Revolution Number 9

by Peter Abrahams

  Ruby’s seat at the table was in the actual sticking-out part of the breakfast nook, with windows on three sides. She ate her yellow eggs in a pool of yellow sunlight, leafing through The All-American Girls Book of Braiding, trying to think of the right name for those star arms, totally content.

  Maybe her teeth weren’t so great, but her hair, that was another story. Thick, glossy brown, full of all kinds of tints—it had a personality of its own. Ruby chose the Thumbelina Braid because the look reminded her of Dilbert’s boss. She made two high pigtails, divided each into three strands, braided the strands, coiled them into buns, stuck them in place with bobby pins.

  “How do I look, Zippy?”

  He poked his head over the tabletop and snatched her last piece of toast, the one with the butter melted in perfectly.

  “Zippy!”

  He growled at her. She gave him the cold look. Zippy made himself smaller and slunk away, like the coward he was.

  Ruby put on her blue jacket with the yellow trim and walked him out back and into the town forest, taking the shortcut to the pond. The banks of the pond were muddy. She let him off the leash.

  “Run, Zippy. Make spatters.”

  He lifted his leg and peed on a tree.

  Were dog spatters different from horse spatters, or was the important difference the one between a dogcart and a horse cart, which would probably stand higher?

  “Run, Zippy.”

  He didn’t want to run. She tossed him a stick, which he gazed at. She tossed another one into the pond. It disappeared without a splash, which was kind of strange.

  “Go get it, Zippy.”

  But he wouldn’t. She didn’t blame him. The water, a blue so pale it was almost white, looked cold. She took him home. He lifted his leg at least a dozen times.

  “Poo, Zippy, poo.” He finally did, maybe stepping in it just a little.

  Ruby loaded the dishwasher, her own dishes and the ones already in the sink, slung on her backpack and left by the front door, making sure it was locked. The school bus pulled up. She got on.

  “Hi, beautiful,” said the driver.

  “Hi, Mr. V.”

  There was only one seat left, beside Winston. He was picking his nose.

  “Don’t eat it, Winston,” she said.

  But he did.

  The bus rolled away. All of a sudden and for no reason, she remembered her book of Bible stories, sent by Gram to make up for the fact that Mom and Dad didn’t go to church. Specifically, she remembered the story of Lot’s wife, who wasn’t supposed to look back. She had the strong feeling that it was very important not to look back right now. But she couldn’t stop herself. The urge grew and grew in the muscles of her neck. Ruby looked back.

  Nothing happened, of course. She didn’t turn into a pillar of salt, and the house wasn’t going up in flames. It stayed just the way it always was, not the biggest or fanciest house on the block, but square and solid, white with black shutters, the only color the red brick chimney, maybe a little too … what was the word? Imposing; too imposing for the rest of the house. She’d overheard her aunt Deborah say that the Thanksgiving before last.

  Winston tore a Snickers in two. “Want some?” he said.

  Ruby gave him a close look to see if this was some kind of joke. But no, he’d made no connection between the nose picking and his dirty fingernails on the candy bar. He was just sharing.

  “Maybe Amanda wants some,” Ruby said.

  Amanda leaned over, with her goddamn pierced ears—Ruby had to wait another year. “Maybe Amanda wants some what?” Amanda said.

  And what was that? She was wearing lipstick?

  “Snickers,” Ruby said, all of a sudden feeling the power of those devilish horns on her head. “You like Snickers, don’t you?”

  “Oh, my favorite,” said Amanda.

  Winston handed her the thing. Ruby watched till she’d popped it in her mouth.

  “Mmmm,” said Amanda.