Tricked

Together we girls cut across suburban lawns, blew out jack-o’-lanterns, and loaded our pillowcases with candy. We then recognized our group of boys across a cul-de-sac. Mike was with them. He and I often passed notes in our sixth-grade classroom. He sometimes signed his “Love, Mike.”
Turning away briefly, I felt something slam into the back of my skull. The pain was monstrous. I wondered if it was a rock. I touched my head and felt gooey wetness and broken eggshell in my hair.
“You got her!” one of our boys yelled. “Direct hit!”
I started crying. The pack of boys then ran off and away into the Halloween night.

Embezzlement

We held our first Monkees Fan Club meeting in my backyard playhouse. We girls were gaga over the TV pop band’s music and zany antics.
Lacking a meeting agenda, we thumbed through fan magazines. It was not particularly inspiring. Having provided the meeting place, I felt responsible to pep up the atmosphere. The playhouse lacked electricity, though, so we couldn’t listen to their new album. The meeting dragged. I then remembered that club membership involved collecting dues. Without question, each girl eagerly handed me some coins.
Though we swore to meet every week, we never did meet again. Later on, feeling mildly guilty, I pocketed all of the collected change.

Alabama Roots

Helen served the deep-fried catfish and hushpuppies that she’d prepared for our lunch, and then she joined us at Grandmother’s antique dining table. I remembered Dad’s instructions to treat Helen like family. This was our first visit to Grandmother’s home. I concentrated on sitting up straight and saying “yes, Ma’am,” just as Dad had coached us.

Afterward, Dad took rope and a board and built a swing for my brother Mark and me in Grandmother’s magnificent front-yard tree. Dad then sat on the porch and sipped iced tea with Grandmother and Helen. While we two swung with wild abandon, those three dished and belly-laughed about other people from Headland, Alabama.

Better Than Nothing

I entered the family room, which housed our new color television. My oldest brother Johnny, who was babysitting that evening, sat in front of the vibrant screen. I reminded him about the Peanuts TV special. He said that it was my bedtime and to beat it. No matter how many times I shrieked, “But Mom said I could watch it!” he remained firm.
Quickly reduced to wailing mourner status, I did as I was told.
Johnny stood in my doorway several minutes later. “You can watch Peanuts,” he announced, “but only on the black-and-white TV.” I tuned in pronto. The first commercials were rolling, but thankfully not all was lost.

Rehabilitation

I walked out of Jolly Five-and-Dime with Baby Huey. I braced myself for the cashier to come after me. Nothing happened. Occupying the back seat of the station wagon, the stolen squeaky toy and I made our way home. I was on edge during the entire ride. No one said anything.
I stashed the hot property in my closet. To have and to hold my beloved duckling gave me the greatest imaginable joy. And yet I was plagued by unbearable guilt and fear.
Working alone, I wrapped Baby Huey in birthday paper. I then presented my impromptu gift to the neighbor girl, and thereby reclaimed a useful place in society.

Sleepover

I begged Mom to let us sleep on the living room’s newly installed, super-plush carpeting. Reluctantly, she agreed.
Carol, Sandy, and I rolled out the sleeping bags. We respectfully followed Mom’s rules: NO food or drink, NO shoes, NO dog. After the requisite giggling and chattering, we fell asleep.
In the morning, Sandy and I noticed that both Carol and her sleeping bag were gone. We next saw a large, damp stain on the beloved carpeting.
Carol’s parents had picked her up in the night, we learned. The barf-encrusted sleeping bag had been thrown, violently, in the side yard. It remained there for weeks, untouched by anyone except the dog.

Night Out

After confirming that our old-lady babysitter had settled into her knitting and TV watching, we tiptoed into the kitchen. Mark silently pinched a book of matches from the topmost cabinet.
In the darkened backyard, we piled dried leaves and sticks beneath the swing set. Mark then lit the matches. I knew that we risked burning down the house. Even more troubling, I pictured the babysitter storming down the side yard and finding our high-spirited faces glowing in the bonfire’s warmth.
The fire sputtered out without incident, though, and we grew cold and tired. We covered the embers with pea gravel, and then slipped noiselessly back into our bedrooms.

The Fat Kid

My third-grade teacher posted the wall chart of collected data. We bunched up in front of it and viewed the stats. I was not too tall or too short, thankfully. My weight, however, was upsetting. Only a handful of my classmates weighed in the 70s.
All eyes went to Kevin’s number, it turned out, which exposed a whopping 99 pounds. My weight barely got a mention.
Even when it wasn’t Halloween or Christmas or Valentine’s Day or his birthday, Kevin often gave our entire class Nestle Crunch bars. Sometimes he even handed out crisp dollar bills. Though we devoured the candy and snagged the cash, we still didn’t like him.

Middle C

I walked onto the stage in my best dress. There were probably fifteen adoring parents in the audience, but to me it seemed that thousands filled the darkened hall. My long hair was bobby-pinned in a severe bun and lacquered with hairspray. I sat on the rigid piano bench, and my hands moved mechanically across the keyboard.
With just one note remaining, my hands abruptly stopped. The hall was still. I just sat there, stunned. Finally, an inner voice told me that it no longer mattered. “Just hit any key,” it said, “and you can get off of this stage.”
Mom later told me that it was the right note.

Weasel's Date

The college students drank sangria. I sipped Hawaiian Punch. John and Yoko hung naked on the apartment wall. A Chiquita banana sticker covered John’s private parts. A reporter for UCSB’s radio station, recently back from covering the Berkeley campus riots, expressed that our Sour Cream & Onion Bugles were more acrid than the tear gas he’d faced there. Another college boy, after meeting me—Liz’s little sister, a fifth grader—proclaimed, “Hey, Weasel’s date’s here!” My big sister later explained how Poor Weasel was forever unlucky with girls. I remained exhilarated. To be considered as anyone’s date, even as a joke, allowed my big college weekend to reach epic proportions.

Charm School

How to sit properly:
1. Maintain an erect spine.
2. Cross your ankles, and then sweep the supporting foot to either side.
3. Place your hands, palms down, in your lap.
We learned this, and other finishing concepts, in Grooming for Girls.
I spotted our instructor at the club pool. She wore a colorful bathing cap, caked with frilly flowers. I pointed her out to Dad.
“That sweet pea?” He chortled. “I work with her husband, and is she ever a piece of work! It figures that she’d conduct charm school!”
Gentlemen sweat while ladies perspire, I went on to learn. But after Dad’s words, Grooming for Girls lost its appeal.

Sisterhood

With a bath towel concealing her hair, Sandy entered my closet confessional. She knelt down, and said: “Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned….”
“Please continue, my Child,” I said, using my best matronly voice. I was also veiled in towel, with an enormous silver crucifix chained around my neck.
Unaware that only priests could absolve sins, we rather liked playing confession and pretending to be Catholics. If only we could emulate the good-hearted Maria from The Sound of Music or that zany Sister Bertrille from The Flying Nun TV sitcom!
As soon as we were old enough, Sandy and I solemnly vowed, we would probably join up.

Scout's Honor

A Flag Ceremony was special, we were told, and all Scouts needed to be in uniform. In addition, three Boy Scouts and three Girl Scouts would be chosen to form the Color Guard. Our three Girl Scout troop leaders sought volunteers. I felt worthy, and threw my green beret in the ring. They assured us that they’d follow a thoughtful selection process.
When the Flag Ceremony commenced, having never been called, I was curious to see who made the Color Guard. The three Girl Scouts, each a troop leader’s daughter, then marched in with the three Boy Scouts.
Shortly after, embittered and disillusioned, I quit the Girl Scouts.

Playground Justice

The batter connected, and I tried to run. But the first baseman gripped my ponytail. I broke free somehow and sprinted toward second. I pictured a clump of my blonde hair in her fist. Although I made it safely on base, I was furious! Softball was sacrosanct, and you had to play fair. Lacking an umpire, we officiated ourselves. And this cheater was pure trash.
When I was up again, I slammed the ball far into centerfield. As I rounded first base, I kicked her unsparingly across her lower legs. She yelped and played the victim. But we both knew that she had it coming, and that justice was served.

One of the Boys

I swore to secrecy, and then followed Mark inside the backyard fort he’d built with my other older brother. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the low light that leaked in through slats and knots.
Mom’s kitchen towels hung tidily on the wooden walls. Mark lifted one to reveal a lurid centerfold, its glossy page chewed by snails. With me reeling, Mark then exhibited their cigarette stash—KOOLs swiped from Dad’s dresser.
Rather than protecting their den of iniquity, as I intended, they posted my perfect gift on their bedroom door. I was to KEEP OUT, they howled, thus clipping any notion I ever had of being one of the boys.

The Perfect Equation

Sandy’s backyard picnic table was our aircraft, and we were glamorous stewardesses. Although she was a slender brunette and I was a sturdy blonde, we were also identical twins. Our handsome husbands, twins too, were the pilots. This explained why our children—we each had the same Baby First Step and Baby Secret dolls—though cousins, looked absolutely alike. The umbrella-adjustment button became the flight PA, where with enticing voices, we announced that the drink service would soon begin. On our fantasy flight, Sandy and I never entered the cockpit, let alone pretended to touch the controls. We instead remained in the cabin, pleased that everything added up so perfectly.

The Secret Club

During lunch recess, they slipped through the gate and into Dana’s backyard playhouse. We heard that the four boys and four girls in The Secret Club played kissing games! It was scandalous and illicit, and I so wanted to be a member! Returning from recess one afternoon, their eight desks were empty. Those of us who knew feigned ignorance. From our classroom window, the deserted playground looked ominous. Eventually the gate opened, and the club members filed out slowly, heads down. Parents were called, and the gate was chained and locked. Getting caught was surely catastrophic for them, but it offered me a second chance to vie for fourth-grade popularity.

Father-Daughter Kickball with the Brownies

When Dad was up, I stood eagerly behind the backstop. We all knew that he could kick it out of the park. The outfielders pushed back. And when the pitcher rolled the red rubber ball, there was a hush.
But Dad missed the ball entirely, a dreaded strike, and instead kicked the packed-down dirt. His mighty body then gave way and crumbled. The other Brownie Dads rushed over. Smiling stoically as he limped off the kickball field, he dismissed his injury as just a rolled ankle.
I felt little compassion for the old weekend warrior. Thoroughly disgraced, we boarded the station wagon and left early. My whole day was ruined!

It Made Me Sick

I sat behind the boy who was getting yelled at. The back of his neck turned red.
Faintly audible, he murmured: “shut ... up.”
I knew that he didn’t really want the teacher to hear that.
But she did.
I raised my hand. The teacher—who was now slapping him—did not call on me. I kept my hand up. Finally, she recognized me.
“I feel sick,” I uttered.
“Uh, go to the bathroom,” she said, wild and panicked, pointing to the door.
With one hand over my mouth, race walking, I reached the entrance to the Girls Bathroom. Powerless to do much else, I threw up on the floor.

Right of Way

Ahead of me, a boy walked along the sliver of powdery dirt. We both knew the rules. Cyclists were forbidden to ride in the school’s parking lot or on its front walkway. All we had was this bike path, which was bordered by a splintery fence on one side and prickly bushes on the other.
Pedaling up behind him, I said, “Move over.”
He glanced back. “No, I don’t have to.”
Again I made my request. Again he refused to comply.
Was there a thump-thump as my Schwinn rolled over his body? I’m unclear. I do recall looking back, though, and seeing a dusty tire mark somewhere on his person.

Thanks, Dad!

During the 1969-1970 school year, we girls organized and wore pants. On our protest day—some say we marched with signs—we were sent to the principal’s office. Mr. Jordan (“Jordo-Butt”), smirking, suggested that we change back into skirts and dresses. We resisted.
My dad, who was home sick, took the call.
Jordan: “Are you aware that your daughter is wearing pants today?”
“So what did she do wrong?”
“Well, nothing, exactly. I mean, there is no strict rule against pants, but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s just nicer to see young ladies in skirts or dresses.”
“Call me when you have something to say,” said my dad/my hero.

Cocoons

As instructed, we sat “Indian style” in a linoleum-tiled circle. Mrs. Alexander left and a pack of boys headed to the aquarium. Butterfly cocoons clung to its glass lid. The boys tapped and pounded. I joined them. I understood that butterflies were beautiful treasures, worth waiting for. And yet I aided and abetted. The cagey boys returned to their squares in the circle, leaving me to solo. I felt Mrs. Alexander spank me. She then steered me, wailing, to her teacher desk. Kneeling down, she hugged me. Perhaps regretting her own impulsivity, she dabbed my tears. Was I bad or good? Only she held the power to decide.

Climb Ev'ry Mountain

We enacted the final scene, where the Von Trapp family escapes over the Alps. Being 3.5 months older, Sandy snatched the lead as Captain Von Trapp. I played the other hikers. Captain Sandy, with her doll (Gretl Von Trapp) perched on her shoulders, began her ascent. She cleared the first rung of the 1960s floor-to-ceiling pole lamp. With “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” lifting her, she continued upward. Before summiting, however, the fixture buckled. Clinging to the crumpled pole, Sandy and doll went down hard, landing in a heap on the carpeted floor. Sandy was grounded. I was sent home. Along the way, I decided that backup roles were just fine.