Monday, April 30, 2012

Goldfish

Michelle was the kind of kid my mom didn’t want me playing with. He knees were always dirty, and she said “shit!” and “damn it!” whenever the mood struck. Once, I saw her kill a toad with stick. Her father was dead.

One afternoon, Michelle came to my door with a plastic shovel in her hand, the kind you use at the beach.

“Come on,” she whispered, motioning for me to follow her. We ran through the patch of woods connecting our yards.

In her backyard she knelt down and began to dig until a hill of sandy dirt formed. She reached into the hole and pulled out a small fish, its eyes like plastic discs.

“It was my brother’s,” she said.

A call from inside the house prompted her to toss the goldfish back into the hole and quickly bury it.

I ran home, and never told a soul.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Canada

Timmy Paine tossed his backpack onto the bedroom floor. Crammed with pajamas and socks, he struggled to get the zipper closed. Just as he tossed the bag over his shoulder, his mother came in. “Where are you going?” she said. “There’s no school. It’s Saturday.” Tim was only in the second grade, but he knew what day it was. “I’m going to Canada,” he said. When his mother didn’t reply, he offered, “There’s polar bears there. And I won’t have to listen to Jeff. He says I talk like a girl.” Jeff was Tim’s older brother. He was in the fifth grade and knew just about everything. “It will take a long time to walk to Canada,” his mother said. “Why don’t I give you a ride? We can get ice cream on the way.” Relieved, Tim handed her his backpack. “Can you carry this? It’s kind of heavy.”