We use to pick blackberries together, her and I. I didn't like blackberries, but it was fun picking them along the railroad tracks beside our apartment complex. Our fingers would be stained deep purple, her tongue and lips would match. I still like rasberries better.
She had chubby cheeks and the sweetest smile. Made even sweeter by the silver caps in the front. You never see kids with silver caps anymore... I guess they use something else now? We weren't suppose to walk by the railroad tracks, but my mom didn't seem to be around much during the day when we were out playing. As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, we were free to play at our own pleasure. (Not something we as parents have the luxury of doing today).
"Mandy, you want to play Barbies with me?"
Sigh.
Faintly I was tempted to go play my favorite game with my little sister, but then again, I was 10 now. I was too old for Barbies.
"Let's play Flashdance instead"
"No, you always hog the living room floor"
We would bicker back and forth like this all the time. We didn't really have anyone else to play with, but with five years age difference between us, there was little choice. We were stuck together. Most of the time I was annoyed by her constant presence. Sometimes I was grateful to not be alone.
Especially late at night. In the dark.
Or when I came home from school and my mom was crying in a corner. Overwhelmed by life and betrayal. I'd take my sister's hand and we would go outside into a world of make believe. Where we could be anything we wanted and go wherever our imaginations could take us. Far away from being poor and sad.
I use to hold her down, pinning her arms under my knees, straddling her and tickling her until she nearly peed her pants. She would squeal. I loved the feeling of power and dominance I had. Sad, but oh so true. Little did I know she would grow up to be about 5 inches taller than me. I wouldn't attempt that trick now, I assure you.
But I was fiercly loyal and protective as well. One day, two little nieghborhood girls yanked my sweet little sister from her big wheel bike by the hair of her head. I was sitting on the top of the stairs playing when I witnessed this. I ran down them two at a time and yanked one of the little girls off the bike by her pigtails and grabbed the other one by the hand and told them to never touch my sister or her things again or I'd make them very very sorry they did.
They ran away crying. Straight to their mom. About 15 minutes later, a very large woman with over-bleached blond hair and blood-red finger nails grabbed me by the arm and started yelling at me about being a role model and not bullying little babies (ha, her "babies" were the biggest bullies in our apartment complex). I christened her "Bleachy Mama."
She had the intended effect though. She scared the crap outta me. I ran home and told my mother what happened.
The next chain of events will be forever carved into my memory. My 95 pound (if that) mom grabbed a baseball bat from our toy box and stomped down our stairs towards Bleachy Mama's apartment, with me and my sister following at her tail.
Banging on the door with the bat (nice one Mom!) she had the fiercest look in her eye (don't mess with a Mama Bear's cubs). I don't remember my mother's exact words to Bleachy Mama, but it was somewhere along the lines of "don't touch or talk to my daughters again or I'll kick your fat ass". Actually I am pretty sure those were her exact words.
The two little girls stood behind there mama with wide eyes. I am sure we had a similiar look on our faces as this all transpired. Then Bleachy slammed the door in my mom's face and we went home.
Funny thing is, about 3 months later... we were all best friends, picking blackberries together by the railroad tracks. I ended up teaching one of those little girls how to dance to my Cyndi Lauper tape I dubbed off the radio. They never asked to ride my sister's big wheel and I don't ever remember seeing Bleachy Mama again.
No comments:
Post a Comment