Marbles

My grandmother talks to bushes. Let me say that again. My grandmother talks to bushes. What do you say to someone who talks to bushes? “Hey there grandma, would you mind not talking to that bush? Someone might take it the wrong way.” I’ll just say nothing. “So Shorty,” I say to my grandmother whom we call Shorty, “Whatcha doin?”

“Having a conversation,” she says as though I've interrupted a matter of great importance. She then turns back to the bush, “You’ll have to excuse her; that must be her Father’s influence. That certainly doesn’t come from the Fetterman side of the family.”

“Just walk away,” I told myself. “Just turn around and go inside.” Wait... no, this might be good... stick around and see what she tells the bush. The latter, more mischievous voice wins and I take a seat by Shorty on the front stoop.

“Well I know she doesn’t look a thing like Mindy but I swear that’s her daughter.” Shorty then nodded in agreement as if the bush was sharing an interesting tidbit of information. She continued, “Yes, but she’ll grow into them. Of course, I've always had beautiful legs. That must be her Father also.” Well, I’m game for schizophrenic episodes but not when I’m the butt of the joke.

Back inside Mom is in the kitchen cleaning up from lunch and Aunt Phyllis is in the living room drinking her Miller Genuine Draft out of a glass... like all Fetterman women do. “You want a beer?” Phyllis says with a devilish grin.

“No she doesn’t!” Mom shouts from the kitchen.

“What what?” Shorty hobbled into the house and sat upon the gold velvet couch she purchased in 1965.

“Phyllis is trying to give Maggie a beer.,” Mom reported with a dismissing huff.

“Then give the kid a beer. What are you now 20?” I would have expected this question had I not been in town to visit for my 18th birthday. I thought she might stop calling me “kid.” Apparently old habits die hard. She took my water glass and dumped its contents onto the plant behind her. I should mention it was a fake plant. She haphazardly splashed beer from her glass into my cup and set it back down just as Mom came in from the kitchen. “You need this more than I do,” Shorty said, motioning to Mom. I laughed and sipped the beer. Score. When I was younger, the more beer Shorty drank, the older I got, and by four in the afternoon, I was smoking cigarettes and watching the stories.

“The pot roast should be done in about 3 hours, so dinner at -” But Shorty cut off Mom before she could finish.

“Wait, I’m getting a message,” she said pressing her hand to her ear and cocking her head to the side, “Dr. Barber says Mindy needs to call Willy right away.” She then placed her hands neatly on her crossed legs.

“Right, dinner will be at 6.” Mom nervously said. Willy is my grandmother’s old maid, and lifelong friend. But she hadn’t come by the house since Shorty had lost her marbles. We all made a mental note of the message and moved on. Time passed quickly with Shorty asking the same questions repeatedly. Time flies when you never change the subject. The Fetterman women were soon drunk and melee ensued. They can be quite shitty to each other sometimes, but all in good fun. Shorty makes fun of Phyllis for buying her “shit-colored towels” for Christmas one year. Mom makes fun of Shorty for throwing burnt rolls from the kitchen at the Thanksgiving guests when they chuckled at the rock hard bread.

“Ah, shit!” Mom shouts from the kitchen. In an instant, we are all in the kitchen to see what all the fuss is about. “The pot roast is burnt. Who put the oven on 450°?” Mom looked inquisitively at everyone in the room.

“Well I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t under cook your pot roast.” Shorty retorted and headed back into the living room. I wasn’t going anywhere; I was hungry and looking at burnt dinner. I poked my head around Mom’s shoulder to get a closer look at the pot roast.

“Smells good,” I said sticking my finger in for a taste.

“Ah!” Mom snapped slapping my hand away. “Three butts in a one butt kitchen! Out! Out!” She shuffled Phyllis and I back into the living room, where Shorty sat dazed, sipping her MGD. When she was young she had great legs and even now she crosses her legs to accentuate her best asset. Still got it. Mom continued her repair of the roast. “Maggie!” She called from the kitchen, “come in here and do these mashed potatoes while I fix the roast.”

“Don’t you listen to her honey you don’t have to do a thing,” Shorty assured me. I really, really love being her favorite. But I was hungry and didn’t mind taking one for the team. I enthusiastically mashed the potatoes while Mom pathetically basted the roast.

“Uh, Phyllis Lee, I mean Lady Bell, I mean Spookie, shit… Mindy! Get me a beer if you don’t mind.” Without a word I retrieved Shorty’s beer and poured being careful to tip the glass to reduce foam. “Thank you sugar,” She smiled.

“Ah ha!” Mom had a eureka experience in the kitchen. Again, there were four butts in the small galley kitchen crowded around the poor burnt roast that had become the object of our fixation. Mom cracked an MGD and dumped it over the singed roast. “Au-jus!” She declared. The beer foamed and fizzled around the burnt lump of meat.

Soon we were dining on Mom’s salvaged entrée. It wasn’t all that bad and I was happy to have the extra beer. Shorty didn’t care for it, saying, “We think it’s too dry.” I wanted to say “We who?” But again, what’s the point?

Mom asked Phyllis how her youngest daughter, Paige, was doing with her new husband and baby. “Fine, fine. Jackson said his first word the other day, ‘shit’.” We all burst into laughter; he’s one of us all right.

“Smartest thing that girl ever did.” I didn’t mind so much that Shorty called me kid. When she called Paige “that girl” it always sounded…well…shitty. Phyllis glared at Shorty. “Well Phyllis Lee, bless her heart she’s dumb as a post.” Whenever Shorty said “bless her heart,” you knew she was setting them up for an insult. Easiest way to be rude is too sugarcoat it a little. That was the southern belle in her. Like the leg crossing thing. I wouldn’t know, I was raised on the east coast with Mom.

We all knew that Shorty wouldn’t be able to live long in this house by herself; that sooner or later the Alzheimer’s would make living alone impossible. We were all just enjoying this time together; care free.

I spent the rest of the evening watching Mom pointlessly struggle to explain to Shorty and Phyllis where we had lived in Dallas a few years prior. “So you drive through North Carolina, down through Georgia and then over or what?” Shorty asked.

“No, no. Not down then over, over then down.” Mom became frustrated trying to explain with simple words. Naturally, she decided a visual aid would be more helpful. She picked an astray up off the coffee table, emptied it into the trashcan and slammed it against the wall. “Kentucky!” she exclaimed. She kept it in place with her elbow and extended her other hand to the coffee table to retrieve a magazine. “Texas!” She looked around the room for another prop. “Maggie, come hold Texas and Kentucky while I go get Tennessee and Oklahoma.” As I grasped the two states, Mom came from the den looking pleased. She thrust Tennessee (a coaster) and Oregon (a plate) against the wall. Phyllis had to hold Tennessee and Oregon so Mom could trace a finger path from Kentucky to Texas. This elaborate display was meant to explain the trip, but it was impossible to decipher the route as Mom had to climb across the mangled bodies of her state holders. It was a freakish game of twister... with props. We all laughed and began dropping states.

A few moments later after Shorty had forgotten, we began the process of retelling the story. This would continue for the rest of the evening.

[writer's note: This story was first committed to paper for a submission to this Literary Magazine and an assignment for a Creative Writing Class. Instructions included that we should always write while considering our purpose in the telling of the story. What did we want to get out of it? Well I suppose I have only one purpose. All Fetterman women are crazy but Shorty is the only one diagnosed as such. The only thing I want to do is tell the story so that I will always have this memory. And perhaps to spare my children from having to tell it to me over and over... and over again someday when I lose my marbles.]

EPILOGUE

I began telling this story to anyone who would listen, seemed interested or happened to bring up a topic that reminded me of it. Many of you know that this is the process that inevitably leads to a new blog posting. That is where the similarities between this story and other self-deprecating, life experience, true stories turned blog posts end.

For years now I have contemplated crafting a book of short stories a la David Sedaris featuring all of my blog posts, as well as several as-yet unpublished stories. However, I find that what draws us, as readers, to compilations of short stories is not in their individual appeal or worth; it is in the overall theme and underlying idea that unfolds through the telling of brief moments in time. Everything that I am as a writer, a person and a woman comes from the amazing women I've only briefly introduced you to today. And until today at 2 o'clock in the afternoon this story had been trapped in antiquated floppy disk hell in a junk drawer at my Mother's house. “I can't finish the novel I've been working on for 6 years,” I've always said when asked about my writing, “because I can't find this one story. The story. The story that started it all. That story is my beginning, my middle and my end.”

Over the years I've attempted to recreate it but have never been successful. My writing process is infamous to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with me on a “writing day.” I've written in excess of 20 versions of this story. Each one judged inadequate and deleted immediately upon completion. The first few years I convinced myself that my harsh self-criticism came from a feeling of insecurity based upon the overwhelmingly positive reception that the original received mixed with feelings of inadequacy at how easily the words had previously arrived into my head.

Now I realize that while that answer may have explained my dormant phase from the time this was submitted (2003) until 2007, the remaining years of inactivity on this piece have an entirely different cause. Evelyn “Shorty” Fetterman died on February 5^th, 2007. While it is always difficult finding humor in death, that only contributes to what I believe to be the larger reason for my mental block (in regards to finishing the book). No story has a happy ending. While there may be a happy conclusion to the end of a story, all stories end in death. Everyone dies. It has taken me 2 years to realize that I haven't been able to recreate this story, or even get a good start on that damned book, because my intense admiration and love for Shorty rendered me unable to emotionally commit to a story conveying her as a main inspiration in my life when I still had not reconciled her death. I now know that I will never get over her death, but it has become more important that I share her charm, wisdom, humor and …. shitty one-liners with at least my friends... and at best the world.

I have chosen to submit this story nearly untouched (save a few comma removals and typos that I am shocked made it past the dreaded "Professor's red pen"). I only hope that the emotion generated upon finding it, reading it and subsequently writing this Epilogue have unlocked some hidden door inside me behind which all ability to finally embark on the telling of this full story lay hidden.

[writer's note: My mother, Mindy Fetterman, wrote a piece for USA Today titled “The Burden of Caring for Elderly Parents” which was later republished on ABC News.com and several other nationwide news sources and relevant community forums. I find the most heartening line to be its final: “Evelyn Fetterman died in February at age 84. She had been living in an assisted living or a nursing home for 10 years. Her daughters are sad and tired. They miss their Mom the way she used to be. They're relieved that it's all over. And for that, they feel terrible.”]

Paperwork

When I was younger I changed schools often. During one particular switch I was asked to fill out several forms related to my person. To this day I am not sure why you would hand a 4th grader such a complicated task…but in any case…
I specifically remember two questions in particular, mostly because of the outcome of my answers.
I was first asked for my name, as forms often do. First let me say that Margaret, while not only a silly name, is incredible hard to spell at a young age. What did I write?

M A G R E T

Another question, further down the form, asked for my race or ethnicity. I examined my options and decided that none seemed to fit me adequately. My response?

X Other: White

Expectedly, my answers were cause for concern among my new educators. I was called after class to discuss my forms with my teacher.
“Why did you spell your name like that?”
“Like what?”
“Magret.”
“Oh whoops.”
“Well then, why did you check the 'other' box and write 'white' instead of simply checking 'Caucasian?'"
“Haha. I’m not from Caucasia.”

Bad Habits

When I was in the 4th grade, I still sucked my thumb...regularly. I sucked it all the time. I became extraordinarily good at completing tasks using only my right hand. I could tie shoelaces, make sandwiches and play Nintendo.

My 4th grade class had an individual restroom. I can only assume this was meant to counteract the overly misused "I have to go to the bathroom" excuses to avoid pop quizzes. One day in particular I excused myself to the restroom, dropped the toilet lid and sat down to have a good suck.

After nearly 10 minutes had passed, there was a loud rapping at the bathroom door. "Maggie Cameron!" the frog-like voice of my teacher, Mrs. Reubentisch, boomed through the door. Aghast, I dropped my thumb in to my lap, which now appeared as though it had been in the bathtub for over an hour.

I fumbled around for something to pretend was occupying my time. Bathrooms have little by way of interesting artifacts.

Again, Mrs. Reubentisch's voice carried through the 2-inch thick door, "I know you're in there! You better not be in there sucking your thumb!"

Needless to say, I quickly opened the door and returned to my seat. This is the only reason I am thankful I didn't attend upper school with anyone from Belle View Elementary.

Merry Christmas, Jack Cameron

Maggie, age 8.

A Letter to Santa Claus :

Dear Santa Claus,
I have been as good as I can be.

I would like for you to hang this picture in your house.

Don’t be mad if I do bad.

<----- I’m Santa’s BRID.

From Maggie Cameron
p.s. writ back [editor's note: this typo is intentional]
[address redacted]

<----- I am Maggie’s cat Bpersy. [editor's note: this typo is also intentional. the cat's name was Percy.]

<----- And this is me, Maggie Cameron.

Dear Maggie,

I just received a letter from Santa and he said he had a letter from you with a picture of a big bird. He wanted to know if this is what you looked like. I wrote back and said that you were a bird alright but looked like a nice little girl and not a “big bird.”
He wasn’t sure, but thought he might by-pass Louisville this year because of his heavy workload. I imagine this would be okay if it’s okay with you. I think his real problem is that his reindeer are getting lazy and don’t cover as many cities as they should. Maybe old Santa himself is drinking too much cranberry sauce.
However I will be looking forward to your visit. This time I plan to beat you at “Old Maid” blindfolded.

Love,

Grandfather

A Harmless Prank

When I was 8 years old I still believed in Santa Claus. However, at this old age, the art of retrieving presents from this unknown benefactor became a battle of wits, a game of strategy, the ultimate chess game. I had a “when the ref isn’t looking” approach to my youthful mischief and would often find myself checking around for any watchful eyes before engaging in shenanigans.

In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, I became a complete nightmare to endure. I shouted at my Grandmother concerning the dwindling milk supply. I shooed my cousins from the kitchen as I attempted to get double chip cookies "just right." I tenderly peeled carrots for the reindeer.

Morning finally arrived and I threw off my covers and hit the ground running in my red footie pajamas.
I halted to a dead stop upon entering the living room.

A small, single square of red felt was wedged into the closed fireplace screen.

I filled the house with a glass-shattering shriek.

It took every member of my family to talk me out of my room. Convinced that Santa Claus had been maimed on our property and would therefore not be returning any subsequent years, I had begun shouting denouncements of my family to anyone that would listen.

My Grandfather Jack Cameron, being unable to ascend the stairs personally, had eventually called to me from the lower landing. “Maggie! Stop that racket and get down here!”

Tears and tantrums had little affect on Grandfather. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, straightened myself up and calmly opened my door.

“Yes, Grandfather?” I said, in the most innocent voice I could muster.

“Will you stop shouting and get back down here. I put the damn felt in the fireplace.” He said in a huff. “Damn kids, can’t joke a joke, Why I….” I heard him muttering as he wandered back into the living room in search of his trusty armchair.

why is everything comically large in my non-sexual dreams?

The fact that I awake to find myself living in a cookie cutter house in a plain suburban neighborhood would normally have been alarming, were it not for the humongous steamrollers steadily making their way down the street leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. It is important to note that these steamrollers were not humongous by normal standards; they were of an amusingly obscene size. I would liken their size in comparison to the houses as that of a foot to an ant. In any case, these ridiculously large steamrollers are steadily crushing whole blocks as they quickly approach my very own house.
As if a wealth of knowledge has suddenly been downloaded into my brain, I recall the recent threats the Chinese have made to “destroy the United States” unless certain outlandish terms are met. Apparently, the Chinese have been building more than faux purses and tiny cell phones, as these gargantuan machines prove.
By some stroke of unknown genius, our house is immediately lifted by an enormous crane. My view of the lifting of the house and the crane itself is from a near cartoonish standpoint, looking directly at the earth from space with the crane perched ludicrously on top of the globe.
The crane itself appears to be nearly ¼ the size of the earth.
Were this the only unrealistic element thus far, it probably would have struck me as odd. It did not.
Moving on…The abnormally large crane lifts my house straight off the face of the earth, swings it ‘round and plops it down onto the lunar surface.
At this point I should also mention that not only do ratios of proportional size cease to exist, but also all known laws of nature regarding probability and physics are of little concern.Once safely positioned on the moon, the inhabitants of the house rejoice. This consists of me, my stepmother, and two unknown male persons that I can only assume are close acquaintances.
However, the celebration is cut short when a steamroller is seen making it’s way across the horizon approaching the house.
Panic ensues.
My stepmother fetches what appears to be a Ziploc bag half filled with blackened cheerios. She explains that it is poison, and we must all eat it…or be flattened alive by the Asian invasion.
As we prepare to swallow the “poison” the steamrollers lurch to a sudden halt. Before anyone can say “beat a hasty retreat in fear of the white devil,” the steamrollers are gone.
We rejoice.
This celebration also does not last long.
My stepmother explains that we now face certain suffocation. Apparently the astrophysics associated with humans being on the moon sans space suits is suddenly a relevant issue.
I chew my discolored breakfast cerealesque “poison” tablets.
As I choke on my last breath….I wake up.

My Next Boyfriend?

It’s no secret. I read craigslist. All the time. It makes me feel better about my stupid life to read people’s Rants about dead birds in their mailboxes, or Raves about the homeless person that crapped in their yard. Occasionally in the Best of Craigslist, I stumble across a dating post. I found one earlier that sparked my interest, more on that later.
Having spent the past 10 years serving time in one failed relationship after another it may be time to evaluate my dating methods. A good place to start is by evaluating how I’ve spent the past 10 years.

Ex #1: The Nearby Guy
Everyone has this. It’s the first guy you dated, the guy you lost your virginity to, the guy that took you to prom. This particular boyfriend is rarely ever selected on any rational scale of criteria. Reasons such as: he sits next to me in English, my friend’s think he’s cool, he does a wicked kick flip, etc. are perfectly acceptable. Why does this relationship end? Maybe you go to different colleges. Maybe you find out he was sleeping with the entire cheerleading squad the whole time. Or maybe, as in my case, you suspect that you are merely the cover story for a closeted gay man. Whatever the reason, it matters little.

Ex #2: The Whoopsydaisy
My second boyfriend, and also: the greatest guy I’ve ever known. I was doomed to screw this one up. He was perfect: told great stories, loved his family, hardworking, ambitious, smart, loves Led Zeppelin. But as it was my first REAL boyfriend, I was awful: jealous, obnoxious, a terrible influence, smoked too much pot. I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it, while at the same time convincing myself that he’ll spend the rest of his life deranged, strapped to an institution gurney and screaming my name.

Ex #3: The Townie
Having a townie boyfriend in a college town is a blessing and a curse. Pot connection? He’s got it. Off-campus party house? He’s got it. Problem? He’s also got: a crappy job, alcoholism, no personal ambition and a serious lack of respect for things like class, exams, papers, and sleep. And, if he’s my ex boyfriend, he also has a secret speed addiction. These horrible things aren’t the reason you break up with him. No, no. That would be too easy. I broke up with my ex because I was moving out of the state. Or, did I move out of the state so I could break up with my ex? Doesn’t matter…

Ex #4: The Young Buck
I recommend that every woman, at some point in her life, take a man’s virginity. And no, losing your virginity at the same time doesn’t count. Pros: young, impressionable, will be completely devoted to you, can pick you up at the bar, mom is a fantastic cook. Cons: can’t go to the bar with you, lives at home with mom, keeps pressuring you to go to prom, shit head friends want you to buy them beer, probably not that smart. My young buck was great. My friends still love him and talk of him fondly. I still call him when I’m hammered and need a pick me up. After the intense shit show that is a relationship with me, he is ready for any situation. He’s been cleaned up and house trained. Unfortunately, I’ve also completely fucked his head. Apologies to the next girl he dates.

Ex #5: The Asshole
It’s inevitable. After dating a guy that is nice, sincere, genuine and thoughtful you must, MUST, date a total and complete asshole. He should be a gluttonous, insecure, overbearing, stubborn, alcoholic, unsupportive philanderer. Why don’t you break up with him? Because he’s soooo funny, smart, charming, cute, whatever. It’s always something. I stayed because I was convinced it would get better….or I was bored, I can’t decide. In any case, you only break up with this guy for good when you have absolutely had enough. I recommend watching “Diary of a Mad Black Woman.”

Basically the entire catalog of my boyfriends displays a strong disposition towards self-sabotage, punishment and misery. All of this led me to believe that everything I held true about myself, and the kind of partner I was looking for, was a load of bullshit. Not only that, but I’ve dated every stereotype, every type of guy, and constantly tried different variables. Now, I’d rather not spend the rest of my life cranking Dashboard Confessional and crying into an empty wine bottle….so I have no choice but to consider the one option that never occurred to me. Is it possible that the secret to dating isn’t as simple as “opposites attract”? Maybe we aren’t supposed to find someone that challenges us, is different, teaches us new things, or any other overused cliché. I should just give up and go for someone simple who fulfills my basic needs. He doesn’t have to be interesting, challenging or supportive. I have friends for that.

This leads me back to the craigslist post. Is this my next boyfriend?

http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/m4w/860408505.html

The Trials and Tribulations of Mr. Fancy Pants

Once upon a time I lived in Fairfax. I lived in a tiny house with 3 other girls and their various animals. The only animal of consequence in regard to this particular story is one Mr. Fancy Pants.
Mr. Fancy Pants was a cat of overwhelming personality, and we became fast friends. Despite my severe allergy to cats, I often drunkenly snuggled him and insisted he sleep in the nook my body created when I slept in the fetal position.
Mr. Fancy Pants was an outdoor cat, and as I was often the only one home at odd hours of the night, I usually let him into the house. He was also quite the curious little monster. He would regularly find himself stuck on the roof, lacking the ability to get himself down. On many occasions I would build a rudimentary ladder of chairs and coolers to retrieve his silly ass.
I soon grew tired of this.
I began to scold Mr. Fancy Pants quite loudly when I would exit my domicile to hear him meowing from atop the roof.
On one particular afternoon after class, I comfortably positioned myself in my bed and surround myself with all of my favorite things.
Huge glass of water. Check.
Bong. Check.
Pot. Check.
Cigarettes. Check.
Ashtray. Check.
Cell phone. Check.
Remote. Check.
Lighter. Che----SHIT
I threw my bedspread off in disgust, slipped on my house shoes and made for the door. DAMMIT. So close to total bliss and now THIS. A venture into the cold after being so tightly tucked in bed.
I swung open the front door and stepped onto our front stoop.
“MEOOOOOOOW.”
I turned in every direction, searching for the source.
Again I heard, “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I stepped into the yard, and there he was. Mr. Fancy Pants standing on the edge of the roof staring at me as if I had the answers to all that ails the world.
He let out one more loud “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I had finally had enough.
“FUCK YOU FANCY PANTS!” I yelled as I stomped off to my car to retrieve the aforementioned lighter.
After acquiring said lighter I turned to return to my house when I saw him.
There he was, sitting on his porch bench, glaring at me. My 65-year-old neighbor.
Then it occurred to me, “Fuck you Fancy Pants” it’s not something one usually hears.
Shit.Oh well. Like THAT’S the strangest thing I’ve ever done. Please.

Becky

It occurs to me that I never posted this here, although it's very popular on facebook...

by popular demand...here it is.
but first: a brief disclaimer: This is one of the stupidest stories EVER told, seriously. If you don't think I'm funny, or don't get my humor, don't read anymore. It will only serve to enfuriate you further.

When I was younger I swam on the River Road Country Club, in which my grandparents and parents are members. At 12 years old, I had taken the past few years off from swimming to attend summer camp. This was my triumphant return. Only...no one remembered me...at all. My first day back, a young blonde girl came bounding up to me and introduced herself. Over the whistles of the coaches and the splashes made from bodies hitting the water I shouted "Maggie!" "Becky?" she said back. Before I could correct her she grabbed my arm and led me to the edge of the pool and faced me to a gaggle of giggling girls half heartedly doing their water excercises. "Everybody!! This is BECKY! She's awesome!"
Well, whoever this Becky person is, she got quite the introduction. I hadn't the heart to let her down in front of this impressive crowd, and thought it best to clear up the misunderstanding later. Later, however, never came. The legend of Awesome Becky grew to proportions beyond my control. After victorious mario brothers matches in the game room, successful relay races, and the demonstration of the ability eat 4 saltine crackers in a minute, Becky had become quite popular. She moved from public displays of ridiculous talent to all out mischief. The flags marking holes on the golf course were shuffled to the confusement of the senior members. Quarters were super glued to the game room floor. Cans of soda in the snack shack were shaken within a modicum of bursting. To the dismay of the on duty lifeguards, there was ample running in the pool area. Becky was on fire.
My then 65 year old Grandmother, whom also served as one of the elders of the country club, came to me one day after practice. "Whoever this Becky girl is, you stay away from her. I'll not have Cameron women associating with that lot."
Uh-oh. The day of reckoning was coming. I managed to eek through to the last day of swim practice. Always watching my back, keeping a steady eye fixated on the parking lot waiting area, engaging in shenanigans under the most controlled of circumstances. I was going to make it! As I strutted to my grandmothers car, confident in my anonymity, I looked over my shoulder to give one last ever-so-cool wave to my new cohorts when...
"BECKY!! See you next year!!"
The blonde had foiled my attempts at a hasty escape.As I shut the door to Gram Cameron's minivan she paused before pulling away. "Becky?" She gave me a look of utter disapproval, which immediately wiped from her face to reveal what can only be described as a smirk. "Well....figures."

Nothing more was said of Becky, and I never swam at River Road Country Club again.

the end.