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
