Lobbing Rocks

The contest: who can lob a rock the farthest? I lob the first rock. It flies across the street and makes it as far as the sidewalk on the other side. Not bad for a girl. Jimmy's next. He picks a bigger rock. Wind up and the pitch. "Hey batta batta." The rock makes a high arc, travels across the asphalt and lands in the Marcinko's front yard, about three feet from the picture window. Jimmy puffs out his chest and jams his thumbs under imaginary suspenders.

I smile and say, "all right!" but, deep down, I want to win.

Roger is busy digging in the rock pile for just the right missile. He picks a small, smooth skipping stone. I see his strategy. He will win. I'll bet he'll be a general in the army one day, like Ike.

Boys can do that. Girls can't. I wish I were a boy!

Roger aims the stone so it will fly low, as if he were skipping it across Crystal Lake. He lets loose. I project the impact to be smack dab in the middle of the Marcinko's picture window. Does Roger not see that? Mr. Marcinko is a crabby old man. He has 'sugar'. That's what my mom says. That's what makes him so ornery, she says. I like sugar, so I don't understand. What I do understand is that I don't want to make Mr. Marcinko mad.

I get ready to run, just in case, as the stone arcs at waist level. I see the Withers' big old puke green Packard coming down the street at a pretty good clip, with Mr. Withers behind the wheel. I hear a screech of brakes and a "thunk", or a "thunk" and then a screech of brakes. It is all happening so fast, I can't tell—but I don't think the order of things really matters to Mr. Withers.

I see the driver's door open. Mr. Withers is trying to get out of his newly-dented Packard. He has 'Arthur-itis', so it gives us time to escape. I run. Jimmy runs. Roger runs. The three of us have the same idea: hide in the tall grass in the field two doors down from the Marcinko's house. We tear across the street. We are just about in the middle of the field, when Jimmy and Roger disappear like gophers in their holes. I dive into the tall, smelly grass about ten yards from where they have been swallowed up.

Mr. Withers curses at us as he struggles out of the Packard. He's using the words Dad does when he hits his finger with a hammer. I can hear Jimmy and Roger whispering. They have landed very close together. I am odd 'man' out.

The bees buzz about my head. I imagine vultures slowing circling over the field. For a second—just one teeny, tiny second—I wish I were over at Suzie Luca's house playing with our Ginnie dolls. Yes, I have a doll—one stupid doll. My grandma got it for me last Christmas. My grandma doesn't know anything about me. I hate dolls!

I can hear Mr. Withers getting closer as he makes his way through the tall grass. It sounds like he's poking around with his cane. I close my eyes. I pray. I can hear Jimmy and Roger whispering. I'm sure that is what is leading the old man right to us. Big mouth boys! I look up to the heavens to talk to God—to get a little help. Above my face I see a huge—I mean HUGE spider web. No one is home, thank goodness. I hate spiders! Why didn't I see the web before I slid under it? I would have skooched backwards. Suddenly, a big old fat black spider with some yellow on it crawls onto the web. It's as big as Godzilla!

My mother calls these big old fat black spiders banana spiders. "Banana spiders look like black widows but they're not, honey, and they're not poisonous."

I think that's what she said, but I can't be sure. I wasn't really listening when she told me. And I'm not a spider expert, so I can't tell. He crawls closer to my face. Can't skootch now. I am ready to pee my pants, or jump up and yell, "Here. Over here! I give up!" when Mr. Banana wanders off in search of another victim. I have not given us up. I have not acted like a sissy little girl. I am sooooo proud!

Suddenly, as Mr. Withers gets closer to where Jimmy and Roger have been whispering, I hear rustling in the tall grass.

I hear Jimmy's voice. "We didn't do it. Honest!"

I sneak a peek. Roger and Jimmy are standing across from Mr. Withers, brushing themselves off.

Roger points in my direction. "Jackie did it. She threw the rock!"

Jimmy mimics Roger as he points his finger in my direction. "She's hiding somewhere over there. She made us hide with her! Honest, Mr. Withers! "

Without saying a word, Mr. Withers hobbles off in my direction, poking the tall grass with his cane. I stand up and brush myself off. I intend to take it like a woman!

Boys! Huh!