said it to my mother,” I inform her.
“I hope she doesn’t mind getting her head smacked off,” Felicia says to the sky. “I mean mine, not yours.”
“Ha, we’re a
pair of bloomers,
” I say. “Late and crusty.”
In our weakened state, this sets us off. We laugh hyenically, rolling around on the terrace, slapping weakly at the grass.
Suddenly the boy materializes in the window.
He must have been in bed, reading. We can see only his back at first, and a froth of bushy hair, as he roots around at his
dresser for something, then sidles to the window, lifting what looks like a pirate’s telescope to his eye. He turns slightly,
focusing it… where? On the upstairs window of the house next door? No, that house is completely dark. He continues to turn,
inch by inch, until the telescope is pointing in our direction.
“Uh-oh,” Felicia says.
We freeze against the grass, our white tennis shoes throbbing in the darkness, as the boy stands still for a long moment,a pirate looking for land. He seems to be seeing us seeing him, but we aren’t sure. Suddenly, he holds the telescope as though
it’s part of his anatomy and starts yanking on it.
Now we’re sure.
We scramble back up the terrace and then crawl through some shrubbery, dust off our shorts, and wander down the alley toward
the camper.
“Ee ain too noice,” Felicia says at some point.
“Ee ain,” I agree.
O ver the past summer while we were distracted by Kozaks and kittens, Felicia has grown even taller, causing her to feel towering
and uncertain and me to feel like it isn’t so much that one of us is growing but that the other is shrinking.
We were supposed to try on our band uniforms a week ago, after school, but the music room was crammed to the hilt with folding
chairs and music stands and there was nobody to guard the door. Just holding them up over our clothes, it was hard to tell
how they’d fit. Now we know.
“Do I look like Uncle Sam in this?” Felicia asks.
The jackets are thick blue wool with bright brass buttons and yellow braiding; the pants are white with knifelike creases
down the front and adjustable waistbands. The hats are hard blue cylinders with a short white brim, on top of which a hunk
of braiding is secured by two brass buttons; a white strap buckles under the chin. You’re allowed to wear your own shoes,
but there’s a black felt flap that buttons over the instep, creating the illusion of spats.
First problem: the hat is resting on my ears, which means they are exposed. Second problem: the entire uniform is too large
and too stiff for me—it looks like the person has withered away and the outfit is there on its own. Third problem: Felicia
looks like Uncle Sam.
“Do I?” she asks again.
The hats are at least eight inches tall. There is a spot on the top for a metal-tipped plume to be inserted; it will be worn
by the first-chair band members and the band teacher, who marches ahead of the whole pack, setting the pace by raising and
lowering a gilded scepter. Since we have neither talent nor leadership capabilities, we weren’t given a plume.
“At least you don’t have to wear one of their ratty feathers, which would make it even taller,” I say, and we stare at ourselves,
standing on my parents’ bed, looking in their big vanity mirror.
Raymond follows us downstairs and partway down the street. He’s starstruck and imagines he’s going to the parade. “I’ll go
like this when I see you,” he tells us, chopping the air in front of him and kicking sideways.
We’ve both been in band for as long as we can remember—fourth grade for me, third for her—but we’re in ninth grade now, and
neither of us has risen through the ranks at all. Instead we’ve each maintained a spot somewhere in the middle of our respective
rows, neither first chair nor last. Felicia plays clarinet, an instrument my mother wanted me to play because Old Milly had
one in her attic, but I
“I hope she doesn’t mind getting her head smacked off,” Felicia says to the sky. “I mean mine, not yours.”
“Ha, we’re a
pair of bloomers,
” I say. “Late and crusty.”
In our weakened state, this sets us off. We laugh hyenically, rolling around on the terrace, slapping weakly at the grass.
Suddenly the boy materializes in the window.
He must have been in bed, reading. We can see only his back at first, and a froth of bushy hair, as he roots around at his
dresser for something, then sidles to the window, lifting what looks like a pirate’s telescope to his eye. He turns slightly,
focusing it… where? On the upstairs window of the house next door? No, that house is completely dark. He continues to turn,
inch by inch, until the telescope is pointing in our direction.
“Uh-oh,” Felicia says.
We freeze against the grass, our white tennis shoes throbbing in the darkness, as the boy stands still for a long moment,a pirate looking for land. He seems to be seeing us seeing him, but we aren’t sure. Suddenly, he holds the telescope as though
it’s part of his anatomy and starts yanking on it.
Now we’re sure.
We scramble back up the terrace and then crawl through some shrubbery, dust off our shorts, and wander down the alley toward
the camper.
“Ee ain too noice,” Felicia says at some point.
“Ee ain,” I agree.
O ver the past summer while we were distracted by Kozaks and kittens, Felicia has grown even taller, causing her to feel towering
and uncertain and me to feel like it isn’t so much that one of us is growing but that the other is shrinking.
We were supposed to try on our band uniforms a week ago, after school, but the music room was crammed to the hilt with folding
chairs and music stands and there was nobody to guard the door. Just holding them up over our clothes, it was hard to tell
how they’d fit. Now we know.
“Do I look like Uncle Sam in this?” Felicia asks.
The jackets are thick blue wool with bright brass buttons and yellow braiding; the pants are white with knifelike creases
down the front and adjustable waistbands. The hats are hard blue cylinders with a short white brim, on top of which a hunk
of braiding is secured by two brass buttons; a white strap buckles under the chin. You’re allowed to wear your own shoes,
but there’s a black felt flap that buttons over the instep, creating the illusion of spats.
First problem: the hat is resting on my ears, which means they are exposed. Second problem: the entire uniform is too large
and too stiff for me—it looks like the person has withered away and the outfit is there on its own. Third problem: Felicia
looks like Uncle Sam.
“Do I?” she asks again.
The hats are at least eight inches tall. There is a spot on the top for a metal-tipped plume to be inserted; it will be worn
by the first-chair band members and the band teacher, who marches ahead of the whole pack, setting the pace by raising and
lowering a gilded scepter. Since we have neither talent nor leadership capabilities, we weren’t given a plume.
“At least you don’t have to wear one of their ratty feathers, which would make it even taller,” I say, and we stare at ourselves,
standing on my parents’ bed, looking in their big vanity mirror.
Raymond follows us downstairs and partway down the street. He’s starstruck and imagines he’s going to the parade. “I’ll go
like this when I see you,” he tells us, chopping the air in front of him and kicking sideways.
We’ve both been in band for as long as we can remember—fourth grade for me, third for her—but we’re in ninth grade now, and
neither of us has risen through the ranks at all. Instead we’ve each maintained a spot somewhere in the middle of our respective
rows, neither first chair nor last. Felicia plays clarinet, an instrument my mother wanted me to play because Old Milly had
one in her attic, but I
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