Read Online Monument 14 by Emmy Laybourne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emmy Laybourne
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now.
Chinka-chinka-chink . CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK. CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK . Wobble-wobble-wobble went the sheeting.
Astrid stepped in front of the little kids.
“Come on, guys,” she said. “Who likes puppet shows? I’m going to do a puppet show for you guys.”
No one moved.
Obviously their failure to move had nothing to do with their feelings about puppet shows. They were rooted to the spot in utter horror and shock.
“ OPEN THE DOOR, YOU LITTLE SONS A BITCHES !”
“Go away!” Jake yelled. “Go away and leave us alone!”
CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK .
“Guys!” Astrid yelled. “Free candy! Come on. Whatever toys you want! Let’s party! Come on.”
She was working so hard.
“ OPEN THE GATE OR I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL TEAR YOUR LITTLE KIDDO HEADS OFF AND I WILL MAKE A SOUP OUT OF YOUR LITTLE SMART-ASS KIDDO BRAINS AND— ”
I started to sing.
Yes, sing.
“I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy. Yankee Doodle Do or die.”
I let go of Henry and Caroline and started marching, like I was the leader of a parade.
“An old old something something la la la, born on the Fourth of July.” So maybe I didn’t know the words, exactly.
Alex joined in. Astrid, too. All three of us marching like idiots.
“You’re my Yankee Doodle sweetheart, Yankee Doodle do or die.”
I led the three of us, making up the words somewhat and we walked in front of the gate, getting between the eyes of the little kids and the plywood, just trying to break the terror spell of the monster outside.
Who now started to yell, “YOU SINGING ‘YANKEE DOODLE’? ‘YANKEE DOODLE DANDY’? I’LL F ___ KILL YOU!”
Niko joined in and that guy, I am here to tell you, is entirely tone deaf.
But the little kids kind of snapped to. We caught their attention.
“Yankee Doodle went to town a riding on a pony. I am a Yankee Doodle guy.”
And the kids started marching and I led the parade, the saddest parade in the history of the world, away from the front of the store, away from the monster outside, and right to the stupid cookie and cracker aisle. We ate fudge-covered graham crackers for a good long while.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BLOOD TYPES
The kids fell asleep, after a while. It was maybe three in the afternoon—hard to tell inside because the lighting was the same all day long. I don’t know what time it was, but Astrid had told them it was time for a nap and the kids dropped into their sleeping bags like the walking dead.
The twins slept together, and Max and Ulysses moved their bags next to each other. Chloe and Batiste were sort of the odd men out. Batiste tried to snuggle up to Chloe, but she wouldn’t have it.
“Quit it, Batiste,” she said. “You smell.”
She pushed him away.
“It’s a sin to push,” Batiste mumbled.
“Yeah, well. It’s also a sin to try to hug someone who doesn’t want to be hugged!”
“No, it’s not!” Batiste protested.
“Yes, it is!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“Come on, you guys,” I said, trying to be sane.
“Hugging is not a sin!” Batiste yelled.
“It is too, if the girl getting hugged doesn’t want it!” Chloe countered.
“Hey!” Astrid hollered. “Shut up!”
Then Chloe hit Batiste in the stomach, which I admit was not entirely displeasing to me, because that Batiste was an aggravating kid.
Then Batiste said it was a sin to punch someone in the stomach.
He cried for a while, and gradually his cries gave way to the shallow rhythm of sleep breath.
It was a relief to have them asleep. Astrid and I sort of looked at each other and smiled. The moment had a weird feeling of middle-aged family life, with the two of us cast just where I’d like us to be, in about twenty years, but, of course, with about five too many kids.
“You’re good with kids,” she said to me.
“Not really,” I said. “You’re good with them.”
Good conversation, right? I was really connecting with her.
“Counselor of the year, Indian Brook Day Camp. Three years
Chinka-chinka-chink . CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK. CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK . Wobble-wobble-wobble went the sheeting.
Astrid stepped in front of the little kids.
“Come on, guys,” she said. “Who likes puppet shows? I’m going to do a puppet show for you guys.”
No one moved.
Obviously their failure to move had nothing to do with their feelings about puppet shows. They were rooted to the spot in utter horror and shock.
“ OPEN THE DOOR, YOU LITTLE SONS A BITCHES !”
“Go away!” Jake yelled. “Go away and leave us alone!”
CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINKA-CHINK .
“Guys!” Astrid yelled. “Free candy! Come on. Whatever toys you want! Let’s party! Come on.”
She was working so hard.
“ OPEN THE GATE OR I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL TEAR YOUR LITTLE KIDDO HEADS OFF AND I WILL MAKE A SOUP OUT OF YOUR LITTLE SMART-ASS KIDDO BRAINS AND— ”
I started to sing.
Yes, sing.
“I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy. Yankee Doodle Do or die.”
I let go of Henry and Caroline and started marching, like I was the leader of a parade.
“An old old something something la la la, born on the Fourth of July.” So maybe I didn’t know the words, exactly.
Alex joined in. Astrid, too. All three of us marching like idiots.
“You’re my Yankee Doodle sweetheart, Yankee Doodle do or die.”
I led the three of us, making up the words somewhat and we walked in front of the gate, getting between the eyes of the little kids and the plywood, just trying to break the terror spell of the monster outside.
Who now started to yell, “YOU SINGING ‘YANKEE DOODLE’? ‘YANKEE DOODLE DANDY’? I’LL F ___ KILL YOU!”
Niko joined in and that guy, I am here to tell you, is entirely tone deaf.
But the little kids kind of snapped to. We caught their attention.
“Yankee Doodle went to town a riding on a pony. I am a Yankee Doodle guy.”
And the kids started marching and I led the parade, the saddest parade in the history of the world, away from the front of the store, away from the monster outside, and right to the stupid cookie and cracker aisle. We ate fudge-covered graham crackers for a good long while.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BLOOD TYPES
The kids fell asleep, after a while. It was maybe three in the afternoon—hard to tell inside because the lighting was the same all day long. I don’t know what time it was, but Astrid had told them it was time for a nap and the kids dropped into their sleeping bags like the walking dead.
The twins slept together, and Max and Ulysses moved their bags next to each other. Chloe and Batiste were sort of the odd men out. Batiste tried to snuggle up to Chloe, but she wouldn’t have it.
“Quit it, Batiste,” she said. “You smell.”
She pushed him away.
“It’s a sin to push,” Batiste mumbled.
“Yeah, well. It’s also a sin to try to hug someone who doesn’t want to be hugged!”
“No, it’s not!” Batiste protested.
“Yes, it is!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“Come on, you guys,” I said, trying to be sane.
“Hugging is not a sin!” Batiste yelled.
“It is too, if the girl getting hugged doesn’t want it!” Chloe countered.
“Hey!” Astrid hollered. “Shut up!”
Then Chloe hit Batiste in the stomach, which I admit was not entirely displeasing to me, because that Batiste was an aggravating kid.
Then Batiste said it was a sin to punch someone in the stomach.
He cried for a while, and gradually his cries gave way to the shallow rhythm of sleep breath.
It was a relief to have them asleep. Astrid and I sort of looked at each other and smiled. The moment had a weird feeling of middle-aged family life, with the two of us cast just where I’d like us to be, in about twenty years, but, of course, with about five too many kids.
“You’re good with kids,” she said to me.
“Not really,” I said. “You’re good with them.”
Good conversation, right? I was really connecting with her.
“Counselor of the year, Indian Brook Day Camp. Three years
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