“Uh-huh,” Diane says. She’s a medium-size girl. Real pretty. So pretty. She is beautiful. Wears her hair in lotta little pigtails. Wears a lotta little rings on all her fingers. She’s on the porch of this old empty house. Windows all boarded up, stuff like that.
“Whatcha doing?” I say.
“Fooling around. Playing cards.”
I look around. Don’t see no cards.
“We’re playing in there,” Diane says. She means the empty house. “Want to play?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.” I’m leaning against a garbage can. Phew! It stinks.
“It’s me and my brother and my cousin,” Diane says.
“You got any food?” I say.
“Sure. Chips and soda and a whole bunch of Hostess Twinkies.”
“You got any hamburgers?”
Diane shakes her head.
“Okay, I don’t mind Hostess Twinkies.”
We go inside. Glad to get away from that garbage can. “Gimme your hand,” Diane says. It’s dark inside. “You afraid of this house?”
“What for?” I say. “Just an old empty house.”
“Oh, you know—some kids say it’s haunted. They’re dopes.”
I give her hand a big squeeze. Wonder if she could be my second best friend, after Lucy.
They got candles in the kitchen and a table and some chairs. Diane’s brother, Andrew, is tipping back on one chair. He’s wearing a big straw hat. I say, “Hi.” He says, “Hi.” I don’t know the other boy. He’s John, Diane’s cousin. He’s cute. I say, “I’m Marlene Marie Theresa. You can call me Marlene.” He gives me a cute look.
“How old are you, Marlene?”
I say, “Guess!” ’Cause I know he’ll guess wrong.
“Bet you’re sixteen,” he says.
I say, “Yeah? I’m twelve years old.”
He laughs like I said something so funny and gives me another cute look.
We play some cards. I eat two Hostess Twinkies. “Want some chips?” Andrew says. He’s real nice, keeps giving me chips and soda and stuff.
Then John says, “You’re sixteen, right?”
And I say, “Twelve.”
And he laughs. “Oh, he, hem hem, he he.” A real weird laugh. The more I say, “Twelve,” the more he laughs. Oh, he, hem hem, he he.
Andrew says, “She’s twelve. Marlene’s twelve.” He puts his straw hat on my head.
“That’s right,” Diane says. “She’s twelve, just like me.”
John laughs real hard, like we are all being so funny with him.
“Well, how old are you?” I say.
“I’m fifteen,” he says. “Or am I eighteen?”
We are having such a good time. We play rummy and poker and eat all the chips and Twinkies. John says, “Who wants some beer?” He goes out and in a little bit comes back with a six-pack.
Andrew bangs down on his chair. “Where’d that come from?”
“I had it hid,” John says. “Pretty snarky, huh? Hey, Marlene, let’s you and me take some beer and go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “there’s a real great mattress up there.”
“Oh, you dirty buzzard,” I say. And everybody laughs.
So then we’re playing cards, and the boys are drinking beer, and me and Diane are taking sips. “Oh, um, this is so good,” I say, but I don’t like beer taste. Wish I had some more soda.
Andrew, all of a sudden, gets up and leaves, just goes straight out the door. “Where’s he going?” John says.
And Diane says, “You know old Andrew always gets sick when he drinks beers.”
John says, “I forgot.”
“No you didn’t,” Diane says.
“Not my fault if Andrew has a weak stomach,” John says.
I say to myself, Marlene Marie Theresa, John knew Andrew would get sick. So then I don’t like him so much anymore. And anyway, with Andrew gone, it’s not so much fun. John is getting fresh with Diane, too, pulling her braids and grabbing her, and this and that, and a lot of stuff.
So Diane says, “I’m gonna leave. You’re too nasty. You coming, Marlene?”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I say. “Can I stay overnight with you?”
“How come?”
“I’m running away.”
John falls down laughing. “Running away,” he says. “Oh, he, hem hem, he he.”
“Why you running away?” Diane says.
“’Cause my momma’s so mean to me. Can I sleep over to your place?”
“You gonna make your momma toe the line?” John says. “Oh, he, hem hem, he he.”
“Yeah, you can stay at my house,” Diane says.
“I don’t want Marlene to go,” John says. He grabs my arm.
“Marlene wants to go,” Diane says. She grabs my other arm.
“You stay, Marlene,” John says. “We’ll have some fun.” He pulls my arm hard.
“No, I had enough fun,” I said, “and I’m getting sleepy.”
“Okay, let’s go upstairs and sleep on the mattress.”
“No, I’m going with Diane,” I say.
He twists my arm. “You’re staying.”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“Yes, you are, ’cause I say you are.” He is grinning. He’s pulling one arm. Diane is pulling the other.
“No, I’m not staying with you,” I say again.
“Yeah, you are.” He gives my arm an extra hard twist. Burns it.
“Oh, you mean buzzard!” I pull my arm free from Diane and sock John in the stomach, sort of, but lower even. He goes, “Oh, uh,” and gets this real weird, nasty expression on his face. Then me and Diane run out.
Diane’s momma is already in bed. “That you, honey?” she calls. We’re going up the stairs.
“Yeah, it’s me, Mom,” Diane says.
“Where’ve you been, honey? It’s almost ten o’clock. Late.”
“Just outside.”
“Your brother, Andrew, came home early.”
“Yeah, I know, Mom. I got a friend who wants to sleep over. Okay?”
“Okay, honey, but don’t talk all through the night.”
We go into Diane’s room. Her two little sisters are already sleeping in the bunk beds. Diane and me get into her bed. I wish I wasn’t so big. I get way over to one side. I don’t want to take up all the place. “Your momma sounds real nice,” I say.
“Yeah, she is.”
“She ever yell at you?”
“No, not much.”
“She ever beat you?”
“No.”
We’re whispering so we don’t wake up her little sisters.
“My momma’s sick,” Diane whispers.
“What do you mean, sick?”
“She’s got arthritis bad. It hurts her to do things.”
I say, “Oh.” I try to think of something to say to Diane to make her feel better about her momma being sick. After a long time I say, “Well, she’s an old lady, anyway, I guess.” But Diane doesn’t answer, ’cause she’s sleeping already.
I really like Diane’s house when I see it in the morning. The living room is something. Beautiful red carpet on the floor, all the furniture polished, picture of flowers on the wall. “This is so nice,” I say to Diane. “This is beautiful.”
Diane and I go into the kitchen. “Let’s have some French toast,” Diane says. “We’ll make it with cinnamon. Do you like jelly or syrup?”
“Jelly,” I say, giving her my best smile. She is so nice. I beat the eggs and she gets the bread and jelly.
Diane’s mother comes in, wearing a long green robe with a zipper. Just as pretty as Diane. She don’t look sick to me. Not till I see her fingers, all bunched up and funny-looking.
“Now, who’s this?” she says, smiling at me real nice.
“Marlene Marie Theresa Thornton,” I say. “You can call me Marlene.”
“Marlene Thornton,” she says. “I thought so. Your mother is looking
for you everyplace in the world, did you know that? You’ve got that poor woman scared to death.”
Diane puts a big blob of butter on the pan. I don’t say nothing.
“You better call your mother up, honey,” Diane’s mother says. “She was walking up and down the street last night asking everybody for you.”
“Can I eat some French toast first?” I say. That French toast smells so good.
“Sure, honey. Want me to call her?”
I don’t know if I do or if I don’t. Diane’s mother is looking at me like she wants me to say yes. I say, “Okay.” I sit down and eat French toast with Diane. Real good. Then Andrew comes in and he wants some French toast. “Love it with cinnamon,” he says. We start talking about playing cards and their Cousin John. “He sure is a mean buzzard,” I say.
“Thinks he’s so cute, too,” Diane says.
Then Diane’s mother comes back and says, “Marlene, here comes your mother down the street.”
I get so scared I jump up out of my chair and run out the door. The sun is shining hard, and the sky is real blue. My mother sees me and yells, “Marlene Marie Theresa!” She comes right up to me. “Where have you been? You stayed out all night!”
“I’m running away,” I say.
“You had me real scared. I didn’t sleep all night.”
“You’re too mean and nasty,” I say. I walk fast.
She walks right beside me. “Come on home,” she says.
“I don’t want to come home.”
“Now, you know you don’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Where you going to go?”
“I don’t know. Someplace. Long way from you. You just scream all the time,” I say. “Scream and beat me. Tell me I’m bad.”
“Well, I’m tired from work,” she says. “Chocolate chips all over the floor. No sweet potatoes cooking for supper.”
I cross the street. She crosses the street, too. She takes my arm. “Come on home,” she says again, and she starts saying Marlene Marie Theresa honey, like she did when she got me from my grandmother in Rochester.
“You just want me to take out the trash, work, all that stuff.”
“I love you, Marlene Marie Theresa honey.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I say.
“Yeah, I do,” she says. “I really do. You’re my first baby, honey.” She gets tears in her eyes. That makes me feel so mean, but I keep on walking. Don’t want to stop walking yet.
Momma fans her face. She’s got lotta little bubbles of sweat on her forehead. “I really love you, baby,” she says again. “Love you and your brother, Lance Vernon. Wish he was back home with us, too. Maybe in a few months we’ll take a little trip to Washington, D.C., and get him. How’d you like that, Marlene Marie Theresa honey?”
I look at her sideways. She’s smiling at me so nice. “Whew! It’s a real hot day,” I say.
“Oh, it surely is,” Momma says.
“That sun sure is hot,” I say. We pass the school playground. There’s a fountain there right outside, near the school. I stop, take a drink. The water tastes real cool.
“This water tastes so good,” I said. “Take a drink, Momma.”
She takes a drink of water. “Oh, umm, this is good water,” she says.
“Drink some more,” I say, and I hold the handle for her. “Don’t it taste good?” I say.
“Oh, this is the best water,” she says. “Glad you told me to take a drink, Marlene Marie Theresa honey. This water is really fine.”
We start walking again and we’re holding hands and pretty soon we’re hugging and kissing and all that stuff. I tell her about Andrew and Diane, and then I tell her about John. She gets so mad. She says she will march over to John’s mother and tell her, “You keep your son away from my daughter!” She squeezes my arm and kisses me some more.
We go home. The kitchen is all cleaned up. House sure looks nice. No red carpet on the floor, but who cares. Momma has pretty little round blue and black rugs. Lampshade with a bluebird painted on it. Plants just filling up the windowsills.
“You hungry, Marlene Marie Theresa honey?” she says.
“No, Momma. Diane fed me good for breakfast. Gave me the best French toast and jelly. Real good.”
“Okay,” she says, “then what are you going to do now? Got all day Saturday.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just fool around.”
“Well, first take out the trash,” she says.
I look at her. Can’t believe my ears.
“Then you better wash the kitchen floor. I did it once, but it’s still sticky from where you and Lucy messed around.”
I look at her some more. Am I going crazy? Take out the trash? Wash the kitchen floor?
“And then you can do your homework,” she says. “You don’t want to get behind. You have to work hard to keep up. You have to work harder than some others.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. I’m thinking, I gotta run away again?
Momma squeezes my arm. “My, didn’t that water taste good, baby!”
“Yeah, it really tasted wonderful,” I say.
Momma gives me another squeeze. “It was the best water,” she says. “I’m never going to forget that water!”
“Me neither,” I say.
Then I take out the trash.
Why Was Elena Crying?
When I was in first grade, my teacher, Miss Dooty, liked me—not just as well as she liked every other kid in her class, but maybe even more. Yes, the truth was, she did like me more, she smiled at me very specially, let me put my nap blanket near her desk, and often stroked my head as I passed by her into the room in the morning.
She was tall—she seemed very tall to me—with long, long slender legs and soft yellow skin and long black eyes. She wore pale mustard-colored suits in winter and pale, pale violet dresses that rustled in spring. To go to school in first grade was to enter a perfect world. Miss Dooty’s world. Where I was liked more.
At home my parents liked me well enough, but they liked my sister, Elena, better.
“Why can’t you be more like Elena?” my mother said once, exasperated at my tears over some trifle.
“I can’t,” I screamed, enraged at her stupidity, because of all the things I wanted in life, to be more like Elena topped the list. Oh, to have her large, moist, shining eyes instead of my little squinty green ones! Her thick dark hair instead of my frizzy head of curls! To have her temperament, her disposition, her cleverness, her ability to make people adore and love her! What was the matter with my mother? Didn’t she know that if I could be more like Elena, I would, without question or hesitation?
Later my mother came into my room, when I was already half-asleep, and sat on my bed. “Carol …” She touched my head. “I’m sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean that, you know. You’re fine the way you are. You’re you, and I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Mmm.” I bumped my head into her hip, nuzzling. I didn’t blame her for what she’d said, and I didn’t believe her now. It was nice of her to come and tell me I was fine, but we both knew better. I was a pain. A royal, tearful pain-in-the-ass.
No one ever said in so many words, We like Elena better than Carol, but there it was—something we all knew anyway. Just the way we knew that Max, our dachshund, our waddly hot dog, had a nasty habit of snooping through the garbage for the most disgusting putrid things he could find, which he would then snap down with satisfaction.
“Ugh, Max, you old disgusting thing,” someone would say, at least once a day. Just as, to me, someone would be sure to say, “Carol, are you crying again?”
The faucet, they called me. The leaky faucet. My mother said if someone looked at me cross-eyed, I’d cry. It was true I cried more easily than anyone I knew and on all sorts of occasions. It was a thing I hated in myself, a part of me totally out of control. The moment I got the least bit excited, or sad, or worried, the tears came. My eyes filled, my nose stuffed up, I b
lubbered, and the tears ran.
I never thought it was wrong that my parents liked Elena more than me. It wasn’t only that she never cried. She was also older, prettier, smarter, and, without doubt, a much nicer person. For instance, Elena helped my mother in the house without complaining, whereas I always grouched and moaned bitterly at the least suggestion of housework. Elena was fun to be around, she had a gorgeous smile, and she was generous with her things and about other people. On mornings after she had stayed overnight with a friend, and my parents and I were forced to share the breakfast table alone, all of us sighed and glanced around morosely, missing Elena.
Yes, Max was our garbage-hound, and I was our crybaby, and Elena—oh, Elena! Elena was our princess. That was what one of my uncles called her. “Hello, Princess,” he’d say, and whenever he did, I seemed to see a kind of light shining out from her head and her hands. I did love Elena’s hands; they were, like all her skin, the color of honey, and long and strong.
I don’t want to give the wrong idea. Of course, Elena was normal—she also fretted over things, fought with me, and even annoyed my parents once in a while. But, for the most part, she was Elena, a shining special person.
And I was Carol, sometimes giggler, most often weeper and moaner. P.I.T.A. Pain-in-the-ass. I wondered that Miss Dooty could like me so much. She called me gigglepot. Her regard was a sweet, sweet mystery, and all that year I was in first grade, I hardly ever cried. Certainly not at all in school.
In second grade everything changed. My teacher, Chelia Woodenhead, did not like me more, or even a little bit better, than anyone else. That was all right at first, because Chelia Woodenhead seemed to be emotionless toward the whole restless lot of us. She spoke in a neutrally pitched, but firm, voice to everyone alike.
“Boys and girls, my name is Chelia Woodenhead. You will call me Miss Woodenhead. You will raise your hand when you want to speak. You will not leave your seats without permission.”
Chelia Woodenhead was younger and prettier than Miss Dooty. She wore her hair down around her shoulders rather than pinned back in a knot as Miss Dooty had. She had a different pretty dress every day and even several pairs of wonderful tinted-lensed glasses, which she wore for marking our papers.
And then there was her mouth, like the rest of her—full, even lush and pretty. But when she wasn’t speaking, this mouth was kept bitten together. I don’t mean her lips were firmly pressed together, or that her mouth was set in a stern line. I mean her mouth was bitten together; there was a gathering and a puckering and a tightening and a tensing of her mouth, teeth, chin, and jaws that changed her whole face. I never knew if I was more frightened of her speaking or silent.
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