plastic panes.
“Never mind them,” Samantha had always said, leaning forward to turn up the volume on the gigantic television set. Even when it sounded like Mr. and Mrs. Sturges were about to fall through the doors, her eyes never wavered from the blue flicker of images. The Saturday Shocker. Twilight Zone reruns. A magic stopwatch, dropped; a man trapped forever in a timeless world.
Warren was Mrs. Sturges’s white knight. He looked about as heroic as a Playskool figure, cylindrical and shapeless.
The static sound of steel frames on concrete announced their presence before they appeared in the backyard. Dusk had arrived, along with Mrs. Sturges’s relatives, friends, town neighbours, all of them dragging nylon lawn chairs across the driveway.
With them was Rodney, the now-fourteen so-called gorgeous cousin. Upon introduction, he was dismissive, a curt nod and a cooler-than-thou dodge away. His coolness soon wore off, and he became instantly more interesting. He glided back and forth across the grass, pelting his younger brother with a squirt gun. They yelped and hooted, and every once in a while Rodney would look over at the girls like he was waiting for them to watch. Rodney did an army roll through the grass, staining his white jeans, but bringing up the transparent orange plastic, catching his brother in the back with the stream. A dotted, dark curlicue of wet bloomed from the pale blue cotton.
“They got here pretty late,” Samantha whispered, “I don’t think we’ll get a chance to go swimming.”
Tammy felt an unrivalled sense of relief.
Shelly was a hand-me-down friend, the daughter of one of Mrs. Sturges’s neighbours, the Peggs. They lived around the corner from Sam in Forest Hill, and had everything: trampoline, swimming pool, CollecoVision. Everything but brains. Everything about Shelly Pegg was stupid. Even her name was stupid. Shelly looked like a lollipop. A very large head perched atop her scrawny body. She had a nose like a mushroom and a heavy chin which was engaged in a constant struggle to pull down her flat, broad cheeks. She always looked as if someone had given her a piece of bad news.
Smelly Shelly’s shoelaces were lined with friendship pins, though in truth, she had made nearly all of them herself. Small red beads, opaque, beside transparent yellows. Miniature copper pins and large silver ones. If she jumped too hard while skipping double dutch, pins would pop open and big orange beads would scatter in all directions. But she couldn’t skip double dutch anyway. She could hardly do Blue Bells Cockleshells, Eevy Ivy Over. “Poor Smelly Shelly,” Sam would say, and turn the rope even harder, so that it whipped against the side of Shelly’s head. Tammy had to admit that even she couldn’t jump to that speed.
Being dumb was a fate worse than death. Tammy saw the assignment of fortune as an enormous fist, the duke of life held out, an offering. Sometimes there would be a Bazooka Joe or Swedish Berry in one hand but not the other. Sometimes a person would pick right and get to blow bubbles. Other times, she got nothing. Shelly got the kind of nothing that never afforded any other choices. No one was ever going to offer Shelly a free ride. No one was going to say, “Pick a hand.” No fifty-fifty chance. Sam played that joke all the time. Holding out her fists, smiling and waggling her eyebrows. Neither hand ever had anything in it. Tammy fell for it once or twice when she was about nine. Shelly fell for it every time. Trust was a terrible thing. “Poor Smelly Shelly,” Sam would say again, shaking her head.
“I’ve got some more friendship pins,” Shelly said now, dragging her lawn chair to where Tammy and Sam were sitting cross-legged in the grass. Sam leaned closer to admire them, pointing to what was obviously the centrepiece of Shelly’s shoelace — a gigantic silver pin with alternating beads in hot pink and baby blue.
“You can have it if you want it,” Shelly said
“Never mind them,” Samantha had always said, leaning forward to turn up the volume on the gigantic television set. Even when it sounded like Mr. and Mrs. Sturges were about to fall through the doors, her eyes never wavered from the blue flicker of images. The Saturday Shocker. Twilight Zone reruns. A magic stopwatch, dropped; a man trapped forever in a timeless world.
Warren was Mrs. Sturges’s white knight. He looked about as heroic as a Playskool figure, cylindrical and shapeless.
The static sound of steel frames on concrete announced their presence before they appeared in the backyard. Dusk had arrived, along with Mrs. Sturges’s relatives, friends, town neighbours, all of them dragging nylon lawn chairs across the driveway.
With them was Rodney, the now-fourteen so-called gorgeous cousin. Upon introduction, he was dismissive, a curt nod and a cooler-than-thou dodge away. His coolness soon wore off, and he became instantly more interesting. He glided back and forth across the grass, pelting his younger brother with a squirt gun. They yelped and hooted, and every once in a while Rodney would look over at the girls like he was waiting for them to watch. Rodney did an army roll through the grass, staining his white jeans, but bringing up the transparent orange plastic, catching his brother in the back with the stream. A dotted, dark curlicue of wet bloomed from the pale blue cotton.
“They got here pretty late,” Samantha whispered, “I don’t think we’ll get a chance to go swimming.”
Tammy felt an unrivalled sense of relief.
Shelly was a hand-me-down friend, the daughter of one of Mrs. Sturges’s neighbours, the Peggs. They lived around the corner from Sam in Forest Hill, and had everything: trampoline, swimming pool, CollecoVision. Everything but brains. Everything about Shelly Pegg was stupid. Even her name was stupid. Shelly looked like a lollipop. A very large head perched atop her scrawny body. She had a nose like a mushroom and a heavy chin which was engaged in a constant struggle to pull down her flat, broad cheeks. She always looked as if someone had given her a piece of bad news.
Smelly Shelly’s shoelaces were lined with friendship pins, though in truth, she had made nearly all of them herself. Small red beads, opaque, beside transparent yellows. Miniature copper pins and large silver ones. If she jumped too hard while skipping double dutch, pins would pop open and big orange beads would scatter in all directions. But she couldn’t skip double dutch anyway. She could hardly do Blue Bells Cockleshells, Eevy Ivy Over. “Poor Smelly Shelly,” Sam would say, and turn the rope even harder, so that it whipped against the side of Shelly’s head. Tammy had to admit that even she couldn’t jump to that speed.
Being dumb was a fate worse than death. Tammy saw the assignment of fortune as an enormous fist, the duke of life held out, an offering. Sometimes there would be a Bazooka Joe or Swedish Berry in one hand but not the other. Sometimes a person would pick right and get to blow bubbles. Other times, she got nothing. Shelly got the kind of nothing that never afforded any other choices. No one was ever going to offer Shelly a free ride. No one was going to say, “Pick a hand.” No fifty-fifty chance. Sam played that joke all the time. Holding out her fists, smiling and waggling her eyebrows. Neither hand ever had anything in it. Tammy fell for it once or twice when she was about nine. Shelly fell for it every time. Trust was a terrible thing. “Poor Smelly Shelly,” Sam would say again, shaking her head.
“I’ve got some more friendship pins,” Shelly said now, dragging her lawn chair to where Tammy and Sam were sitting cross-legged in the grass. Sam leaned closer to admire them, pointing to what was obviously the centrepiece of Shelly’s shoelace — a gigantic silver pin with alternating beads in hot pink and baby blue.
“You can have it if you want it,” Shelly said
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