eagerly.
“Okay,” Sam said, grinning. She gingerly removed the pin and clipped it to her own shoelace.
The last time Shelly had given the girls friendship pins,
Sam had worn them happily for an afternoon. Then at school
on Monday, she’d taken hers off, watched the beads bounce across the tiles, and used the pin to torture the boy who sat
in front of her. “Friendship pins are dumb,” she’d said, even though everyone in the class was wearing them. Sam and Tammy hadn’t — wouldn’t. They were dumb, if only because Sam had said so. She’d held the pin, hovering it at the back of the boy’s neck, about a centimetre from the skin, waiting to see if he would lean back. Technically, her hands were still on her desk, she could claim. He was invading her space. His name was Martin Stevens. Samantha said he was dumb, that all people with last names for first names and first names for last names were dumb. But that if she wanted to, she could go out with him, just like that.
At recess, he and the other boys would offer to play Kissing Tag with the girls, then all the boys would concentrate on Sam, chasing her around until they headed her off and got hold of her. She would dig her fingernails into their arms and always get away. She was so cool like that, Tammy thought. The boys would all rub their wrists and forearms, swearing “Bitch!” But back in class the small cresent-moon marks were an honour — akin to the hickies older kids sported around town. “Look what Samantha Sturges did to me,” boys would hiss across the aisles, trying to top each other with their pain. “Mine go deeper.”
The Pegg children went to a private Christian school, where they didn’t play Kissing Tag. Shelly said the boys thought it was gross.
“Maybe the boys just think you’re gross,” Sam said. Tammy flinched at the meanness that time. No one had ever tried to catch and kiss her either.
This evening, Shelly was wearing a Garfield sweatshirt and carrying a Cabbage Patch Doll — two items Tammy noted immediately as “issues” they would need to discuss with Shelly before the night was over if they were ever going to help her “improve” herself. Shelly was dumb, dumb, dumb. To prove it, Sam and Tammy gave each other knowing glances whenever Rodney raced by.
“What, do you guys like him or something?” Shelly asked.
“Or something,” Tammy said.
“We’re psychically communicating,” Sam said. “If you can’t say anything in our language, don’t say anything at all. You’ll break our concentration.”
“Rodney!” Shelly hollered across the yard.
“Shut up!”
“These girls like you!” Rodney didn’t turn. A stream of water flew from his gun and zipped across the dead air. Shelly cupped her hands to her mouth. “These girls — Owwww!”
Sam caught Shelly by the ponytail. The bobble on top tilted with the strain, and then snapped. Shelly clutched at loose strands and eight or nine falling bobby pins. Shelly’s hair wasn’t really long enough to wear in a ponytail anyway. Or so Tammy told her, as consolation.
Mrs. Sturges lay a blanket across the seven or eight feet of sand Warren referred to as the Beach. The sand was cold, almost comforting, as Tammy dug her feet in, let the granules spill between her toes. A small grey spider inched its way toward her. She quickly pulled her toes up onto the blanket. All down the Beach, neighbours from the other houses were sitting together in rows, getting ready to wait. Another hour until the fireworks would start, a long ways away, down the river, but still, they claimed, better from here, with the reflection falling into the water. A couple of girls younger than Tammy and Sam were playing hand-clapping games, with a more complex diagonal crossover than Tammy remembered from the last time she’d played. They began singing faster and louder. Their voices wobbled out over the water and bounced back as if they were singing into tin cans . . .
Miss Molly had a
“Okay,” Sam said, grinning. She gingerly removed the pin and clipped it to her own shoelace.
The last time Shelly had given the girls friendship pins,
Sam had worn them happily for an afternoon. Then at school
on Monday, she’d taken hers off, watched the beads bounce across the tiles, and used the pin to torture the boy who sat
in front of her. “Friendship pins are dumb,” she’d said, even though everyone in the class was wearing them. Sam and Tammy hadn’t — wouldn’t. They were dumb, if only because Sam had said so. She’d held the pin, hovering it at the back of the boy’s neck, about a centimetre from the skin, waiting to see if he would lean back. Technically, her hands were still on her desk, she could claim. He was invading her space. His name was Martin Stevens. Samantha said he was dumb, that all people with last names for first names and first names for last names were dumb. But that if she wanted to, she could go out with him, just like that.
At recess, he and the other boys would offer to play Kissing Tag with the girls, then all the boys would concentrate on Sam, chasing her around until they headed her off and got hold of her. She would dig her fingernails into their arms and always get away. She was so cool like that, Tammy thought. The boys would all rub their wrists and forearms, swearing “Bitch!” But back in class the small cresent-moon marks were an honour — akin to the hickies older kids sported around town. “Look what Samantha Sturges did to me,” boys would hiss across the aisles, trying to top each other with their pain. “Mine go deeper.”
The Pegg children went to a private Christian school, where they didn’t play Kissing Tag. Shelly said the boys thought it was gross.
“Maybe the boys just think you’re gross,” Sam said. Tammy flinched at the meanness that time. No one had ever tried to catch and kiss her either.
This evening, Shelly was wearing a Garfield sweatshirt and carrying a Cabbage Patch Doll — two items Tammy noted immediately as “issues” they would need to discuss with Shelly before the night was over if they were ever going to help her “improve” herself. Shelly was dumb, dumb, dumb. To prove it, Sam and Tammy gave each other knowing glances whenever Rodney raced by.
“What, do you guys like him or something?” Shelly asked.
“Or something,” Tammy said.
“We’re psychically communicating,” Sam said. “If you can’t say anything in our language, don’t say anything at all. You’ll break our concentration.”
“Rodney!” Shelly hollered across the yard.
“Shut up!”
“These girls like you!” Rodney didn’t turn. A stream of water flew from his gun and zipped across the dead air. Shelly cupped her hands to her mouth. “These girls — Owwww!”
Sam caught Shelly by the ponytail. The bobble on top tilted with the strain, and then snapped. Shelly clutched at loose strands and eight or nine falling bobby pins. Shelly’s hair wasn’t really long enough to wear in a ponytail anyway. Or so Tammy told her, as consolation.
Mrs. Sturges lay a blanket across the seven or eight feet of sand Warren referred to as the Beach. The sand was cold, almost comforting, as Tammy dug her feet in, let the granules spill between her toes. A small grey spider inched its way toward her. She quickly pulled her toes up onto the blanket. All down the Beach, neighbours from the other houses were sitting together in rows, getting ready to wait. Another hour until the fireworks would start, a long ways away, down the river, but still, they claimed, better from here, with the reflection falling into the water. A couple of girls younger than Tammy and Sam were playing hand-clapping games, with a more complex diagonal crossover than Tammy remembered from the last time she’d played. They began singing faster and louder. Their voices wobbled out over the water and bounced back as if they were singing into tin cans . . .
Miss Molly had a
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