by K L Going
We sat outside until late. I didn’t want to go to bed—ever. Felt right to sit out there with Momma and Pop, but once the moon was high, Pop nudged me indoors. I lay in my room on top of my bedsheets, listening to the crickets sing, and thought for sure I’d never fall asleep.
But I did.
I know, because I remember waking up.
* * *
It was almost three o’clock in the morning and I was having a nightmare. It was about spiders, but it wasn’t about Jimmy. These spiders were people spiders and they were hanging on their webs, looking down on me and Frita.
In the dream, I’d lost Momma and Pop, and Frita was helping me look for them. We were walking through the swamp, hollering, only no one answered, so we walked faster and faster, trying to find them. My hands were clammy and my heart was pounding, and with every step my feet sunk deeper into the swamp muck.
“Momma?” I yelled. “Pop?”
It was dark in the swamp. Me and Frita tried to run, but we could hardly see and there were so many webs, we had to push them out of the way with our hands. We were in a sea of spiderwebs and they were full of all sorts of things—car fenders and corpses of kids half eaten by alligators. It was cold and smelled like muck, and I could feel a thousand eyes watching me.
Then I looked up and there were a thousand eyes watching me.
Spider eyes.
Hanging right above my head was a spider that looked just like Duke Evans. He’d grown fangs where his missing teeth had been, and he was ready to pounce.
“Let’s get out of here,” I yelled.
I took off running, only I didn’t get very far before I realized Frita wasn’t with me. I stopped and turned around, and that’s when I saw her. She was standing right under Duke’s web, only this time it wasn’t Duke who was up there, it was his daddy.
“Frita, run!” I yelled, but it was too late. The Mr. Evans spider reached out his huge spider claws and…
I sat bolt upright in bed, sweat dripping down my forehead. It had to have been a hundred degrees in my room, but I pulled the sheet up to my chin anyway. My eyes darted around, looking for spiderwebs. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed with Momma and Pop. Plus, I had to go to the bathroom something fierce, but I was sure the minute I put my feet down I’d feel the tickle of webs wrapping around my ankles. I stayed put until the sun came out and I heard Pop waking up. Then I sprinted to the bathroom.
Peeing never felt so good.
* * *
I knew right away I had to tell Frita about my dream. According to Frita, dreams were important. Her daddy read stories from the Bible where God warned people about stuff in their dreams. Mr. Wilson said those dreams were signs and portents—they told you what was going to happen in the future. If my dream was a portent, I wanted to tell Frita about it soon as I could, but I had to wait on account of it being Sunday and we had church.
“Stop fidgeting,” Momma whispered during the service. I swung my legs and kicked at the pew in front of us.
“Sit still,” Pop said, giving me the evil eye.
I crossed my arms and scowled. I sure wished we could have gone to Frita’s church, but Frita went to church in Rockford and I went to church in Hollowell. The only difference I could figure was that Frita’s church was fun. I’d gone a couple times for special occasions, and when Mr. Wilson got going, he’d turn his sermon into a song. There was a huge choir that swayed and shouted behind the pulpit, and people yelled, “Amen” and “Preach it, brother” even though Mr. Wilson was not their brother.
This morning I’d said, “Couldn’t we all go to Frita’s church just this once?” But Momma said that church was for black people. Why we didn’t just do some integrating I do not know, but we never did.
The only good thing about my church was that it let out a full hour before Frita’s. That meant if I got on my bike the minute I’d changed out of my dress clothes, I could pedal over to Frita’s house and be there by the time her family got back to cook Sunday dinner.
I pedaled extra fast and made the ride in only eight minutes, so I waited on Frita’s front lawn. When the Wilsons pulled up in their station wagon, there I was. Frita waved from the window, but Terrance glared as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. He looked like he might be headed down to the basement to punch things.
“What are you lookin’ at?” he growled when he walked by. He had on a T-shirt that said BLACK POWER. I was pretty sure Mrs. Wilson didn’t allow T-shirts at church on Sunday, and she frowned as Terrance stomped past. Terrance and Mrs. Wilson were always arguing about one thing or another. Mostly they argued about college. Mrs. Wilson said Terrance needed to think about the future—and that meant going to college. But Terrance said colleges were racist. He said they didn’t want black people, so why should he go where he wasn’t wanted? Terrance said his plan was to move to Atlanta and stay with his uncle Rory, who used to be in a group called the Black Panthers.
I watched as Terrance disappeared into the house. The front door slammed shut real hard, but Mrs. Wilson just shook her head. Then she turned to me.
“Hello, Gabe,” she said at last. “You’re here bright and early today.” She took off her floppy hat. “Do you want some Sunday dinner?”
Mrs. Wilson always asked if I wanted Sunday dinner like it was a brand-new idea and she’d just thought of it. She knew what the answer was going to be because every time she asked me, I said yes.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, remembering my manners. Frita got out of the car and did a cartwheel on the lawn, then she somersaulted over to me. Mrs. Wilson sighed.
“You kids can play outside until dinner’s ready, but Frita, you change your clothes before…”
It was too late. Me and Frita were halfway across the yard, headed for the pecan tree out back. Frita had on a dress with a wide ribbon and a bow in the back, plus she had on her dress shoes with new white socks, but she still beat me up the tree. I sat down two branches below her and tried to crack open a pecan.
“Two bucks says you can’t guess what I dreamed about last night,” I said.
Frita thought it over. “Spiders?”
I just about choked. “How’d you know that?” I asked.
Frita shrugged.
“Yeah,” I said, “but you’ll never guess what happened.”
“What?”
“Let me tell you, it was the scariest dream I ever had in my whole life.”
“Really?”
I crossed my heart and spit on the ground.
“Yup,” I said. “I was awake all night because of it, and even after I woke up, I could still feel it.”
Frita leaned over the branch. “What happened?”
Now I had her attention, so I told her about losing my parents and walking through the spiderwebs, trying to find them.
“…when I saw the spider that looked like Duke, I ran like heck, but you stayed put. You wouldn’t go anywhere. Then I looked back over my shoulder and there was a spider waiting to get you, only it wasn’t Duke…. ” I made Frita lean in even closer. “It was his daddy!”
“No!”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “He was reaching for you with his claws. I was so scared, I almost wet the bed.”
Frita’s eyes went wide like full moons. “He got me?” she whispered. I nodded and Frita said it again, only this time I could tell she was thinking hard.
“You think it means something?” she asked. “Think it’s a sign?”
“Yup,” I said. “I’m almost completely sure.” I was growing more sure by the minute.
Frita took a deep breath. “Gabe,” she said, “this is serious business. We’re going to have to double our liberating. That must be what your dream meant—it was a warning so we wouldn’t forget to make me brave too.”
“What have you got to be scared—”
“Frita! Gabe! Come wash up for dinner.”
Mrs. Wilson hollered out the back door and I jumped a mile. Frita swung off her branch, but I nearly fell out of mine.
I landed with a thud.
“Frita, wait!” I said. “What are we going to do?”
She thought it over.
“I better make a list,” she said. “Like you. Then we’ll cross my stuff off too.”
I swallowed hard. I’d never thought about Frita needing to be brave. I wondered what would be on her list.
“Come on,” Frita said. “We can do it soon as dinner’s over.”
She took off, but I stood still, watching her go. The wind kicked up and carried with it a whiff of Mrs. Wilson’s corn bread stuffing. Mrs. Wilson made the best corn bread stuffing in all of Georgia, but right then I didn’t feel like eating. I had a churning feeling in the pit of my stomach that said there was going to be trouble.
Sure hoped it wasn’t a sign or a portent.
Chapter 12
A BRUSSELS SPROUT SUNDAE
IF IT WAS UP TO ME, WE MIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT THAT LIST and gone out to play after dinner, but when Frita makes up her mind, it’s best not to stand in her way. Soon as the food was cleared off the table and her momma and daddy had gone outside to sit on the back porch and read the newspaper, Frita started making her list. Didn’t take very long. I could tell she was taking it real serious, but she wouldn’t let me see it.
“How many things you got?” I asked when she folded up her paper.
“Ten,” she said.
Only ten?!
“But I’m not so sure I’m scared of all of them.”
Not so sure? How could you not be sure? I had thirty-eight things on my list and I was scared of every single one of them. No doubts about it.
“What aren’t you sure about?” I asked.
Frita shrugged. “Ummm…brussels sprouts.”
“Brussels sprouts?” I said. “Those aren’t scary.”
Frita shook her head. “Are too,” she said. “I might choke to death because they taste so bad.”
I wondered if she was putting me on. Maybe she was making stuff up just to fill up her list.
“Your momma made brussels sprouts for dinner just the other night and nothing happened,” I said, in case Frita had forgotten, but she just shrugged.
“That’s true,” she said, “but I didn’t eat them. When you’re not around to eat them for me, I hide them under other stuff, and if Momma notices, I pretend to cry and she gives me some other vegetable.”
We were in Frita’s living room and she was upside down again, only this time she was hanging off the couch. I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re really scared of them?” I said. “For real?”
Frita nodded.
“Yup,” she said. “Ever since I was a little kid. I even had a bad dream about eating brussels sprouts once. Must have been a sign and a portent.”
I thought it over.
“Well, all right. Guess it’s as good as anything.”
We got up and went into the kitchen. There were leftover sprouts in the refrigerator, so I took them out and set them on the table.
“Want me to heat them up?” I asked.
Frita shook her head.
“I can’t eat all of them,” she told me. “How about just one?”
I wasn’t sure that would do it. A person could eat one of anything. Even worms. I knew that for certain because Frankie Carmen made me eat a worm on the playground once and I’d swallowed it real quick. Hardly tasted a thing.
“How about three?” I said. Frita frowned, but she nodded.
I put three brussels sprouts into a bowl and handed her a spoon. She stared. Then she sniffed.
“You think a person can die from choking on some miserable food?” she asked. “Terrance said he read about a man who died eating cabbage. Hated it so much, he couldn’t swallow, so the cabbage got stuck in his throat. Think that’s true?”
Sounded possible to me. I thought about liver and how every time Momma made me eat it, I had to chew forever.
“Maybe you shouldn’t risk it,” I said, getting nervous, but Frita stuck out her chin.
“Nope,” she said, “I’m doing it.”
Frita put a brussels sprout in her mouth and chewed once, then she spat it out on the table and stuck out her tongue.
“I almost choked,” she said. “I could feel it.”
“Maybe that’s what you’re really afraid of,” I said. “Choking…”
Frita nodded and we stared at the slimy sprout. I sure didn’t want Frita to choke to death.
“You wouldn’t choke if they didn’t taste so bad,” I suggested, “and they wouldn’t taste so bad with something on them. How about ketchup?”
Frita wrinkled her nose.
“Relish?”
“No.”
“Cheese?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Mustard?”
“Nope.”
“Chocolate sauce?”
Frita paused. “Maybe,” she said, “if there was a lot of it and some ice cream, too.”
I opened the freezer. There was a whole tub of vanilla ice cream, so I pulled it down and scooped some into Frita’s bowl. Then I got out the chocolate sauce and mixed it all together so the brussels sprouts were completely covered.
“Better add some whipped cream,” Frita said, so I got that out too, and piled some on top. Frita stared at her bowl, then she took a bite from the edge where there was only ice cream.
“Think we ought to cut the brussels sprouts into smaller pieces?” she asked. “That way, there’s less to choke on.” I shrugged. Didn’t seem like it would make much difference, but I took out a knife and fork and cut each brussels sprout into little pieces. Then I licked all the ice cream off the knife.
“Better hurry before it melts.”
Frita loaded up her spoon. “Gabe,” she told me, real solemn, “if I choke to death, you can have my smiley face picture frame with our class picture in it.”
“Okay,” I said.
Then Frita closed her eyes and lifted the spoon to her mouth. I knew she had a big chunk of brussels sprout on there because I could see it through the ice cream. Poor Frita, I thought. I sure was glad I hadn’t written down brussels sprouts. Frita stuck the spoon in her mouth and chewed. I waited for her to spit that mess out, but it didn’t happen. Frita opened one eye. She swallowed without choking once.
“It’s not so bad,” she said. “Put some more chocolate sauce on there.”
I poured it on so thick it was like chocolate soup, and Frita ate three more bites.
“Hey,” she said at last, “I think I like this stuff.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Yup,” Frita said. She handed me the spoon and I loaded it up. “You’ve got to get plenty of chocolate sauce,” she warned. “That way, you hardly taste the brussels sprouts.”
Sure enough, Frita was right.
That’s when Mrs. Wilson came into the kitchen. She stared at all the stuff I’d put on the counter and shook her head.
“I don’t want to know,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I just don’t want to know.”
That’s exactly what Momma said about me streaking by in my underwear.
I looked at Frita and her eyes were twinkling something fierce.
“Gabe,” she whispered, “it’s working. It’s really working.”
I knew she was talking about her plan, and even though I didn’t want to admit it, for the first time I wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe we would overcome all our fears in time for the fifth grade.
Chapter 13
A BUG’S BEST FRIEND
ONCE FRITA SUSPECTS SHE’S RIGHT, THERE’S NO STOPPING UNTIL she’s positively certain.
“Let’s cross something off our lists every week,” Frita said, “only you’ll have to cross off two or three because you’ve got so many.”
That hardly sounded fair to me, but Frita put her hands on her hips.
“This is serious business,” she reminded me. “Our entire future depends on it, so we can’t be wasting any time.”
“It’s only the fir
st of June,” I said. But there was no arguing with Frita.
Straightaway we had to roller-skate on the yellow line in the middle of the highway because we’d seen that on TV once, so it was on both our lists. I might have picked something that couldn’t have gotten us killed, but Frita assured me it would make us plenty brave. She was probably right too, only we never got to find out because Mrs. Wilson drove by just as we were getting started.
If there were three things Frita was never to do, they were playing on the highway, going near the Evans trailer, and lighting matches. Any one of those things threw Mrs. Wilson into a fit and let me tell you, that was something to be scared of. She pulled her car over and lifted us both up by the ears. Then we got a solid chewing out all the way home. It was worse than Momma on Moving-Up Day.
After that we were grounded, so I thought we might take a break from fear-busting, but Frita said we’d just have to find things to do at her house or my trailer since we couldn’t go anywhere else. That was okay because I had plenty to choose from. First, we made a plan for what I’d do if I missed the school bus after school. Then I worked Momma’s new blender even though it was huge and loud and I was certain I’d get my hand chopped off. After that, we practiced picking up earwigs, only I got pinched. But that turned out okay because the pinch didn’t hurt hardly as bad as I thought it would, and Frita said that was just how she’d planned it.
When we were done being grounded, we roller-skated down the center of Frita’s road. She said that was okay because it was our best try and best tries counted. And when it came to the lists, Frita was the judge.
“Long as we try our hardest, we can cross it off because once you’ve tried something, it’s not so scary to try it again,” she said.
That sort of made sense, but personally, I found I could be just as scared nineteen, maybe twenty times in a row. Took me eighteen tries to face down a loose cow in the cotton field. I kept taking off every time she snorted. By my eighteenth try she didn’t pay me any mind at all. Just flicked her ear when I walked near her.