off a school bus.
I decided to learn them all by heartâeven if I didn't know exactly what they meant. I didn't know what most of Doug Swieteck's brother's cusses meant, either, and it didn't make all that much difference. It's all in the delivery anyway. So I practiced in my bedroom, thinking of my sister.
A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er!
I know, it doesn't sound like much. But if you say it slow and menacing, especially when you get to "blister," it'll do. Keep your eyes half-closed, and it will really do. But for the rest of the Caliban curses, it's a lot better to say them loud and fast, like:
The red plague rid you!
and:
Toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
and:
As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed with raven's feather from unwholesome fen drop on you.
I'm not exactly sure what that last one means, but if you really hit the last three words hard, it will do its stuff.
I told you that Mrs. Baker wouldn't have let me read this if she'd read it herself.
Every night after supper, I practiced in front of the dresser mirrorâwithout my shirt, because I could look more menacing that way. I decided to perfect the "Toads, beetles, bats" one first, since that was the one I understood the best and because when I said it, a little bit of spit came out with the "beetles."
By the second Tuesday night, I had gotten it about down and could say "toads" with a bloodcurdling croak when my mother knocked on my bedroom door.
"Holling?" she said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I called.
"It sounds like you're talking to someone."
"I'm practicing for a speech," I said, which was sort of true.
"Oh," she said. "Oh. Then I'll leave you to finish."
I worked on the "red plague" for a bit, because that one is all in the timing.
Then my father knocked on the door. There must have been a commercial on.
"I can hear you all the way down in the den. What are you doing?"
"Practicing Shakespeare," I said.
"What do you need Shakespeare for?"
"For Mrs. Baker."
"For Mrs. Baker?"
"Yes."
"Then get it right," he said, and walked away.
I went back to the "toads, beetles, bats" until my sister knocked on the door.
"Holling?"
"Yeah."
"Shut up."
"A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er," I said.
She threw open my door. "
What
did you say to me?"
In the face of a sixteen-year-old sister who's about to drop something on you from heaven, even Shakespeare fails. "Nothing," I said.
"Keep it that way," she said, "and put your shirt on, you weirdo." She slammed the door shut.
I decided I was done with practicing for the night.
I went to school early the next day, since I needed some private place to practice the curses. When I reached the third floor, I found Mr. Vendleri holding a ladder steady in the middle of the hall. He had half a dozen spring traps in his hand, which he was holding up toward Mr. Guareschi. I could see only Mr. Guareschi's legs, since the rest of him was poked up through an opening where he'd removed some asbestos tiles.
"Hand me the rest," Mr. Guareschi called down, and Mr. Vendleri did.
"Now the cheese."
Mr. Vendleri reached into his bib overalls and pulled out a plastic bag with cubes of yellow cheese.
"Now, I'll just pull this spring back," Mr. Guareschi said, "and set the bait right beneathâ"
There was a sudden loud snap, and then it wasn't mercy dropping down as the gentle rain on the place beneath. It was Mr. Guareschi.
"Oh," he said.
(Not really "Oh," but it wasn't as good as Shakespeare. Not even as good as Mrs. Baker.)
Mr. Guareschi looked up from the floor. His face was red, and his fingers redder. He shook them wildly, as if he wanted them to separate from the rest of him. "Oh," he said again.
(Not really.)
"You could try 'The red plague rid you!'" I said.
Mr. Guareschi, still on the ground, looked up at me. "What are you doing in school so early?" he said.
"Or 'Scurvy patch!'" I said.
Mr. Guareschi shook his fingers again. "You're not supposed to be here
I decided to learn them all by heartâeven if I didn't know exactly what they meant. I didn't know what most of Doug Swieteck's brother's cusses meant, either, and it didn't make all that much difference. It's all in the delivery anyway. So I practiced in my bedroom, thinking of my sister.
A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er!
I know, it doesn't sound like much. But if you say it slow and menacing, especially when you get to "blister," it'll do. Keep your eyes half-closed, and it will really do. But for the rest of the Caliban curses, it's a lot better to say them loud and fast, like:
The red plague rid you!
and:
Toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
and:
As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed with raven's feather from unwholesome fen drop on you.
I'm not exactly sure what that last one means, but if you really hit the last three words hard, it will do its stuff.
I told you that Mrs. Baker wouldn't have let me read this if she'd read it herself.
Every night after supper, I practiced in front of the dresser mirrorâwithout my shirt, because I could look more menacing that way. I decided to perfect the "Toads, beetles, bats" one first, since that was the one I understood the best and because when I said it, a little bit of spit came out with the "beetles."
By the second Tuesday night, I had gotten it about down and could say "toads" with a bloodcurdling croak when my mother knocked on my bedroom door.
"Holling?" she said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I called.
"It sounds like you're talking to someone."
"I'm practicing for a speech," I said, which was sort of true.
"Oh," she said. "Oh. Then I'll leave you to finish."
I worked on the "red plague" for a bit, because that one is all in the timing.
Then my father knocked on the door. There must have been a commercial on.
"I can hear you all the way down in the den. What are you doing?"
"Practicing Shakespeare," I said.
"What do you need Shakespeare for?"
"For Mrs. Baker."
"For Mrs. Baker?"
"Yes."
"Then get it right," he said, and walked away.
I went back to the "toads, beetles, bats" until my sister knocked on the door.
"Holling?"
"Yeah."
"Shut up."
"A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er," I said.
She threw open my door. "
What
did you say to me?"
In the face of a sixteen-year-old sister who's about to drop something on you from heaven, even Shakespeare fails. "Nothing," I said.
"Keep it that way," she said, "and put your shirt on, you weirdo." She slammed the door shut.
I decided I was done with practicing for the night.
I went to school early the next day, since I needed some private place to practice the curses. When I reached the third floor, I found Mr. Vendleri holding a ladder steady in the middle of the hall. He had half a dozen spring traps in his hand, which he was holding up toward Mr. Guareschi. I could see only Mr. Guareschi's legs, since the rest of him was poked up through an opening where he'd removed some asbestos tiles.
"Hand me the rest," Mr. Guareschi called down, and Mr. Vendleri did.
"Now the cheese."
Mr. Vendleri reached into his bib overalls and pulled out a plastic bag with cubes of yellow cheese.
"Now, I'll just pull this spring back," Mr. Guareschi said, "and set the bait right beneathâ"
There was a sudden loud snap, and then it wasn't mercy dropping down as the gentle rain on the place beneath. It was Mr. Guareschi.
"Oh," he said.
(Not really "Oh," but it wasn't as good as Shakespeare. Not even as good as Mrs. Baker.)
Mr. Guareschi looked up from the floor. His face was red, and his fingers redder. He shook them wildly, as if he wanted them to separate from the rest of him. "Oh," he said again.
(Not really.)
"You could try 'The red plague rid you!'" I said.
Mr. Guareschi, still on the ground, looked up at me. "What are you doing in school so early?" he said.
"Or 'Scurvy patch!'" I said.
Mr. Guareschi shook his fingers again. "You're not supposed to be here
Similar Books
