Funny Girl

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by Betsy Bird


  It was our fourth move in five years. My dad, Papi, was a steel worker, and money was always tight. We would stay in a place until the rent went up, and then we’d pull up stakes and move into another house—usually no more than two or three blocks and a decade older than the last one.

  But this time was different.

  Papi’s willingness to work extra hours at the steel mill had earned him a raise, and our family the nicest place we had rented yet.

  No more crappy old clapboard houses with rusted faucets, warped windowsills, and bathrooms with chipped tiles. No sirree. We were moving into an apartment complex with a flower bed in the parking lot, and a swimming pool.

  I remember how excited Mami was when we walked into apartment number eight. It was freshly painted and carpeted, and everything smelled of newness with a capital N. Even our battered furniture looked a little brighter. When Papi arrived some ten minutes later with hamburgers from the corner diner, I just knew this day couldn’t possibly get any better.

  “I’m going back to the house for the last load,” announced our father.

  “Wait for me!” I shoved the last few bites of greasy burger into my mouth, pushed the chair away from the table, and headed after him. When I stepped outside, a shaggy-haired kid was bouncing an old tennis ball against the wall next to our apartment.

  “You moving into number eight?” he asked me.

  I beamed at him what I hoped was my most winning “you-bet-I-am-and-is-today-your-lucky-day-or-WHAT-because-you-get-dibs-on-the-new-kid” smile. I followed it up with, “You wanna watch my mom set fire to the bathtub?”

  He just stared at me with luminescent green eyes that reminded me of winter antifreeze. Then, in infini-tesimal increments—like molasses seeping from a broken jar along a cold winter floor, one millimeter at a time—a smile spread across his face. It kept spreading, until it bunched up his cheeks and reached his eyes. Then, and only then, did he speak.

  “Boy howdy, do I!”

  “Great,” I cried. “Come on! She’s almost ready.”

  He followed me into the apartment without hesitation. I watched him take in the neat rows of labeled boxes, the cheap Naugahyde recliner, the shiny Formica kitchen table. A perplexed look settled on his face.

  “So, is your mama a pyro? ’Cause this don’t look like no pyro’s house; you still got plenty of stuff that’ll burn.”

  “What’s a pie-row?” I asked.

  “Somebody who lights stuff on fire so’s they can watch it burn.”

  “No! My mom doesn’t like to watch the bathtub burn. She likes to watch the germs die.”

  “She—say what?”

  The look on his face made that hastily eaten burger stir treacherously in my stomach.

  Until that instant, I’d genuinely believed that everyone’s mother did this. A hot, prickly sensation crept its way up my neck. I recognized it for what it was: shame. Burning a bathtub was weird.

  “L-l-let me explain,” I stammered.

  “I cain’t wait to hear.”

  So I told him.

  I told him about my mother’s dead grandmother and sister back in Cuba. I told him about the spray can of Lysol in her pocketbook. I told him the world was filled with all manner of invisible bugs just waiting to eat out your brains and turn your guts to mush and kill you deader than dead with just an innocent swipe of a doorknob.

  And when I finished telling, do you know what he did?

  He laughed.

  He laughed so hard he wheezed.

  He laughed so long he swallowed his gum and coughed it back up again.

  And do you know what I did?

  I punched him in the arm.

  He stumbled sideways, dropped dramatically to the floor, and laughed harder.

  “Easy, girl. You got a mean right hook there.” The words were spoken between fits and starts of more hilarity.

  “What is going on here . . . ?” Mami stood in the doorway and looked from me to this alien child and back again.

  “He’s my friend,” I said. “His name is . . .” I lowered my voice. “What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Ronald, ma’am. Wayne Ronald Harding, but ever’body calls me Ronald.” My mother nodded, as if this was enough information for anybody. Then she turned to me and said, “I find the matches. The bathtub, she burn in ten minutes.” She said this in accented English, and I was relieved when she turned on her heel and disappeared down the short hall.

  “This is kinda crazy, huh?” I said.

  “It’s better’n crazy. This here’s an opportunity.” Ronald leaned toward me and whispered, “Let’s sell tickets.”

  And that’s what we did.

  Ronald rustled up a half dozen of his friends and told them that, for a quarter, they’d see something worth telling their grandchildren about someday. I stood in front of the door to number eight and explained what was about to happen to the small but eager crowd.

  First, I said, my mom would scrub the bathtub with a bristle brush. Then she’d make certain there was nothing flammable in the room. As an added precaution, she’d place a bucket of water on the toilet. Next, she’d screw off the lid of a sixteen-ounce bottle of isopropyl alcohol and cover the tub’s surface.

  Then, and only then, would she strike the match and toss it in. I’d seen her do it time and again. It was a marvelous sight. Those old ceramic tubs would burst into flames, and just as quickly the fire would burn itself out.

  “Now, I ask you,” said Ronald, to the dumbstruck congregation, “ain’t that the dangdest thing y’all ever heard? So, who’s in?” Kids tripped over one another to hand over their quarters.

  Mami was visibly startled when she saw me coming down the hall, a mob of children following along behind.

  “Can they watch, too?” I gave her a pleading look.

  She looked at the kids and shook her head. “Ay, ay, ay.” But then she put aside whatever misgivings she may have had; she had work to do. The Godless Germ waits for no woman, and we had to have baths that night. She addressed the crowd.

  “Okay, childrens. You no go in bathroom. You stay in door. NO GO IN. ¿Me comprenden?”

  Whether they understood or not, no one was leaving. No one was breathing. This was a tale, as Ronald had promised, that they would tell their grandchildren. Unbeknownst to them, this was their Saint Crispin’s Day.

  My mother unscrewed the top of the bottle of alcohol.

  She moved the bucket of water closer to the tub.

  She upturned the bottle and drained the contents with great care.

  She reached into her apron pocket and drew from it a small box of wooden matches.

  The crowd pressed forward.

  “¡Tranquilos!”

  Again, no one moved. But all eyes watched as she struck the match and tossed it in a perfect flaming arc into the bathtub.

  The brand-spanking-new FIBERGLASS bathtub.

  The thing lit up like kerosene-soaked kindling.

  The plastic melted and warped as the fire spread. Kids began to shriek as they scattered in a panic for the front door. Only three people held their ground: my mother, who flipped on the bathroom faucet and splashed bucket after bucket onto the flames; me, too terrified to run, or scream, or be of any use to anyone whatsoever; and Ronald. Well . . . Ronald actually disappeared briefly. He returned moments later, followed by a man in a ribbed white T-shirt who was carrying a fire extinguisher.

  Within seconds the bathroom was a blanket of white foam, giving the room the look of a peaceful, if bizarre, Christmas postcard—so long as you were unaware of the horror that lay beneath.

  “Now, that is one hot mess, ma’am,” said the man with the fire extinguisher. “I just gotta ask. What in the world made you want to light a tub on fire?” The soft, unflustered voice and the strange color of his eyes hinted at what Ronald w
ould look like in about twenty years.

  “She had to kill The Godless Germ,” I said.

  He nodded. “Well, I reckon that explains it about as well as anything.”

  * * *

  None of the apartment kids were allowed to play with me after that day. Heck, they weren’t even allowed to pass my door without an escort.

  Except for Ronald.

  When he showed up the next morning, I was sitting in the doorway, picking at a scab.

  “Hey!”

  “I’m surprised your parents let you talk to me,” I said.

  “Ain’t got parents; got a dad. You met him. He’s a firefighter, down Ladder 11 way. He said to call him if anything else catches fire. He and the boys’ll be down here in a tick.”

  “You’re not funny.” My face felt as hot as melting fiberglass.

  Ronald squatted in front of me, where I couldn’t avoid looking at him, and said, “You know, I had me an uncle once who swore up and down that for every lie I told, Santa Claus would have to eat one of his reindeer.”

  “That’s crazy—” I stopped cold and looked into those extraordinary eyes.

  “It’s only crazy,” he said, “when somebody else’s family does it.”

  And I knew then that Wayne Ronald Harding and I would be friends forever.

  Or at least until the rent went up again.

  Fleamail

  By Deborah Underwood

  Dear Rover,

  I read your advice column all the time. Telling that cat who wanted attention to unroll all the toilet paper in the bathroom was brilliant! I’ve spread the word to all my kitty friends.

  But now I need your help. I am a cat in a shelter. How do I get someone to adopt me?

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Good question! First, you need to look adorable. Make sure you’re well-groomed. Do you have a cute meow? Use it! And if the person comes in to visit you, purr and curl up in her lap. You can play a little, but most people like quiet, calm pets. Good luck!

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  Thank you! Someone wonderful came in today! She had a purple shirt that said “Pet Power,” so I think we’ll get along just fine. She’s checking with her mom right now. Any other tips?

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  I’m so glad you found someone you—

  Wait. A purple “Pet Power” shirt? Was she wearing sparkly silver sneakers?

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  Yes! They smelled like dog, but that’s okay—I like dogs! Anyway, what else should I do?

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Claw at her jeans. And run around the cage meowing at the top of your lungs. And then hock a nice, big hairball.

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  Really??

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Yes.

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  Okay. I did it. Now she and her mom are talking with the shelter staff. They look worried. Anything else?

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Barf. Right on the silver sneakers.

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  Are you sure? I thought they hated that.

  Love,

  Bella

  Bella:

  Trust me.

  Rover

  * * *

  Bella,

  What’s going on?

  * * *

  Bella,

  I need an update!

  Dearest Rover,

  You are so smart! It totally worked! Her mom is really worried about me now, and says the shelter must be stressing me out. They were going to wait till the weekend to bring me home, but now they’re going to pick me up tonight!

  I would have never done the vomiting and hairball and screeching without you. I would have just rubbed against her legs and purred and been cute, and that wouldn’t have worked at all. You are the best!

  Love,

  Bella

  Three Days Later . . .

  Dear Rover,

  It is silly that I have to fleamail you when we’re living in the same house. How was I supposed to know she was YOUR person?

  You’ve been under that bed for three days. You can’t stay there forever.

  Love,

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Yes, I can.

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  You’ll have to come out to pee.

  Bella

  Dear Bella,

  Nope.

  R

  Dear Rover,

  Oh. That’s what all the yelling was about.

  Look. What’s the problem? Come out and say hi. It’s not like you’re afraid of cats, right? (Haha!)

  Bella

  B,

  No comment.

  R

  Dear Rover,

  Seriously?? You weigh TEN TIMES more than I do! What do you think I’m going to do—bite you with my poisonous fangs?

  Bella

  B,

  YOU HAVE POISONOUS FANGS???????

  I KNEW IT!!!

  R

  Dear Rover,

  Oh, good grief. Of course I don’t. I’m not a snake! Even I am scared of those.

  Look, maybe I can help you. Did you ever think about that? What if a cat needs advice about which things to knock off the kitchen counter? What if a dog needs tips on getting along with his new feline housemate (ahem)? Having dog and cat viewpoints would make your column even better.

  Meet me by the food bowls. Please? I’ll let you have one of my treats.

  Bella

  B—

  No, I—wait. Did you say treats? The liver-flavored ones?

  R

  Dear Rover,

  Yes. BUT JUST ONE.

  Bella

  One hour later . . .

  Dear Bella,

  Thank you for the treats. I’m sorry I ate all of them. What can I say? I’m a dog.

  I’m glad we’re friends now. Do you want to come outside and sniff other dogs’ butts with me?

  Love,

  Rover

  Dear Rover,

  I’m glad we’re friends, too. But, no. No, I do not.

  Love,

  Bella

  The next week . . .

  Dear Bella and Rover,

  I am a python in a shelter. There’s a nice kid who wants to adopt me. How do I make a good impression?

  Love,

  Penny

  Dear Penny,

  Rover here. First, you need to look adorable. Make sure you’re well-groomed. Do you—HEY!

  (Sorry, Rover.) Penny, this is Bella. What is the girl wearing? This is VERY, VERY IMPORTANT. Tell us, then we’ll tell you what to do next.

  Bella and Rover

  Dear Bella and Rover,

  It’s not a girl. It’s a boy. And he’s wearing a green T-shirt. Why?

  Love,

  Penny

  Dear Penny,

  Whew. I mean . . . no reason. We were just curious. Right, Rover?

  Right. Penny, just be your lovely, snakelike self. Any other advice, Bella?

  Barf on his shoes. It worked for me!

  Love,

  Bella and Rover

  Things Could Be Verse

  By Kelly DiPucchio

  Bad Hair Day

  Mary found a little hair.

  It’s long and black as night.

 
When Mary saw it way down THERE

  it gave her quite a fright.

  Mary had one single thought:

  How did it grow so fast?!

  There was no hair the day before.

  The girl was flabbergast!

  Everywhere that Mary went

  that hair was sure to go.

  Thank goodness for her socks and shoes.

  The hair was on her toe.

  My Secret

  Today I’m shopping for a bra.

  I can hardly wait!

  I’ve been dreaming of this fancy store

  since the age of eight.

  One bra has that push-up stuff.

  Another, moving parts.

  A third bra comes with batteries

  to light the flashing hearts.

  This one has long tasseled ends.

  That one has a pouch.

  This one’s in a floral print

  that looks like Grandma’s couch.

  This bra’s WAY too pointy.

  And where’s the shoulder strap?

  The next one’s complicated—

  They should call it BOOBY TRAP.

  I kind of like the cheetah bra,

  but Mom is mouthing “NO!”

  Instead, she picks the pastel pink

  with the baby bow.

  I really love the feathered one.

  “It’s see-through!” Mother said.

  Check out these cup sizes!

  They could cover my whole head!

  There’s loads of lace throughout this place.

  It’s itchy, I can tell.

  I’m starting to feel woozy

  from the store’s perfume-y smell.

  My dream’s become a nightmare.

  These sizes are so dumb!

  I think I’ve had enough for now—

  Sports bras, here I come!

  Breakaway

  The game begins. I start to sweat.

  The opposing team looms large.

  I plot my course and gather force

  and then begin my charge.

  Weaving ’cross the playing field

 

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