Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  She swipes her forearm across her brow, giving a longing look to the refreshing pond. I antagonize her by floating on my back with oohs and ahhs. “Fine,” she huffs. “But don’t look.”

  One side of my mouth tilts and I salute her with two fingers, giving her my back. “She turns eight and BAM she’s weirder,” I mumble to myself.

  Something grabs my legs under the water. I almost pee thinking Godzilla is trying to eat me and I scream like a girl. My arms and legs flail, wind milling toward the shore. Her dark head pops above the water. She cracks up over my terrified face, sucking water down her throat between laughs. Sweet revenge. I chuckle as she hacks and coughs, rambling about bacteria in the water.

  We splash and play dunk war, swimming circles around each other. Her mind works strategic battle equations for the best way to shove me under. We take turns swinging each other on the knotted rope Pappy hung when my dad was a kid. Betting on who can do the best dismount.

  The unhappiness from earlier fades the longer we play until her snorting laughs echo off the trees.

  Six

  SAMANTHA

  HOURS LATER MY LIMBS hang as if weighted with anvils. PGP gave up waiting and waddled her pork chop rump home. We both giggle over our synchronized stomach growls. At the shore we drag out on our hands and knees, collapsing under the burning sun in the grass. Arms and legs spread, I stare up at the cloudless sky too tired to move. I hear Mazric shuffling around, but I’m too lazy to turn my head to see what he’s doing. I don’t even care that I’m sprawled in my white cotton panties and matching camisole reeking of fish.

  Mama always said a proper girl wears a tank top under her shirt to absorb the perspiration. It’s one of the few female things I still do. Not that I have anything to see, nor does Maz care, but undressing in front of him today seemed wrong. With the speed he stripped, he sure didn’t have any issues dropping his clothes.

  He slaps my foot. “Let’s eat.”

  I loll my head to the side seeing he laid out a plaid blanket and paper plates. My mouth waters. He snickers as I crab crawl to the food, flopping on my stomach, I prop myself on my elbows and eat.

  Lukewarm soda, smooshed jelly-soaked bread, fruit, and crumbled chips is the best birthday meal ever. We stay under the rays until our undergarments dry. Our shoulders and noses shine red, burned by the sun. Redressed, we pack up the basket and sit in silence, listening to the sounds of summer. Quiet unsettles me and I toy with the dandelions dotting the ground.

  “I’m sorry about the gift from your dad. It’s not what you wanted, but that car will be cherry when you guys get it done.”

  I pop a shoulder up and down, refusing to let the sadness back in. “He means well. I just wish it was okay that I’m a girl.”

  His brow furrows in confusion. “Uh, Sam. I’m kinda dense sometimes, but I’m sure your dad knows you’re not a boy.”

  Flicking the heads off a handful of dandelions, I tell Mazric why I dress the way I do and the reasons I’m not the girly-girl I used to be. He listens without interrupting. I stare at the water fighting the thickness in my throat. “No matter how I change I can’t be the kid he wants. Books mean more than sports, he hates when I tell him he’s done something wrong, even if it means saving him hours of work. I talk too much and I can’t stop looking like my mama.”

  A spray of grass hits my face. “You used to wear dresses and play with dolls?”

  Blades of green stick to my eyelashes and lips. “Yes,” I spit, turning my glare toward him. His nose scrunches and his lips pucker like he’s tasted something bad.

  He chucks another handful of weeds at my head. I dodge to the right but they rain down on my shirt. “Gotta say, Splinter, if you were still into that I don’t think we’d be friends. But think about this. Would Polly Pocket challenge your brain the same way rebuilding a carburetor does? Getting dirty on the farm, riding horses, and doing what you love ain’t happening in a dress. You say you hate sports, but if you take away basketball, we never meet, and I don’t become the next Michael Jordan.”

  “Splinter?” I ask, searching my head for meaning.

  He nods. “Yep. He’s the smartest man ever and knows Ninjutsu.”

  Ah yes, his addiction to all things Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. “He’s a rat, Mazric.”

  “No, he’s the rat with four kick-ass ninja fighting turtles. Would you rather be Zordon?”

  A choice between TMNT’s mentor or a strange looking Oz type head thing from Power Rangers. This boy needs to find new television to watch. I don’t dignify him with an answer.

  He places a hand over mine. “Moms aren’t supposed to leave, Sammy, and Dads shouldn’t die. Shit happens, but it’s how you shovel it that matters. At least that’s what Pappy says. Yeah, you wear boys’ clothes and spend your days covered in oil, but you kept your hair long so a part of you keeps reminding Johnny you’re a gross girl, and one day he won’t be able to deny it.”

  “Huh. That’s deep, Mazric. I mean for a stupid boy.” His words spin in my head. The way Mama spent her days mimicking models in magazines would bore me to tears. Poised and pretty isn’t me. I’ve thought about cutting my hair and held the scissors too many times. But its length keeps a small part of me feminine.

  He throws two handfuls of grass at me. “I’m all smart and shit from hanging around you. Now let’s go skip rocks before we head back to the house. If we’re late for dinner, Paps will kick my ass.”

  “Keep using swear words and I’m gonna tell Carrie Lynn you need to go find a nice big switch on the weeping willow in the yard.”

  He jumps to his feet; his mouth gaped. “Harsh, Splinter. That would break my spine. You wouldn’t.”

  I smile up at his shocked face, noticing the sun shining through his mop of hair and freckles spreading along his cheeks. “No, but I like your made-up words. If you keep talking like that, you’ll slip up and get spanked. I’m sure Irish Spring doesn’t taste too good. And stop calling me Splinter.”

  “Nope,” he retorts, popping the P. “From now on you are Splinter. Now let’s get to skipping.” He extends a hand.

  I clap my palm in his and he tugs me off the ground. He rushes to the shore, scouring the ground. My feet shuffle behind, moving at a snail’s pace to join him. I hate skipping rocks.

  “Stop stalling, Splinter. Got a handful of great flat ones here.”

  “Let’s just head back,” I say.

  His head tips and he shakes with a fit of guffaws, bending at the waist gasping for air.

  “It’s not that funny, Maz,” I snap, stomping back to the blanket.

  “Wait.” Gasp. “Come on, Sam.” Wheeze. “I’ll stop.” Snort. He tries to calm but fails.

  My damp ponytail smacks my cheek with my angry head whip. “It’s not fair.”

  “You can’t be great at everything. So I skip rocks better than you. You’ll get it.”

  “But it’s all geometry. The thickness of the rock, the trajectory along the surface, added to the angle of the hand when thrown. All the equations and numbers float in the air and I solve it, whip the stone and nothing. It’s sinks like...well...a rock.” I whine and despise the sound of my voice. The science of skipping rocks is sound and yet I can’t do it.

  He holds two black, thin stones on his fingertips, offering them to me. “Maybe today is your day.” He smiles.

  Seven

  MAZRIC

  SHE POUTS ALL THE WAY back to the farm. We tried forever and every single one she lobbed plopped and sank. I tried not to laugh. I failed. Samantha Gentry shocks and awes me with her big brain. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get an ego boost from finding one thing I do better than her.

  I overheard Pappy and Mom talking about Sam’s mama. Old farmhouses with open heat grates are perfect for listening. My mother went to school with Karla Gentry. Her last name was Hathaway then. She had a thing for my dad and pursued him with dollar signs in her eyes, thinking he’d be the next big basketball star. When he enlisted, she ran straight t
o Johnny Gentry whose family owned an auto shop in town. Dad started dating Mom. Dodged a bullet, Pappy says.

  Gentry and Son closed when a big repair place opened in the next town over, but it was too late for Karla. She was pregnant with Sam and married to Johnny. Her homecoming queen status and big dreams melted faster than an ice cream cone on a hot Kentucky day. Johnny took a job as a mechanic at the local car dealer, and Karla worked her way through the men in town, searching for her ticket out.

  Pappy watched from his perch on the front porch each morning while he drank his coffee before starting his day. Johnny would leave for work; an hour later a babysitter pulled in and Karla would emerge from the house dolled up for the runway. She’d always come back home before Johnny. When money got tight, she started leaving Sam there by herself. Sam was three. Those days Pappy always stayed close to the house. A year later he watched her car leave for the last time.

  He felt bad for not telling Johnny what was going on, but in Pappy’s day people didn’t stick their nose in other’s lives. Sammy doesn’t know Paps watched her taking care of herself through the windows. He’s still stunned by how such a little girl learned to clean, cook, and do what she needed to. Joe Vortex might not be one to intrude, but when Sammy Lee chased a chicken onto his property, she opened the door for him to help her and her dad.

  Turns out Sam’s affinity for numbers helped streamline the farm. My grandma died a few years after Mom and Dad got married. Pappy says Sammy Lee has the same fire and sass Granny Ginny had.

  At the bottom of the steps, the savory aroma of fried chicken, cheesy potatoes, and super sweet baked beans drifts through the screen creating a painful rumble in my stomach. When we push through the door Mom, Pappy, and Johnny stand behind the food-laden kitchen island. In the center is a mountain of chocolate with Sam’s name on it and eight candles waiting to be lit. Next to the frosted sweet mound are three perfectly wrapped presents with bright blue bows.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Mom cheers. “First, we eat then presents.” Sam’s cheeks tint pink and her eyes gloss. She blinks and gulps down a swallow before nodding her head.

  Plates full of yum, we huddle around the table. Mom and I never attended church and Paps prefers to spend his Sunday mornings in the fields. He insisted, despite our religious practices, we reinstitute Gram’s evening dinner where everyone comes together once a day—no matter what—and no food touches anyone’s lips until after grace.

  I grab Ma’s hand on my left and Sam’s on the right. “Bless the meat. Enjoy the kin. Open your kisser and cram it in. Let’s eat.” Pappy smiles, and I fight the laugh climbing up my throat but a snort breaks free, resulting in a kick from Mom under the table.

  Forks clatter on glass and the adults pelt us with questions about how we spent our day. Mom pulled out the good plates instead of our usual paper on straw baskets. The conversation veers to school starting in a few weeks. Sam’s hand holding a chicken leg pauses halfway to her mouth and the joy lighting her face disintegrates. “So, Mazric, what grade you goin’ in this year?” Johnny asks between bites.

  “Uh, fifth,” I respond distracted by Sam’s frown.

  “Same grade as Sammy Lee then?” He nods and I see Mom agreeing.

  Wait, what? Sam just turned eight and I’m ten. She should be two grades behind me. “Huh?”

  “Sammy and you are both gonna be fifth graders. With you there, maybe she’ll have a better year and won’t be suspended,” Johnny huffs, but Pappy’s chest shakes with laughter. I missed a joke somewhere but the lead weight in my stomach is more important.

  You might think I’m mean, but I don’t want Sam in my class at school. I’m already the new kid who doesn’t have the Southern drawl, and I suspect smarty-pants Samantha Gentry isn’t a favored classmate.

  I don’t mind her quirks and affinity for correcting all my wrongs, but it took me a bit to adjust to. Most children our age don’t have the patience required in getting to know Sam.

  “She gave that boy what he deserved, John. Nothin’ school can teach this girl she doesn’t already know anyway,” Pappy says, reaching across the table to pat Sam’s fisted hand.

  I look to her for answers, she responds with a tight grin and shoulder shrug.

  “If she wouldn’t go around provin’ everyone dumb, she wouldn’t have a problem. Her mouth and big brain override her manners. Most folks don’t care for her two cents’ worth, and that Mills boy is no exception,” Johnny’s voice rises and Sam shrinks in her chair.

  “Jackson Mills Sr. ain’t nothin’ but a dumb hick who tells whoppin’ stories to anyone who’ll listen, and I don’t imagine his son is any different. If Sammy felt the need to add truth to his absurd lies, then good on her. About time someone called bullshit on them. Beside she’s still a girl, and I don’t care who you are or how old; no man or boy has the right to put his hands on a female. If she hadn’t laid him flat, I’d expect you to make that point to his daddy.”

  A boy at school manhandled Sam? Unacceptable. I lean so only she can hear me, “Did this Jackson kid hurt you?”

  Again, she shrugs. I put my hand on her knee, threatening her with the one thing that will make her talk. Tickling. Sam’s weakness. Mom says it’s the spot people used to grab and if you squirmed, it meant you like boys, but for me it’s her Achilles’ heel. If I dig my fingertips into the skin inches above her kneecap, she’ll laugh so hard she’ll pee her pants.

  She jerks but is a second too slow. I tighten my grip in encouragement. Pappy and Johnny continue to argue and Mom’s too busy twisting her head back and forth between them like she’s watching a thrilling tennis match.

  Defeated and knowing I mean business she stares unseeing at her plate, pushing her food around. “Jackson said he went fishing at Lake Manitou and used a jiggle worm as bait. I stayed out of it until he told his friends he hooked Big Billy Bass but couldn’t keep him. Claimed his dad made him throw the prized fish back.”

  “So what’s wrong with his story?” I ask confused.

  “Pappy said Big Billy is the legend of the lake. Few have seen him, and no one has ever caught him. He’s a large mouth bass weighing over twenty pounds and spanning almost thirty inches long. It would take a heavy-duty pole to catch him, and Billy won’t be suckered in with a jiggle worm. Bass prefer buzz and crankbaits. I told him he was wrong. His friends laughed and made fun. Instead of arguing with me his face turned beet red, he called me a few colorful names his mama would wash his mouth out for, and punched me in the chest.”

  Rage climbs up my spine. “He punched you?”

  She nods. “Knocked the wind out of me and I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet. I fell and tore up my knee and elbow. Daddy never saw the bruise he left on my chest. We both spent three days suspended because when I stood up, I punched him in the nose. That’s when Pappy gave me Princess Glitter Piggle.”

  My hand falls from her leg. The longer the adults argue the smaller she tries to make herself. This butt-knuckle punched her hard enough to leave a mark, and they punished her for defending herself. I can’t do anything about how the school system handled it, but the shit stain who touched her needs taught a lesson.

  Daddy may not have been home much but one night after a heated argument with Ma he grabbed my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. “Walk away. Get some air. Go for a drive. Drink a beer. Do whatever you need to, Mazman. Women are a gift bestowed on men by a higher power and will forever be better than we are. They’re the pulse that makes the world live. A cherished anomaly that makes us crazy. Swear to me right now, you will never lay hands on the opposite sex nor will you stand by and let someone else.”

  I pledged my oath and right now Daddy’s words bounce around my brain. “Sammy, have any of the other boys bullied you?” I ask.

  “It’s not too awful if I keep to myself. Test days are the worst because of how fast I finish. Those are the days they push me into walls or throw food. I’ve tried to talk Daddy into homeschooling, but he says he’s not
smart enough to teach me and we don’t have the money to hire a teacher.”

  “All right.” Mom interrupts. “No more fighting on Samantha’s birthday. It’s time for cake. Come on, Maz, help me get it.”

  I stack up the dishes before following her into the kitchen. She stands at the island twirling a book of matches between her fingers. She can’t hide what she’s thinking. From the look on her face, her all-hearing Mom ears heard everything Sam told me. “She’s had it rough, huh?”

  I nod, waiting to see where she’s headed.

  “You’re the new kid and want to make a good impression. Being best friends with a genius eight-year-old girl, who the other kids don’t like, will not be easy.” This woman read me like a book from the moment school entered the conversation. It’s witchcraft how she picks up my thoughts. Mom voodoo. I admit I was plotting how to steer clear of Sam until I found my footing. Not forever, I’m not a complete ass, but at least until I could figure out the hierarchy and secure my place. After hearing what she’s lived with my plan changed.

  “I got her, Ma. No one will tease, taunt, or touch Samantha Gentry ever again. You’re gonna have to back me up though. Could mean fighting if these backwoods hillbillies don’t heed the warnings.”

  Her eyes shine and her throat moves with a thick swallow before her lips tip in her signature proud mom smile. With a few steps she’s around the island, pulling me to her chest, and surrounding me with her scent of sweet vanilla and fruit. “You’re such a good boy.” Her breath moves my hair as her words vibrate in my ear pressed to her chest.

  I breathe her in before shrugging her off because I am a boy and I’ll deny loving her hugs to anyone who claims otherwise. “You just had to move me here and drop the weirdest friend I could ever have in my lap,” I mumble, ignoring her giggle.

  She lights the candles, nudging me forward. I carry the plates and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. Singing “Happy Birthday,” she ambles to the dining room.