Chapter 3* - Honey

Sitting up on my knees at our round yellow kitchen table, I cut out orange bubble letters outlined in black magic marker to paste on my big black poster board. My long red pigtails keep falling forward, so I have to keep swishing them back behind my shoulders. I should’ve put it in a ponytail. There’s a Poster Contest going on at East Elementary, and I wanna to win. 

My mom is trying not to help too much, but I can tell she wants my poster to look as good as I do.  She cuts out some more letters that I have drawn as I use my small rounded scissors to cut around the curves of the ghosts’ pretty white skirts. It’s difficult to get a smooth pleasing edge, but I can do it with patience and some good trim work. My forehead wrinkles as I concentrate. 

This is gonna look so good. I bet I’ll be the only one with black poster board. I bet everybody else’ll use white. I rotate the orange top of my Elmer’s glue and breathe in deep. That smells so good. Squeezing it just the right amount, I squiggle it across the back of the capital cut out H. I hold it by the edges and carefully turn it over to stick it on the straight line I drew with my pencil and a ruler. As I press down, the glue squirts out from under the corners. Oh no, that doesn’t look good. It’s all messy.  I feel like giving up. Sensing my disappointment, my mom comes to the rescue. She takes her index finger and wipes the excess glue off with one clean swoop. “You won’t be able to tell when it dries,” she says, and I believe her. 

“Don’t put the glue all the way to the edge; leave room for it to spread out. Here, like this,” she shows me on the letter A.  Hers looks better, much better, and I wanna try again. I successfully do both of the L’s, and learn that less is more. Big globs of glue make it bumpy. Finally, after what feels like hours, I’m done. Feeling satisfied, I admire my finished product as I move it to the fancy dining room table, that we never use, to dry. 

My mom’s at the stove cooking spaghetti for dinner.  “Clean up your mess,” she says. “Ok.”  I put the black magic marker back in its gold and green box and close it up. Then I glance at my mom’s back. She’s not looking. So I put some Elmer’s glue on my fingers and rub it in like a glove. Because I love letting it dry and peeling it off, a thing I discovered by accident. That feels so cool. I wanna do my whole hand. It smells like it would taste good, but somehow I know it doesn’t. “What are you doin’ over there, Honey?” Mom asks, turning towards the sink from the stove. “Nothin’,” I say cheerily, but she can see exactly what I’ve done by the clear glue skeletons now lying on the table. 

“I don’t think that’s good for your skin.  Don’t do it anymore, ok?” she says. “Ok.” But I’ll do it over and over again when my mom is not around. It’ll be my childhood guilty pleasure, that and drinking Carnation Instant Breakfast straight from the package. Mom lets me drink it in the morning like my dad, but I got in trouble once for pouring the powder directly into my mouth. Yum. “Shannon, what are you doing? Hand me that,” she had said. “But Momma. . .” I replied, handing over the package. “This is a drink. It’s not good for you that way. Do you hear me?” she asks. “Yes, m’am,” I reply. But it’s yummy.  I sulk and walk back to the kitchen table to eat my Wheaties that are soggy, but that’s ok with me. Mom and I both like ‘em soggy. 

So when Mom’s downstairs doing laundry I climb up on the kitchen counter, get out a white single serving packet, tear off the corner, and take a hit. My heart beats fast the whole time, but it totally feels worth it. When I hear her coming, I roll and crinkle the top edge of the packet down and hide it behind the cherry wood buffet in the dining room. That way I can return to it any time I’m in the mood for a delicious snack. And I do. I’m mildly sneaky at the age of nine. 

That will lead to hiding concoctions that I mix up in the bathtub, with my baby brother, using Colgate Shaving Cream, Prell Shampoo, and Johnson’s Baby Powder.  I’ll sneakily transfer them to the space below my pretty white dresser, because they were so cool looking that I just couldn’t bear to pour them down the drain. “At least not yet,” I would think at the end of my bath.

Down the shiny lacquered wood floor hall I go, poster in hand, the next day at school. After I deposit my orange Snoopy lunchbox in the coat closet, I run into Christy Freeman. Christy is holding a brand new Strawberry Shortcake doll she got for her birthday and brags that she also has Blueberry Muffin. I’m jealous. My mom said no when I asked her if I could have the latest fad collection of dolls. She said I’d have to wait until Christmas and ask Santa. “You can come over and play with them at my house,” Christy says. “Ok,” I say and immediately let go of my resentment. I love playing with dolls, and hers even smell good. I don’t have any dolls that smell.

Toward the front of the room I go to turn my poster in to Mrs. Strickland, my third grade teacher.  “Nice job, Shannon.  It looks like you worked really hard on this,” she says.  “I did,” I say happily, thrilled that she noticed. 

When it’s time for break, Mrs. Strickland asks for volunteers to stay in and help rearrange the desks.  Susan and I volunteer.  We are given creative license and consider ourselves brilliant as we manage to seat Patrick Dean and Stephen Skinner next to both of us.  Patrick Dean is in love with Susan.  He has been for as long as I can remember.  I wish he were in love with me, but I pick Stephen Skinner as my runner up since Patrick is effectively taken.  “Do you think they’ll know we did it?” I ask.  “No, boys don’t notice stuff like that,” says Susan.  “They’ll think Mrs. Strickland did it.”  We break into giggles as we relish our secret.  We are giddy at the thought of sitting next to the nicest two boys in our class.  Patrick Dean is soo funny. 

“Ok, students.  Put your books away.  Tomorrow you will be tested on your times tables, so make sure you practice them tonight.  That’s your only homework.”  Books slam shut as our teacher talks and are noisily shoved into the square metal compartments under our seats.  I lift my desktop to stow my pencil and eraser inside for safekeeping.  I hear, “the winners of the poster contest,” and look up, “will see their posters on the wall by the office,” says Mrs. Strickland just as the bell rings.  I dash out of our classroom to see if I won. 

My poster is hanging over the handrail about halfway down with a big white ribbon stuck on it.  I got third place!  A huge grin breaks out across my face.  I can’t help it.  I’m proud of myself and so happy.  My poster will hang on the wall for a whole week of school and at the Halloween Carnival.  It’s right by the front door.  There’s no tellin’ how many people will see it.  A lot, that’s for sure.  My mom will be so proud. 

I head to my Aunt Lesia’s second grade classroom to tell her the good news.  “Aunt Lesia, I got third place in the poster contest,” I say as I walk through her door.  “I know.  Congratulations!  I saw your poster on the wall.  I’m proud of you,” she says with a smile.  “Thanks,” I reply.  She’s like my second mom. 

While I wait for her to finish up her work, I browse through the color-coded SRA box.  My cousin Natalie comes in and starts drawing on the chalkboard.  “Can y’all go clean those erasers?” Lesia asks.  “Ye-ah,” Natalie says.  We slide the erasers along the metal holder to wipe up as much chalk as possible. Outside the second grade entrance, behind a row of neatly squared bushes, we bang the erasers as hard as we can on the building’s red brick wall.  “I don’t think we’re supposed to do this,” I say to Natalie, but she just laughs and keeps banging because it’s fun.  The erasers leave a big white cloud of marks on the brick wall, a sign, we agree, of a job well done.

When I get home and tell my mom about my ribbon, she gives me a big hug.  “That’s great, “ she says and I can tell she means it.  “Where’s your lunchbox?” she asks.  “I forgot it,” I say matter of factly.  “Again?  Shannon, you only have two lunchboxes.  What am I going to do with you?  Now they’re both at school.”  “I didn’t mean to, Mom,” I say.  I feel bad for disappointing her.  “I know.  I know you didn’t.  It’s ok.”  She’s quiet, but I can tell she’s thinking, because she’s staring off into the distance.  “You know what?” she finally says.  “I have an idea.  How about we do a lunchbox contest?” 

“Huh?” I turn my head sideways like a puppy and look at her.  What is she talking about?  “If you can remember your lunch box for two whole weeks, you can have a spend-the-night party,” she tells me.  “Really??” I ask.  This is like a dream come true.  “Yes.  But you can’t forget your lunchbox, not even once.”  It’s so hard to remember.  It’s all the way back in the coat closet, and it’s in a cubbyhole that isn’t by my coat.  I forget my coat a lot, too. 

“Momma, I can do it.  I know I can,” I say.   “Well, I hope you’re right.  And if you do, you get a party.”  My mom is singing my song.  I have been asking to have a spend-the-night party since I knew they existed. “Mom, if I remember to bring my lunchbox home everyday, can I get a metal lunchbox?” I ask.  She purses her dark red lips and looks up and away to think about it.  She is a proponent only of plastic ones, which has been a point of contention.  “Yes, I guess so.  It’ll be worth it.  If you can do it, I’ll let you get a metal lunch box, too.”  “Yay!  I know exactly what I want.  I want a Charlie’s Angels one!  They have ‘em at Big K,” I tell her.  “Ok, well you better remember your lunchbox tomorrow,” she says with a laugh.

For two whole weeks, I bring my lunchbox home religiously and get a party as promised.  Christy Freeman comes with a present.  Her mom, Pat, has cross-stitched “Shannon Carter Never Forgets Anymore” on a white a cotton circle neatly centered in a blonde wooden butterfly.  My mom proudly hangs it up on my bedroom wall. 

And, true to her word, my mom lets me pick out and carry to school the coolest powder blue Charlie’s Angels lunchbox.  Unfortunately, I am still, by far, the most forgetful person I know, alarmingly so.  Sometimes I wonder if there is a slow growing tumor in my brain that is the root of it all.  I really hope not, but I do wonder.  People in my life have graciously put up with it for the most part, but it is not what I would call charming. 

Ooh, that’s ugly.  In the bathroom mirror I’m watching my mom smear green face paint on my forehead and down my nose.  It’s making me uglier by the minute, so  I have a serious case of trick or treater’s remorse. 

“What should I be for Halloween this year?” I had asked my mom a week ago.  “How about a witch?” she suggested with a twinkle in her eye.  She loves Halloween and is old school about it.  She likes ghosts, vampires, mummies, and witches.  She is not a fan of demons and their accompanying movies that are in vogue.  As we speak, there is a fairly impressive spook house (we could charge admission, but we don’t) in our unfinished storage room that was creepy to begin with.  It has cinder block walls that smell like wet cement and a long skinny reinforced hallway for tornadoes at the very back that my cousins and I dare each other to walk down in the dark. 

Every October, we hang enormous fake cobwebs across the front of our house, put a black light in the foyer, play scary music over the intercom, and my mom dresses up.  This year she’s wearing a black leather jumpsuit and going as Cat Woman.  Last year, she was Shirley and Susan’s mom, Rita, was Laverne.  Our dads were Lenny and Squiggy.  They all looked really good.

Mom’s Halloween goodie bags, reserved for special trick or treaters (people we know), are neighborhood-renowned.  This year, they contain vampire teeth, glow-in-the-dark stickers, clear fake fingers with long red nails, and glow-in-the-dark splat skeletons - you know, the kind you throw on the wall that sticks for a while then rolls down satisfactorily.   To the masses, Mom and I hand out generous portions of M & M’s, Double Bubble gum and the best candy of all, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  We live in Larkwood, the rich neighborhood, so we get a lot of Halloween traffic.  Frankie Sapp lives next to a cemetery.  He gets almost none. 

“Mom, can we rent the Exorcist?” I ask, because Susan has seen it and says it’s good.  “No.  I don’t want you watching that,” she says firmly.  “Why?  You love scary movies.  It’s supposed to be really scary and good,” I counter.  “I don’t like that kind of scary movie,” she says. “I don’t like anything with demons.”  Well, I guess that settles it.  End of discussion. 

When I said yes to witch, I just thought of the pointy hat.  My outfit turns out to be a boring black dress with black pants underneath it.  Ahh, my nose itches.  But if I scratch I’ll mess it up.  I have to scratch it.  It tickles too much.  I raise my right hand from under the cheap black cloth and scratch it with the tip of my pinky fingernail then I squint and lean forward to look in the mirror.  Oh good.  You can’t even tell.  “Shannon, hold still,” my mom says, coming towards me with a thick black eyeliner pencil.  I lean back, and she circles my eyes with it.  She’s making it worse.  I look so ugly.  “How’s that?” she asks admiring her work.  “Ugly!” I say.  “Good,” she says, “Witches are supposed to be ugly.”  Why didn’t I think about that?  As the corners of my mouth turn down, I walk out of the room to find my pumpkin.  I should’ve been a ballerina.  But it’s too late.  It’s almost dark out.  Halloween comes around once a year, and I have blown it.  Oh well, I think to myself, next year I’ll be somethin’ pretty.  I find my pumpkin parked at the top of the stairs. 

Mom and I are going trick or treating with Aunt Lesia, my cousin Natalie, and our baby siblings, Leslie and Steve.  We leisurely traipse around our safe, friendly neighborhood and collect as much candy as we can.  Then we drive two miles to Granny’s to show off our costumes and take pictures at her house.   We stand on the front porch and ring her doorbell instead of going around back like we normally do.  “My goodness,” she says with a good-natured laugh, “you look very scary.  I don’t know if I should let you in.”  But she holds the door open and we tromp on in.  There’s a basket of butterscotch in her hand, and she puts a handful in each of our pumpkins as we walk by.  Gran-ny, I don’t like butterscotch!  Then she follows us past the piano and into the kitchen.  “Shannon, the Sweet Tarts are on the counter,” she says.  She remembered!  Sweet Tarts are my favorite.  I take several single serving packages for later and tear open one for now.  “Natalie, Shannon, stand over here (in front of the brown shuttered doors hiding the washer), so I can get a picture,” Granny says.  “Toogie, go stand with Natalie.” She’s talking to Leslie.  Mom puts Steve down beside me in his clown costume, and I hold his baby hand.  Just as we are about to take the picture, the doorbell rings and we hear my cousin Matthew yell Trick or Treat as he comes in.  “Sharnin!” he yells the minute he sees me.  Before Steve came along, we both liked to pretend he was my little brother.  He’s dressed like a monkey and twice as active and loud.  I pick him up and give him a hug.  “Matthew, stand by Shannon, and let’s take a picture of all of you together,” Granny says.  I hold his shoulders to stop him from wiggling, and on three we all say cheese.   

At home, my mom washes off the itchy cracking makeup.  Relieved, I go to my room and sit on the gold shag carpet between my twin beds.  After rotating the black handle out of the way, I tip over my orange plastic pumpkin and dump it out on the floor.  It’s time to separate the good from the bad.  I love running around and getting candy, but I don’t really like tasting it.  I bravely put a tootsie roll in my mouth and almost gag.  Yuck.  I spit it out and set it on the wrapper next to my leg.  I will never eat one of those again.  There are tons of Tootsie Rolls in my big pile of candy.  Why does everyone give out Tootsie Rolls?  I’m gonna give ‘em all to Natalie.  They’re gross, but she says she likes ’em.  I don’t know why.

 I find a few Hershey’s kisses, some miniature Crunch bars, and some hard colorful balls in clear plastic that are good.  I stick with what I know.  I eat anything that looks orange or grape flavored.  Anything with nuts goes in the bad pile.  I wish everyone just gave out Sweet Tarts like Granny.  Those were gone by the time we got home.  I avoid the plenteous Snickers or anything caramel-colored.  And butterscotch.  Like Tootsie Rolls, butterscotch is ubiquitous, and I really wish it weren’t.  That’s such a dumb name.  They don’t taste like butter at all.  I love butter.  I eat margarine, that we call butter, on a spoon out of the plastic tub in the fridge.  I have no idea there’s a difference.  It’s so good on Captain’s crackers at the All-Steak.  Granny and Granddaddy let me eat as much of it as I want while we wait on hamburger steak and mashed potatoes, mine without gravy.  I can give these to Momma.  She loves butterscotches. They go in a pile on the right along with the tootsie rolls, snickers, and caramel cubes in clear plastic which my mom also loves.  I open up a Milky Way and take a bite.  Not bad, but it’s no Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.   

On Saturday, I dress up like a clown for the East Elementary carnival.  Mom does my makeup while I watch her in the mirror.  Aqua cotton overalls, a hot pink long sleeve shirt, white face paint that also itches, a red ball nose on elastic that I can put on for pictures then wear around my neck if it pinches too much, and a big bright yellow curly wig.  “This is more like it,” I say to my mom.  I look really cute.  “The wig is the best part.”  Mom puts big red circles on my cheeks, and I get to wear bright blue eye shadow.  “This is good.  I should’ve been a clown from the start,” I tell her.  “Live and learn,” she replies.  My mom says that a lot. 

Off we go to the school gym.  I see Natalie as soon as I walk through the door.  “Let’s do the cakewalk first,” she says.  We both love cake and the cakewalk is right next to the door.  “Sounds good to me,” I reply.  It’s fine.  We walk around in circles to music, but neither of us wins a cake.  I don’t want any of the cakes I see.  They all have strawberry icing or coconut or pecans.  Yuck.  But I do wanna win somethin’. 

We walk to the next booth where you use fake fishing poles to catch prizes over a curtain.  This will be more fun.  We both cast poorly, and volunteer parents throw our lines over the curtain into the “water.”  Natalie feels a tug and reels in a tiny plastic maze with a silver ball.  I catch a candy necklace.  Oh, great.  I don’t like candy necklaces.  I mean I don’t think I do. I’ve never tried one.  “Wanna swap?” Natalie asks.  She knows I’m picky.  “Yeah. Do you?”  She nods her head yes.  “Thanks,” I say as I smile and hand over the necklace.  “Let’s go do that,” I say pointing at a booth in front of the stage. 

We walk over to a pink plastic bathtub full of water and yellow plastic ducks.  I look at the woman in charge for instructions.  “You get a prize if the duck you pick has a number on the bottom,” she explains.  Oh, that’s easy.  Natalie and I each pick up a duck and turn them over.  Natalie’s has a number, but mine doesn’t.  She gets a pair of pink and green Chinese handcuffs.  “Thank you,” she says to be polite.  She looks at me with wide eyes as confused as my own.  What is that?  I’m instantly less disappointed.  “What are you supposed to do with those?” I ask.  “Are they some kind of decoration?”  Natalie shrugs her shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Maybe our moms know,” she replies.  “That’s a really bad prize,” I say.  “Yeah, it is,” she says and puts them in her orange plastic pumpkin.    

Our moms talk in the corner while we check out every booth.  Eventually we get back to the cakewalk by the gym door.  “Those cakes look so good,” Natalie says, “I wish Mrs. Hardeman would just give us one.”  Mrs. Hardeman is standing by the kindergarten door and smiles at us.  She really likes Natalie.  “Maybe she would.  She loves you,” I tell her with a tinge of jealousy, but there are only two cakes left and they both have nuts.  No thanks. 

Where did my mom go?  As I scan the gym with my eyes, I see Mrs. Bailey manning a booth.  I wish I had Mrs. Bailey again this year.  Mrs. Strickland’s nice, but she’s too serious.  Mrs. Bailey was funny.  “I’m gonna roll your head down the hall like a bowling ball,” she liked to say when we wouldn’t stop talking.  And, “If y’all don’t quieten down, I’m gonna get out my wet noodle out and give you twenty lashes.” Hilarious. 

“Hey, do you like cinnamon candy?” I ask Natalie.  I know she does.   She’s my younger cousin who, at this age, basically does anything I want her to.  “Mm hm,” she says.  “I know where Mrs. Bailey keeps them.  Want to go get some?” I ask.  “She doesn’t care,” I add trying to convince myself as I say it.  “Sure,” she says.  We walk down the dimly lit hall that seems ominous like Halloween.  It’s a little spooky to be in our school at night.  It feels different.  No one else is around.  The classroom door is open, but the lights are off.  There is just enough light from the hall for us to see inside.  I lead Natalie over behind the heavy gunmetal desk and squat down to open the second drawer from the bottom on the right side.  I can feel my heart beating in my chest. 

There they are, delicious cinnamon candies in translucent red wrappers with pretty white stripes.  I grab a handful and give some to Natalie.  We untwist the ends and each pop one in our mouths crouching behind the desk.  We smile back and forth, because they taste good and make our tongues tingle.  “These are so good,” Natalie says.  “I know,” I say moving the crimson disk around in my mouth, “they’re my favorite.”  We linger for a second, but I know we need to get back to the gym soon, before our moms miss us.  After checking the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, we run back to the gym sucking on heaven’s candy with a few more pieces in our pockets.  I feel gloriously happy. 

“Where did you get that candy?” my mom asks abruptly as we round the corner by the door.  I didn’t even see her coming.  My aunt Lesia, Natalie’s mom, is with her.  “Mrs. Bailey’s room,” I say and look at Mrs. Bailey standing in plain sight across the gym.  “She told us we could get it any time we want.”  I move the candy around in my mouth with my tongue. It’s starting to eat away at my cheek.  I doubt it my mom’s eyes seem to say.  “Are you telling the truth? Where was it?  In her room?  Was she in there?  Did she give it to you?”  She’s onto me.  “No, it’s in a drawer in her desk,” I say with shaky confidence.  “I don’t think Mrs. Bailey would allow children to go looking in her desk,” my mom replies.  “Well, she doesn’t care,” I say, changing tactics.  “That’s stealing, Shannon.  Is that more candy in your pocket?  You’re gonna have to give the rest back and apologize to her.”  Mild terror fills my body.  There’s nothing I wanna do less than tell Mrs. Bailey, whom I dearly love, that I have stolen candy out of her desk.  “You, too, Natalie,” Lesia says, “you both know better.”  And, she’s right.  We do. 

I hope she won’t be able to find her, but Lesia tracks down Mrs. Bailey, who is no longer at her booth, and we all head to her classroom.  She flips the light on and turns to face us.  “Go ahead,” my mom says, “tell Mrs. Bailey you’re sorry.”  There is a knot in my throat making it hard to get the words out.  “I’m sorry,” I say with tears in my eyes, my lower lip quivering.  My voice shakes as it comes out and despite trying not to I start to cry.    Mrs. Bailey says kindly, “Ok. It’s not the end of the world. Just don’t do it again.  Those candies are for me to hand out.  Do you understand?  You can’t help yourself to them.  If I let children do that, they’d all be gone by Christmas.”  “Yes, M’am,” Natalie and I say in unison nodding our heads.  I pull my hot pink sleeve down over my right hand then raise it to my face to wipe away the tears. 

*i can barely remember where my keys are, so this is a work of pure fiction, based on a true story. 

Chapter 2* - Sweetie

I wish I had Mrs. Jimenez.  Susan is soo lucky.  Mrs. Jimenez was the first grade teacher everybody wanted.  She had big expressive eyes, was super energetic, and - the real kicker - she had several green snakes and scaly reptiles in the terrariums on the bookshelves.  Her classroom seemed like Carnivale in Brazil.  Ours was more like going over to your grandmother’s house, the one you didn’t know very well.  You got some attention, but it felt kinda weird, and you weren’t exactly sure what you were supposed to do while you were there.  You weren’t sure what would get you in trouble and get your leg tied to a chair with a scratchy olive green ribbon like poor Donna Green. 

I had Mrs. James whose personality was about as opposite of mine as you can get.  She was calm, old, and, in my mind, nondescript.  I think she liked me.  I think I'm rememberin’ that right.  But I still harbor a little resentment over the fact that I was not in the top reading group, the tire-sitting group, 1^st grade’s first class.  The best readers got to luxuriate on a gigantic black tire with deep treads when they were reading.  I was in the economy section of reading groups, and I did not like that.  I wanted more tire time and more books in my hands.  They got to do extra reading while we had to do math or take a nap.  I hated takin’ naps or rather tryin’ to lie still while everyone else did.  But I loved makin’ sock puppets for a play called The Three Billy Goats.

Mrs. Williams seems nice, too.  Julie is lucky to be in her class.  I like her classroom with the pretty green carpet, but she’s really, really old.  She has white hair.  Nah.  I think Mrs. James is better than Mrs. Williams.  She reads us The Boxcar Children.  I don’t know if Mrs. Williams reads The Boxcar Children. 

In kindergarten, I had a crush on Jon Burrow, but he did not have one on me.  He had cotton blond hair and bright blue eyes like a miniature version of Luke Skywalker.  Just looking at him thrilled my five year old soul.  He was sooo cute.  But he just wasn’t that into me. 

In first grade, there was a new kid in town, Allan Samp.  He was a Yankee from Michigan, and his smile could light up the world.  He had beautiful brown skin, dark brown eyes, and jet-black hair.  I wanted him to like me.  At naptime, I would watch him walk out of the cloakroom with his mat and hope he would lay it down next to mine.  But Donna or Chastity always got to him first.  “Come lay by me,” Chastity would tell him, and my heart would sink as he dutifully followed her, like a puppy, across the room and away from me.  The next day it would be Donna Green.  “Allan, come over here.  I saved you a spot.”  When he went to sleep by her, I felt deep pangs of jealousy.  Why does he like them instead of me?  They’re so bossy.  I want him to lay by me. 

“Here,” he says as he smiles and extends his right hand forward with a closed fist. I’m in line behind Allan Samp at the water fountain.  “I have something for you,” he says.  I stare at his hand and open mine, palm facing up.  He places a tarnished gold ring in my hand.  Smiling, I look up at him.  I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t phase him.  He’s proud of himself.  So he flashes me a huge grin, takes his turn at the water fountain, and walks away.  I take my turn at the fountain, making it last a little longer than you’re supposed to, because I love cold water and could stand there all day.  Then I pull my head up, wipe my mouth with my right sleeve, and step away from the line to get a better look at the ring.  With my back to my classmates, I uncurl my fingers just enough to get a good peek.     

Ooh.  Yuck!  It’s ugly.  Why did he give me an ugly ring? I don’t want it.  I make sure no one is lookin' then I try it on each of my fingers, because I like the feel of rings.  It’s too big.  Way too big.  It doesn’t even fit on my thumb.  The corners of my mouth turn down.  I’m disappointed.  The ring is useless to me.  I curl my fingers back over it and don’t know what to do other than hold it in my hand.  I don’t want it.  I don’t like him anyway.  He never lays his mat by me.  Maybe he does like me, but he also likes Donna and Chastity.  And I’m definitely not into sharing.  It’s not even pretty.   

It’s not my style.  At age six, I have no idea what my style is, but I do know this isn’t it.  I’m more into bright colors and shiny.  I like my mom’s rings that are fourteen karat gold and new looking, and I like the ones sitting on pretty green velvet in the case at Goldbro’s that I get to try on when we go to Birmingham for Christmas shopping. 

When I get a little bigger, Daddy says he’ll buy me a real ring.  I want one with my birthstone it in.  A ruby.  For now, I get by on the colorful plastic rings that he lets me pick from any time we are at his dental office and whenever Peggy cleans my teeth. 

I mill around in the hall with my classmates who are looking at the artwork on the walls from Mrs. William’s class.  They are so lucky.  We never get to paint in our classroom.  The most fun thing we’ve done so far is trace our hands on construction paper and turn them into turkeys for Thanksgiving.

I linger in the hall as long as I can then reluctantly go back in the classroom, sit down, and listen to Mrs. James read to us.  I wonder if there is a boxcar in the woods behind our new house?  I’d like to live there and drink water from the creek out of beat up tin cups like Violet.  The thought of living in the woods utterly delights me.  I like the name Violet.  I bet she’s pretty.    

“Children, line up by the door.  It’s bathroom time,” says Mrs. James.  I get in line still holding the ring.  Now my palm is sweating.  Maybe I’m not supposed to have this.  What if Mrs. James can tell I have somethin’ in my hand?  What if she asks to see what it is?  She might get onto me.  She might be mean.  She already made me throw up.  I told her I didn’t like green beans, but she didn’t listen.

 Standing over me in the lunchroom, Mrs. James had ordered me to just try the mushy dark green beans on my plate.  They made me gag.  Instantly.  I hate green beans.  I’m so glad my momma packs a lunch for me.  She and Granny and Lesia are the only ones who know how to feed me.  What will Mrs. James do if she sees me with this ring?  My heart beats fast as I casually slip my hand into my scratchy wool pants’ pocket. 

We file out of the classroom two by two and walk all of ten feet past the water fountain into the industrial green girls’ bathroom.  The second to last stall’s door is open, so I go in and close the door behind me.  Click goes the lock.  I turn and stare down at the cold black seat and the shiny silver handle for flushing.  I can just flush it down the toilet.  I don’t want it, and I don’t wanna get in trouble.  So I do.  I let the ring fall from my hand into the commode.  There’s a pleasant tink as it hits the bottom of the hole, and I like the powerful sound of it being wooshed away.  But as it disappears, I feel a mild sort of dread, a wave of relief mixed with regret.  I hope he doesn’t ask me what I did with it.  I’ll just have to lie.  I can tell him my mom won’t let me wear it to school. 

It’s Wednesday, so that means Mission Friends.  My mom picks me up from school late, but I don’t mind.  I’m standing on the cracked red dirt by the concrete sidewalk chatting away and watching the other stragglers stir up fire ants with a stick.  The ants are goin’ crazy.  I lean in to get a good look then back away.  I’ve stepped on fire ants barefoot, and it hurts Bactine bad when they bite.  I cried when they bit me and then again when my mom squirted the cold Bactine on my foot.   

“Sorry I’m lately, Honey,” Mom says as I crawl into our bright orange Dodge Colt that she hates.  There is a gas crunch on, and my dad bought it for her without asking her opinion first.  She cried when he brought it home.  “Take it back,” she had said.  “I can’t,” he told her then tried to reason with her.  “Orange is the safest car color, Niki.”  Like that would matter to her.  She thinks it’s ugly as sin.  I don’t think it’s that bad.  I kinda like the bright color, but the black vinyl seats burn my legs in the summer, and I don’t like that at all.

“It’s ok,” I say with a smile.  She asks me about my day, and I tell her everything except the stuff about the ring as we drive a few blocks to church.  I’ve already forgotten about it.  She happily deposits me at the playground where all the other kids are.  I hop outta the car, run to the merry-go-round, and jump on as it slows down just enough to get on.  I love the merry-go-round.  The wind feels good on my face.  Our teacher grabs the metal rails and swooshes us around.  “Faster,” I yell with my friends.  “Faster!  FASTER!” we scream, giggling as we get louder together.  She makes it go faster.  I hold on a little tighter, but I love every minute of it. 

Next, the boys play with yellow dump trucks in the sand box while the girls scale the tall rectangular house of monkey bars.  I go on the slide a few times then we all take a break for red Koolaid from tiny paper cups and butter cookies, the kind with the hole in the middle that look like pretty flowers.  “Hey look,” I say as I playfully put one on my pinkie finger and chomp a petal off.  The other girls follow suit.  It takes practice to keep them from breaking before we can bite off every petal and leave the ring.  Yum. “These are so good,” I say. 

We go inside and sit in colorful pint-sized plastic chairs with cold metal legs.  Mrs. Sharp tells us a story about baby Moses.  She says his mom wrapped him up in a blanket and put him in a basket so he could float down a river to safety.  Moses has a big sister that gets to watch him float and follows him to a princess and a palace.  “He’s found in the bulrushes,” Mrs. Sharp says.  I thrill at the sound of that grown-up word, and say it in my head.  Bulrushes.  I imagine really tall grass and cattails like the ones I’ve seen by the pond at the municipal golf course.  I’d love to float down a river in a pretty basket.  My mom loves baskets.  We are always shopping for them.    

I’ve already had great experiences with floating at Smith Lake in a yellow polka-dotted dragon float with my older cousin Adrian whom I revere.  And I float in the pool at Continental Condominiums in Panama City Beach, mostly in pastel plastic rings with cartoons on them.  I love floating.  So far, it’s a top ten experience in my life.  My momma and daddy even take me out in the ocean, where it’s over my head, on long skinny floats.  We float over the small waves together for what seems like hours.  If I didn’t have to wear yucky Nosekote, it would be the first grade version of heaven.

Baby Moses’ story is sweet and exciting.  It has a baby and a big sister.  As luck would have it, I just got a baby brother who I absolutely adore.  I try to imagine Momma putting Steve in a basket and sending me to run after him.  That would be so much fun.  Steve would probably love it.  He loves the beach and the water.  We can leave him in the playpen underneath the umbrella all day long.  It seems like a very happy story.  Moses went on an adventure, grew up to be famous, and got a lot of attention.

“Who wants to learn how to make a basket?” Mrs. Sharp asks.  I do.  I do.  I raise my hand high as other hands shoot up around me.  Out comes the construction paper in long thick strips, and we get to choose our own colors.  The basket in the picture is brown, but brown is ugly.  I like green.  So I choose long green strips for my basket.  We learn to weave by criss-crossing the strips and end up with baskets that remind me of the ones at Granny’s with the holes in them that hold all the peaches, except these have staples and a paper handle.  I try to write my name on mine, but it comes out crooked, and it’s hard to read, because I used a green crayon.  I look at it and sigh then make the best of it.  Oh well.  It’s still a pretty basket.  “Good work, Shannon,” says Mrs. Sharp.  “Thank you,” I say beaming back at her. 

At night, I crawl in my twin bed with Lamby, a stuffed lamb who is big by the stuffed animal standards of 1978.  I’ve had Lamby since I was a baby.  He was a fixture in my nursery.  He used to tower over me when I put my arms around his floppy neck.  I’m just now outgrowing him and his dingy white fur now flattened by love.  I love Lamby.  I put my arms around his neck and give him a tight squeeze. 

“Goodnight, Sweetie,” Mom says as she walks into my room to tuck me in.  “I wanna glass of water,” I say.  “Ok, I’ll get you one.”  She heads toward the bathroom, the wrong direction.  “No, I want kitchen water,” I yell after her.  She sticks her head back in.  “Are you just stalling because you don’t want to go to sleep?” she asks.  “No, I’m really thirsty,” I say.  “Ok, but then you have to go to sleep.”  I hear my mom’s footsteps as she walks to the kitchen and then returns with a small glass of ice water.  I take one big gulp and put it on the nightstand next to me.  “Sleep tight,” Mom says as she leans down and kisses me on the cheek.  “Momma, will you lay with me?” I ask as she gets to the doorway. “Yes, but just for a few minutes.  You need to go to sleep.”  She lays down next to me on my bed and snuggles in close.  I lay my head on her shoulder.  She smells like Vicks Vaporub, and her moss green nightgown lights up with electricity as she moves in the dark.  Whoa!  I hope it doesn’t shock me.  Then it does, but it doesn’t really hurt. 

“I’m hot,” I say after a long minute.  “You know what to do when you’re hot, don’t you?” she asks.  “Uhn-uh.” I reply.  “Just turn your pillow over and it’ll cool you off,” she says.  I look at her like she’s crazy, but I lift my head and let her turn my pillow over.  She’s right!  It does.  “ That feels so good,” I tell her and giggle.  “Told you so,” she replies with a smile.  My cheek is soft and cool.  I’m gonna do that every night.  Curled into my mom’s soft body, I close my eyes and fall asleep before she gets up.    

“Up and at ‘em,” Mom says from the hallway.  But I just fell asleep.  I do not wanna get up.  I’m sooo sleepy, and it’ll be cold.  It’s so warm under the covers.  I start to fall back asleep.  Momma sticks her head in my room.  “Feet on the floor, Shannon.”  She goes into my bathroom to fix her hair.  Without opening my eyes, I rotate my body under the covers and stick my feet out until my toes touch the floor.  I’m technically obeying her.  “Are you up?” she asks from the bathroom while she hums off-key and sprays her hair.  “Uh-huh,” I say trying to sound awake but doing my best to get a few more precious minutes.  I fall back to sleep, half in and half outta bed.

My mom comes in and puts my rust corduroy pants and a thin long sleeve cotton plaid shirt on the bed next to me.  “If you don’t want a spanking, you better hop to it.”  So I do.  Sort of.  I put on all my clothes under the covers without sitting up.  When I hear her coming back to check on me, I roll out of bed and stand up.  She glances in quickly and looks satisfied that I’m up, barely.

I find my AAA navy leather shoes that we had to go to Patrick’s to buy.  I put them on and admire the little cut-out pattern on the front.  I can see my white socks through them and I like the way it looks.  Still half asleep, I head to the kitchen and eat some warm Quaker Instant Oatmeal with the one heaped up spoonful of sugar I’m allowed.  I take my time, read the Raisin Bran box that Daddy left on the table, and leisurely scrape all the sugar off the bottom of my bowl. 

“Shannon, it’s gonna be chilly today, and it’s raining.  You need a coat.”  Mom opens the closet at the top of the stairs and hands me my new pink windbreaker from my Granny’s store, Kiddie Land Shoppe.  This cheers me up a little.  Unzipping the secret compartment for the hood and putting it on finally wakes me up.  We head to the garage and get in the car that my Daddy has turned on and warmed up for us.  My mom and I ride to school without talking.  We just listen to country music on WZZK.  She turns it way up like she always does.  Sleeping single in a double bed, whoa oh oh,  tossin', turnin', tryin' to forget whoa oh oh. . .I sing along in my head, happy to know the words. 

“Have good day,” Mom says when she drops me off at school.  “I will,” I say happily as I grab my book satchel and red Looney Tunes lunch box.  I wave at her to go on, but she waits ‘til I get to the door to drive off.  She doesn’t have to do that anymore.  I’m a big girl. 

“Hey Shannon, remember that ring I gave you?”  Allan asks, first thing, as I walk through the classroom door.  “Ye-ah,” I say.  “Well, I need it back.  It was my sister’s.  I took it from her jewelry box without asking.”  Uh-oh.  My eyes widen, and I feel funny inside.  “Uh, I don’t have it anymore.”  “What? Why?  Did you lose it?” he asks with a smile, not suspecting me at all.  I think about lying.  I really wanna lie, but I think it’ll make me feel even worse.  “No, I flushed it down the toilet,” I say, like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.  We stare at each other for a long second.  His is a stare of disbelief.  Then he looks worried.  I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.  I don’t say anything.  “Well, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble,” he says, “She’s really mad at me.”  I shrug my shoulders.  It’s your fault, not mine.  You shouldn’t have stolen your sister’s ring.  But despite my nonchalant face, I do feel bad for him.  And it will be eighteen years before another guy gives me a ring if you don’t count my daddy.  Every Valentines Day will pass without a boyfriend – no flowers, no chocolate, no teddy bears, and no rings.

*i can barely remember where my keys are, so this is a work of pure fiction, based on a true story.