The past few days had been a whirlwind to say the least. My memory has always had a way of blocking out the bad parts, but there was no way to ignore the brown stained boxes piling higher and higher, and the way my home was pawned and negotiated. This day in late July seemed to me like the hottest of the summer so far, and none of my usual hiding places could shade me from the blaring sun. Normally on a day like today I would take my Junie B. Jones book into a small nook and read the day away. So, I picked my favorite from the shelf (Junie B. Jones and a Little Monkey Business), and skipped rigorously down the path in my front yard, across the parking lot and over to the box.
My best friend and I had found the box a couple days before, when our neighbor had decided to order a new refrigerator. We soon discovered it was the perfect size for us. I opened my book to the first page, and fell into it and out of my reality. Not too long after I started in on the book for about the twenty fifth time, my sister Sarah came over. She walked with a confidence like no one else, a walk I was so used to, it felt like seeing an old friend.
“Rachel come hold the cat so I can dress her in my baby doll clothes.” she called. At this point my immediate response was to ignore her, and continue reading. She called out again “Rach, I need your help!” I responded
“Why, Sarah, so you can torture our cat? No, I’m reading!” She let out a sigh of defeat and strutted back into the house.
I jumped right back into my book, unbothered by the interruption. As I absorbed each page thoroughly I started to hear something that distracted me. The sound of my screen door slamming shut and squeaking open again and again. Why is someone going in and out and in and out? I subtly shifted in the box to maintain my hiding spot, while also investigating the situation. I could see from the far corner of the box my mother lugging boxes from the house to our car. I looked away immediately, immersing myself back to Junie and her mischief. Reading intensely, I tried to put myself into the book. The less I let myself think, the better.
This method worked for awhile until I heard the start of a car engine. This time my curiosity took over, and I craned my neck wiping the blonde curls from my face; desperate to see what was happening. I could see my father pulling out of my driveway with his briefcase in the passenger seat. He had left for work. I continued to watch my house, and saw my mom continuing to load boxes and small furniture into our green hatchback Volvo. She was leaving too.
I quickly folded over my page of Junie B. Jones and picked myself up out of the box. I didn’t skip home. It felt so unnatural to me, to walk, walking was not fun. But, fun felt unnatural too. So I walked slowly home, my eyes locked on my dirty toes, playing hide and seek with the grass each step I took. When I got inside my mother was bustling around the house picking things up, putting them down. She said a passive “Hi, sweetie” as she went. I walked right by her, and climbed the stairs where I knew Sarah would be. When I got to her room she was wrestling our cat into a pink tutu. I waited there for a moment, and put my book down.
“I’ll hold her while you put the skirt on, but if she scratches me you’re dead!”
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This was the first piece I wrote for Mrs. Waterman’s class. I was really proud of it and it meant a lot to me. It was really a turning point in how I saw myself as a writer.
Rachel, this piece continues to strike me. There is so much going on in the way you characterize each sister’s walk, the tones of voices, there are a million little details that speak to a much more subtle, unspoken sense of what’s happening. I love what is not said in this piece, which is much harder to do! There is a lot of love in this piece as well, which is what you leave the readers feeling at the end. Well done.