Aunt Sissy is grownup, but she’s kind of not. She smells
good and has big, blonde, poufy bangs, and she’s the coolest person in the world. Her
nails are long and pink. She plays the radio loud in the car, and gets Cheetos and
Big Red pop when we stop at the gas station.
She works at the Season’s Lodge waiting tables. She
stops there to say hello or pick up her check, and we stand at the front by the
hostess and eat the mints. They’re in a bowl on the counter, and only guests
who have just finished their meal are supposed to have them, but we’re with
Sissy, so we’re allowed. They are delicious, and I shove five in my mouth at a
time.
I’m trying to follow her as she weaves in and out of the
tables and through the halls. I follow her into a room behind a heavy swinging
door. It’s so loud. Dark. Smokey. Everyone in here is old. “Hey! You can’t be
in here! This is a bar!” someone shouts at me, and I turn around, run back
through the door and out the hall, mortified. What’s a bar? And why can’t kids
be there? And why can Sissy be there if I can’t? We’re friends - don’t they
know?
Because we’re friends, Sissy takes me along when she goes to
a baby shower at the Season’s. It’s for one of the girls who works there with
her. We play games at big round tables, but I don’t know how to do any of it
and I don’t know the answers. Except for one. Baby food jars with characters’
faces taped to them are passed from hand to hand. Who’s that? Who’s that? Write
it down on your list, but don’t show anyone or else they’ll cheat. “I know that
one! It’s Cruella De Vil!” I helped.
At the drive-thru, Sissy tells us about conjunctions and
types of nouns and teaches us new words, words that are way longer than the
ones on my spelling test at school. Inside the truck, waiting for our fries, my
brother and I get to sit up front. Some sharp corners make us slide and topple in our seats and look for
something to hold onto, so Sissy tells us about the Cuss Word Bar. It’s right
above the door, on the ceiling, and only for emergencies. And when you grab it,
it’s just like saying a cuss word. We giggle and try to sneak our fingers to it when she’s
not looking.
My brother and I get to ride in the back of the truck
sometimes, but we have to lay down flat. The police will take us all away if they find us back here. We lie still, flat
as boards and barely breathe, the wind rushes over us and sometimes tiny, sprinkling
raindrops fall and splatter on our faces, our knees, our bare feet. I watch the
leaves and branches and telephone poles passing overhead and try to guess where
we are on the route home.
Any time I try to watch TV, Sissy attacks me. Sprawled out in the
floor watching Yogi Bear or Lamb Chop, and suddenly she’s twisting her
fingers tightly in my hair, or poking her long, pink nails into some baby-fat flesh,
or sitting on me, pinning me down. “It’s loooove, Sarah,” she says with a grin, and then flits
away, off to do something cool and fabulous and young. But when she wants me to
sleep, she gently, gently rakes her long fingernails over my closed eyelids,
soothing. It makes a soft scraping sound. It feels divine.
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