balance thing is something Emma and I like to do when we’re superbored. Actually it’s kind of fun. The top logs on the fence that used to separate our land from the neighbors, back when we all cared about that sort of thing, are all missing. So Emma and I walk on the lower logs between the fence posts and see who can stay up the longest without falling off. The loser has to do whatever the winner makes her do.
“I’ll start, you count.” Emma is already on top of the first log. It’s the easiest since it’s so old it’s split long ways in the middle so it’s wider than all the rest. The tricky one is the newer one that’s next.
“Go,” I say, and I start counting out loud. Emma can do this without even extending her arms and that makes me mad for some reason so I count slow.
“You’re counting too slow!” Emma says. She’s concentrating real hard on the next step she’s going to take.
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
