Stop That Girl

Stop That Girl by Elizabeth Mckenzie Page A

Book: Stop That Girl by Elizabeth Mckenzie Read Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Mckenzie
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Coming of Age
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not trying to prove our sisterliness. But the twilight lingers until late, the crickets chirp merrily, and the smell of other barbecues in the neighborhood doesn’t rip us in two with loneliness, at least not tonight.
    That fall, the Footes start the construction of an addition to their house: a family room in every sense of the word. For Mr. and Mrs. Foote, there will be a wet bar. For Mr. Foote, there will be an enormous closet, with special racks and fixtures to hold his various pieces of sports equipment. For Mrs. Foote, rather than the rickety card tables of yore, there will be a big glass table for her jigsaw puzzles and bridge games. Plus a built-in sewing table and ironing board, a window seat with a telephone, a toy chest, a flagstone fireplace, and a huge console color TV.
    It takes four months for everything to be completed, from the pouring of the foundation to the first drinks poured at the bar. I’m over there, playing with Leslie and some other kids, the day they christen the new room. They’re having a spontaneous little party. Neighbors are popping in, bringing bottles of Beefeater and Gilbey’s and Johnnie Walker to stock the new bar. Mr. Foote takes me aside and says, “Why don’t you bring your folks over for a look?”
    “Yeah, okay, great!” I say, and run eagerly down the street to tell them about it.
    Mom and Roy are raking and weeding in back; Kathy’s burying toys in her sandbox. “Guess what?” I say. “The Footes want us all to come over to see their new room!”
    Mom doesn’t look happy at all. Her face knots up, and she begins to pantomime a child throwing a tantrum, hideously shrieking
“Comet! Comet! Comet!”
and storming up and down. Roy bellows with laughter.
    It’s kind of funny, but I say, “You know what, I’ve gotten to know her better, and she’s really pretty nice.”
    The winter sun is going down directly behind them, and Roy moves into my mother’s shadow. For a moment I can’t see either of them, just one big uppity blob countering my hopes and dreams. “Tell them we’d love to, some other time,” it says.
    “You’re not going to come?”
    “Well, it’s very nice, but we’re busy.”
    “You’re not that busy. Roy, don’t you want to?”
    He pauses a second, then says, “No, I think not.” And then I understand, finally. How Roy’s main job, no matter how nice he’ll ever be to me, is to stand by Mom. That’s what Mom wants,
after all she’s been through.
That’s why she picked him.
    “Oh, please, come on, it’ll be fun—remember how we had to leave last time? Everybody’s over there, there’s food and all kinds of stuff!” I can’t believe I’m struggling to hold back a sob over this. It’s climbing up into my nose.
    “Drop it,” Mom says.
    “We
need
to go. Come on, please!
Please!

    “If you mention it one more time, you’re going to your room!” Mom shouts.
    I feel awful my mother’s so mad at me, awful that Roy can’t disagree, and, after getting a grip on myself, make the passage back up my street. Every house I walk by contains a different package of people, like presents we could be opening but never do, and I know all their names and play in their yards, but it’s always just
me,
and I feel too measly and insignificant to pull it off alone all the time. I want some backup. But at least the air is crisp and clear today, and the mountains we can’t see the rest of the year rise up purple and handsome over our valley, and all the front gardens and walkways glow with flowers and berries in the twilight. I really like this neighborhood. I don’t want the Footes to get the wrong idea.
    So as I approach, I brighten up. I take some deep breaths and relax my face into a smile. And I make my entrance, looking for the biggest person in the room: Mr. Foote. He’s standing in front of a roaring fire holding a frosty mug of ale.
    “Annie, what can I getcha?” he says, when he notices me.
    “Thanks for inviting my parents,” I

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