh my gosh! I just though of something! You know how when Mom bakes and we ask for a taste and we only get like a teeny-tiny teaspoonful. And then she says we can lick the bowl, but scrapes out ever last drop. We could totally make like a whole bowl of icing just to eat. We could have it all to ourselves,” I sputter on, breathlessly, unable to control my excitement. I have spoken words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust. I have cast my spell. Her eyes glaze over and her mouth falls open. She is thinking about the delight she will find at the bottom of a bowl filled with sweet, gooey icing.
I tug her arm, coaxing her gently in the direction of the kitchen. I continue filling her in on the details of my perfect plan.
“Okay. So, I’ve seen Mom make icing a million times. There are only like three ingredients.” I begin going through the cabinets searching for what I need. Trisha stands back, unsure what to do. Then, she thinks of something and jumps on our kitchen counter.
I begin to pile ingredients on our slick, wood table top: powdered sugar, butter, vanilla…What are we missing…? Trisha interjects my thought.
“Hey, don’t we need to dye it?” she asks twisting around from her kneeling position on the counter. She is holding the small box of liquid colors we use for Easter eggs.
“Yeah. Pick out whatever color you want.” She nods and slips a small, dunce capped red bottle from the box.
We go to work like pre-teen mad scientists. Powdered sugar and mischievous giggles fill the air in our tiny kitchen. All is going well until we dump in a whole stick of melted butter and several generous squirts of the red dye. We stir until our arms grow tired, but something isn’t right.
“It doesn’t look right,” my worried accomplice says, disappointed. I have to agree. The bowl is filled with a thin, goopy, lumpy mess of pink. Foamy bubbles have gathered on top from our vigorous stirring.
“Well, we haven’t used the mixer yet. Once we blend everything together it will be perfect,” I coax, unwilling to admit that our Pepto-Bismol concoction would not hold up to icing a Twinkie. She grabs the mixer and plops it in the bowl. Then, disaster ensues.
As soon as she flips the switch the bowl goes into a schizophrenic rage. It twists and turns, leaving the wallpapered kitchen dripping pink like bulimic Barbie threw up her cotton candy binge.
“TURN IT OFF….TURN IT OFF!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Trisha pushes a button and the room falls silent. We meet eyes and share a moment of trepidation. We both know we will be dead once our Mom walks through the door. I’m not sure how she will carry it out, but I will not live to see junior high, kiss a boy, or drive. Trisha will not live to know what it is like to wake up with a dry bed in the morning and her Luke Perry poster will go unkissed forevermore.
“Okay…I think we have time to clean this up,” I say, panicked. Death is looming near, driving the speed limit in a two-tone Citation.
“Trish, we have time.” Her blue eyes are watering, bottom lip shaking. Her purple track shirt is splattered with icing. I run to the sink and grab a wash rag and throw it in her direction.
“Start cleaning!” We go to scrubbing like two janitors who get paid serious dough for a living. I’ve never worked so hard or fast in my life.
“We’re gonna get away with this, Trish,” I beam in her direction. Her face is red and shiny with sweat.
“Why do we always do…” She is interrupted by our squeaky screen door.
“Girls, you need to come help me bring some stuff in,” Mom’s voice breaks my confidence. I glance around and am semi-satisfied with our clean up, but the bowl of icing still sits on the ….
“Girls did you…” She stops in the doorway. We are caught, pink-handed, holding sponges and the best evidence of all, the goop filled bowl screams from the middle of our table. She scans the room, her eyes smoking with fury. Most of the walls are clean now, but a few streaks of incrimination remain. She takes in a huge breath to gather her Mom wits and probably to contemplate the best way to get rid of two small bodies. Trisha and I remain still, trying to appreciate what remains of our lives. I’m sure gonna miss my family, especially Trisha. I glance in her direction and my Mom’s anger grabs my attention.
“What were you girls…You know what, never mind. I don’t know what little pink potion you guys created, but you’re gonna eat every last drop. Your Dad and I work too hard to be wasting food. I hope it tastes better than it looks,” she makes her way over to our utensil drawer and scoops out… two… spoons...whew—not a knife. She slings them on the table. The metallic clatter makes my stomach roll. Trisha and I remain as silent and still as GI Joe soldiers.
“I’m going to bring groceries in and you guys are gonna have your pink dinner and then you’re gonna finish cleaning up this kitchen. Bon appétit,” she smiles satisfied with her wicked punishment. She whips around and stalks out the kitchen door. We do not move or speak until we hear the slam of the screen door.
“Well, I guess it’s time to eat,” I try to make a joke.
“She was real mad,” Trisha says. We sit down across from each other and grab our tarnished, silver spoons. We hear the screen open again, and Mom floats through the kitchen. She is obviously pleased with the Mom justice she has smacked down. She begins unpacking the groceries onto the counter.
“Eat up, girls! Your dinner’s getting cold,” she punctuates her statement with a Cheshire grin, and sidles back out of the room.
“How bad can it be? It’s just powdered sugar, butter, and red dye,” I say, anxious to get this over with. I delicately dip my spoon in the bowl to get a tiny taste. I know, if I go first Trisha is more likely to follow and we can get over this pink hump. I poke my tongue out and close my eyes. The cold glop meets my taste buds and I realize this might not be so bad. Mom thought she was giving us a tough punishment, but this tastes like liquid cotton candy.
“Mmmmm…it’s not too bad,” I let Trisha know it is safe to dive in to the lagoon. She goes for it and the sick face she is wearing dissipates and is replaced by a smile of relief. We alternate dipping, then licking our spoons. My Mom quietly continues to put away the groceries and, eventually, leaves us by ourselves.
After 203 dips, and 202 licks we begin to understand the downside. I am getting nauseous and Trisha is turning a color that could only be named on a crayon. Maybe ‘I’m Gonna Puke’ green. The sound of it makes my ears smile.
It is at this moment, watching Trisha dutifully choke down her portion of this disaster, that I understand; we are in this thing together. The earliest memory I can recall involves her; the day my parents brought her home from the hospital. And from then on out, we have been sharing baths, secrets, and spankings. There is no one else on this planet that laughs at my corny jokes or willingly carries out my stupid schemes like she does. We tend to get ourselves in some messy situations, but we always come out laughing with another shared disaster under our high tops. I am thoughtfully staring at my green hued partner in…No, sister in crime when Mom pokes her head in and tells us we can stop eating.
“You girls need to finish cleaning these walls before your Dad gets home.”
“Okay,” we say in thankful unison. I gladly pick up the bowl and carry the remainder of the sweet nastiness to our sink. I wet a sponge and toss it in Trisha’s direction. She goes to work cleaning the remainder of our gaffe and I begin washing the bowl when I hear my sister speak words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust:
“So, what do ya wanna do tomorrow?”
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