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I don’t speed up, though. Not much she can do about it while she’s trying to stay on the log. Instead of saying the word Mississippi in between numbers like Momma did when she used to play hide-and-seek with us, I spell it all out and it takes twice as long to get to the next number.
She’s on to the next log and I can tell she’s not going to make it to twelve. For once I may even beat her.
Yep, there she goes. She’s off the log.
“Eleven!” I say as I pass her, and hop up onto log number one.
“Cheater. You counted so slow I felt my hair grow,” she grumbled. And before I could even prove I’m the Queen of the Log Fence she added, “Let’s go over to Forsyth’s.”
Forsyth Phillips is a friend of ours who lives in the house that’s as close as we’re going to get to having a neighbor. Forsyth’s a cure for boredom if I’ve ever seen one. If the Phillips’s house were a flower it’d be a sunflower, all smiley and warm with lots of clean windows and white tablecloths for fancy occasions.
Before I can even balance my way along the log to the post, Emma’s lit out for Forsyth’s.
“Wait up,” I call out to her, but it’s no use. I’ll have to hurry to catch up to her.
“Well, hello there, Miss Parker.” Mrs. Phillips talks that way to kids: like we’re the same age as her. “Forsyth’s upstairs. Y’all can go on up.” Once again, it’s Emma who’s gotten to the door first, so I have to let myself on in.
“Hey, Forsyth,” I say, all breathless from taking the stairs two by two.
“Hey, Carrie,” she says. Emma’s already called the spot across from Forsyth, who’s playing with her Old Maid cards on her single bed that has its own legs, like it’s on a throne. Her room has matching fabric all around, daisies on a sky-blue field hang from either side of her window, on a cushion just underneath it, and stretched neatly across her proud bed. I cain’t imagine what it’d be like to fall asleep every dag-gum night with my head on soft daisies. I guess I’d never have nightmares at the Phillipses’.
“Y’all hungry for some cookies?” Mrs. Phillips pokes her head in the room, smiling above her apron that must just be there for show since it’s never been smudged not once since we started coming over. “Come on down when you feel ready, they’re just coming out of the oven.”
Momma hasn’t baked us cookies in, well, forever. Mrs. Phillips bakes so much that Forsyth doesn’t even look up from her cards, doesn’t even seem to be in a hurry to get ‘em while they’re good and hot, the chocolate chips melting on your fingers, making it two desserts in one when you lick it off once the cookie’s gone.
“Aren’tcha gonna go on down for a snack?” I ask her. Please, Forsyth, say yes.
“I reckon,” she says, but she still doesn’t budge.
“What’re you playing?”
“Old Maid, silly. You blind?”
She must’ve woken up on the wrong side of her daisies.
“Can we play?”
“We?”
“Me and Emma.”
“I’m tired of playing with Emma,” she sighs. She always does this … refusing to play with my baby sister like she’s got the plague. Emma doesn’t seem to mind, but I think it’s mean to say it right in front of her like that.
“Come on,” I whine.
“Aw-right,” she says, scooting over on the bed to make room for me, too. “Y’all better take your shoes off, though, or my momma’s gonna tan your hide.”
I don’t think Mrs. Phillips has ever tanned a hide, though.
It’s a hot day, maybe that’s why Forsyth just ends up being as bored as the two of us. This kind of hot sucks out all your life blood and then expects you to be able to breathe and not suffocate. In the middle of Forsyth’s ceiling she’s got her very own ceiling fan that beats the hot air back out the window and brushes our skin with a nice breeze instead. Seems like every room in this house has one of those fans.
“Didja do your homework yet?” I ask her, hoping she’ll lose interest in her game and notice she’s hungry.
“Mmm-hmm. Momma makes me do it the minute I come in the door from school,” she says. “Did you?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I lie. I don’t do my homework till it gets dark and then I hurry through it like it tastes bad. Emma’s still too young to have homework.
“Let’s get some of your momma’s cookies,” Emma says, and I glare at her ‘cause it’s rude. Momma would tan her hide if she heard her ask outright for food from someone else.
Momma and Mrs. Phillips have talked on the phone, but I don’t think they like each other much. Momma always says she ruins Emma and me for anyone else. I guess she’s talking about all the food we eat when we come over—we’re never hungry for dinner when we finally drag ourselves home.
Forsyth is my best friend outside of Emma. We been going to school together since we were smaller than beans. We sit together at lunchtime and then we play on the jungle gym at recess when I’m not getting hit by a dodgeball. Usually she’s in a better mood than this.
“What’s the matter?” I ask her, trying to ignore Emma.
She shrugs just like Emma always does.
“Tell me.”
She shakes her head. She has curly red hair with freckles to match.
“Is it your momma?”
She shakes her head again.
“Your daddy?”
Again, no.
“It’s gotta be school, then,” Emma says.
“It’s Sonny, isn’t it,” I say.
Sonny’s the school bully. If someone falls down the stairs, Sonny’s usually up at the top, laughing. If something’s gone missing, it’s usually in Sonny’s backyard. And if somewhere in the recess yard a fire breaks out, Sonny’s usually the one holding the lighter.
For the first time since we came into her room, Forsyth looks up from her Old Maid cards. She nods and the mop on her head shakes like Momma’s Christmas Jell-O mold.
“What’d he do?”
Tears spill past her rims onto her freckled cheeks. “He’s meaner than spit, is all,” she cries, the way you would if you were choking.
“Tell me something I don’t know. He’s our second cousin, don’t forget.” Sonny’s the one who short-sheeted our bed last summer. Sonny’s the one who made me put my tongue to the bottom of an ice tray and then led me around his house laughing. Sonny truly is meaner than spit.
“When God gave out brains, Sonny thought he said trains and he ran for it,” Emma says, flipping through the cards, trying to shuffle.
“What’d he do this time?” I ask Forsyth.
“He pulled down my pants at band,” she cries, “and everyone saw.”
This is worse than I thought.
“What?” I ask her, but I’m glaring at Emma, who’s trying real hard not to crack up. I think Emma secretly likes Sonny but I couldn’t tell you why.
Forsyth is nodding her head, assuring me that I have indeed heard correctly. “I stood up to play.” Forsyth plays the recorder. “And just like that he reached from the row behind and pulled on my pants and the next thing I know everyone was laughing at me,” she cries even harder. “And I didn’t even have my good panties on.” See, there’s another difference between Forsyth and us. There’re no such things as “good panties” in our family.
“You want me to talk to him?” I ask her. Please, Forsyth, say no.
“No,” she practically screams at me. “Carrie, promise! Promise you won’t talk to him about it. Promise.” She’s clutching at my arm like I’m a log in the river she’s drowning in.
“I won’t,” I say. And that’s the God’s honest truth.
“Honor bright?”
“Honor bright.”
I get to thinking and it hits me. “You know what?” I pause to make sure they’re listening real good. “Sonny needs to taste his own medicine.”
“Huh?” Emma says. Even Emma looks interested in what I’m going to say.
“Seriously, we’ve got to get Sonny back for everything he does to us all the time,” I say. Forsyth isn’t looking away so I keep going.
“What can we do to get him back?” I think. Emma thinks. Forsyth thinks. “There’s got to be some way to get him….”
“We should sic Richard on him, is what we should do,” Emma mumbles. Forsyth pays no attention.
“We could pull his pants down,” Forsyth says, all excited-like.
I shake my head. I don’t know what these two would do without me sometimes, I’ll tell you what. “It’s got to be something no one’s done before. Something he won’t expect. But it’s got to be good.”
“What’re you thinking?” Forsyth asks. She’s leaning forward, waiting to catch my idea as it leaves my mouth.
“We could take his G.I. Joe and get one of Jimmy Hammersmith’s firecrackers, take G.I. Joe’s head off, put the firecracker in his body and watch him explode!” Emma shouts out.
Forsyth looks like this might be the way to go but I have my doubts, and once she sees the look on my face she starts acting like she doesn’t like the idea, either. She’s sort of a copycat, if you want to know the truth.
“It’s got to be even better than that,” I say. “But that’s good, though.” I sound just like our teacher when he doesn’t want to make us feel stupid.
“Well, what, then?” they both ask at the same time.
“Cookies are ready!” Mrs. Phillips calls up from downstairs and I cain’t take it any longer. I stand up and I know they’ll follow me since I’m Miss Idea.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, making sure I don’t grab, like Momma always warns us.
“Help yourself, sweetie.” Mrs. Phillips smiles while she shovels two more from her pancake turner onto the plate in the middle of the kitchen table, just like a television commercial. This kitchen is already tidied up—wet measuring cups and mixing bowls lie next to the sink air-drying in the V-shaped rack made just for that purpose.
We carefully wait for her to leave the room so we can plot our revenge.
“I’ve got it!” I say, with my mouth full.
Forsyth practically jumps out of her chair, which, by the way, has its very own cushion on it so you never get uncomfortable sitting on hard wood. “What? What?”
“How about,” I say real slow-like, drawing it out ‘cause it’s fun to be the center of attention every once in a while. “How about we go into the boys’ washroom before he goes in to use it and we grease the toilet seat so he slips in when he goes to the bathroom!”
Two sets of huge eyes blink back at me.
“My mom has Crisco,” “I can scout it out and give a signal when he asks permission to go,” “I’ll guard the bathroom door so we know it’s him who’s going in and not anyone else,” “I’ll spread the word that something really funny’s about to happen in the bathroom so everyone can go in and see him all dripping wet!” We talk all at once and whammo! We’ve got ourselves a plan.
After we eat so many cookies I can feel the dough rising in my stomach, we go back upstairs to Forsyth’s room and work it all out so we’re sure it’s foolproof. You’ve got to be foolproof with a boy like Sonny.
“He’s in room 301 second period,” Forsyth says. “I know ‘cause that’s across the hall from me. After second period he’s bound to have to go to the washroom.”
“Yeah, they have snack period after first, right?” Emma asks. She looks like she loves this plan as much as Forsyth does, which is funny considering she’s the only one Sonny hasn’t picked on. Truth to tell I think Sonny’s a little afraid of Emma since he knows she has no fear whatsoever.
“Yup,” I say. “Okay. So, Emma will scout him out and make sure he heads to the bathroom down the hall next to the gym. Forsyth, you have to come get me when Emma gives you the signal.”
Forsyth looks confused.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, “we’ve got to come up with a signal.”
“How ‘bout I call out ‘My favorite color is blue!’” Forsyth says.
“You can’t yell that down the hall,” Emma sneers at her. “He’ll know something’s up our sleeves.”
Forsyth nods.
“I know,” I say, “the signal will be that Emma will scratch her chin when she sees Sonny ask Mr. Stanley for the key. Then I’ll run down ahead of him with a pat of the Crisco in a bag under my shirt and, Forsyth, you watch the washroom door and make sure no one’s in there when I go in.”
“Wait! How’re you going to get into the boys’ washroom without a key?” Emma asks. And she has a point.
I think on this for a minute.
“Well,” I say out loud, but in my head I have no idea how I’ll finish this sentence. Then it comes to me. “I know! I’ll go to the bathroom right when I get to school ‘cause that’s when the janitor cleans them and leaves the doors open for them to air out! I’ll click that thingy in the middle of the doorknob that keeps it from locking when it closes and that way I’ll be able to slip in when you tell me he’s coming!”
Now, that’s a darn good plan, if you ask me. Foolproof. Emma and Forsyth look like they’re thinking the same thing. They’re both smiling like cats that ate canaries.
“Okay, then how’re we going to get everyone in there so they can see him after he falls in?”
I’m thinking again. How come I’ve got to come up with the whole dang thing?
“How ‘bout we count to ten so we’re sure he’s falling in and we tell anyone who’s around us in the hall that there’s a bag of free candy in the boys’ washroom.” Emma shouts this out she’s so excited. “Everyone loves candy. Especially when it’s free!”
That’s my little sister for you. She always comes through in the clutch.
“That’s it, then,” I say as Forsyth falls back on her bed of daisies. “Don’t forget to bring the Crisco in tomorrow morning,” I remind her.
“I won’t.” She smiles up at the ceiling. “This time tomorrow Sonny Parker’ll be the laughingstock of the whole entire school.”
Emma stands up and stretches her arms up over her head—after leaning back on them for so long I expect they’re stiff. “We better go on home before Richard gets to five.”
