Fiction Week 2

Exercise 35

Third person to first:

3rd
She wandered in and out of streets, allowing the dog to decide which turns to take, which roads to cross. At one point, we went around the same block three times, but it didn’t matter where, as long as she wasn’t at home. Just as she was ready to head home, the dog squatted in front of an immaculate white house with crimson shutters. She hesitated, brought a plastic bag out of her pocket, and picked it up, searching for the nearest trash can.

1st
Bear wouldn’t mind walking for an hour. She wouldn’t mind walking for days. My left pinky toe, however, might. With every footfall pounding on the uneven sidewalk below, the throb reminded me of that door slam, the attempt to prove my point through childish anger, but I couldn’t go back first. No, he’d have to come looking for me. Bear would walk all night, tugging me from one curb to the next, bravely leading our crusade into unfamiliar territory. Every minute or so, there’d be a tug of my right arm. Cross this road, turn left here, circle this block one more time. All his training undone with one furious escapade. My arm jerked back behind me, Bear squatting in some pristine yard on…49th Ave. We weren’t as far as I’d like, but I’d never been here before. This garish green grass and brushed nickel mailbox with “Stinson” engraved on the side. Once Bear finished, I almost walked away, those damn Stinsons with their perfect crimson shutters and French door balconies. But I couldn’t. I had stuffed some baggies in the pocket of my bath robe while exiting my house.

First person to third:

1st
I needed those shoes. Clarabelle Tucker was going to buy them in rose red she said in school today, but I had to have them in cerulean. They would go pretty well with the shirt I bought last week, but most importantly, if I showed up in them at school tomorrow, Clarabelle wouldn’t know what to do.

3rd
“I’m getting those shoes. I think the cerulean will match the new top I bought last week,” said Delila on her way into Mason’s Department store, Franny trailing behind by a few paces.

“Didn’t Clarabelle Tucker say she was buying those in rose red today during algebra?” Franny asked.

“That’s exactly why I’ve got to buy them today. Rose red it is.”


Exercise 38

“Wanna play Slap Jack?” I ask Jimmy, not sure if this is a real game, or if I made it up.

“Okay,” he responds, sure that he will win some of my candy this year. He won’t. I take the chair at the end of the dining room table, where Grandpa gets to sit for Thanksgiving, and Jimmy kneels on the chair next to me, at a regular seat. He shuffles better than I do even though he’s three and a half years younger, because I hate card games. At the age of six, Jimmy can probably count cards like my dad, and he can certainly multiply them faster than I can, but when it comes to Snickers and Reese’s, I just want it more. I deal the cards until the stack is gone and we alternate putting the cards down. With each Jack that shows up, my hand is under his every time.

My bowl fills as his empties, my mouth and his eyes watering. It’s only a matter of time before Mom catches on, but I hoard what I can.

Exercise 41

“Well, I don’t think the neighbor’s got a goddamn thing to say ‘bout how late I mow the lawn.”

“Let’s split a pie over at Deluca’s on the boardwalk tonight. We’re only a few blocks from the shore out there, and I hear the skinny dipping’s fine.”

“Sisters aren’t supposed to fight, so gimme back my earrings right now, Tilda. Bobby Sheldon thinks you’re ugly anyway.”

“How much do you care about the environment? Could I interest you in a pamphlet on the dangers of global warming this sunny summer day?”

“Mrs. O’Reardon’s ready to tan your hide. You’re lucky teachers aren’t allowed to hit anymore.”

Exercise 44

“You’re doing that wrong.”

“It’s fine, Mom. The dishwasher will get the rest. Otherwise, what’s the point of that thing?” Joey points to the used Maytag, still working well despite a loose hinge and the drab olive exterior.

“I just want to see you doing things right. I know you can.” Mrs. Daniels leans against the refrigerator, shuffling through mail. “They waste so much paper these days. I thought it was the digital age.”

“Yeah, and you have to wash dishes before you wash dishes, too.”

“You didn’t tell me it was report card time already.”

“Not that you’d know,” Joey says, staring into the suds. He makes sure not to make eye contact, to concentrate on the frying pan.

“You said you were doing better in math.”

“I am.”

“A D-minus?”

“It’s better than an F, isn’t it?”

“How are you supposed to get into college with that?” Mrs. Daniels takes the plate from Joey’s hand as he’s about to place it in the dishwasher. She scrubs relentless circles at imaginary egg yolk or spaghetti sauce. “Like this. Can’t you do anything the way I showed you? Your father was never even this bad.”

“You want bad?” Joey takes the plate back and smashes it on the floor. Then another. He turns to the shelf above the coffee maker, takes the teapot of his mother’s—her mother’s—china set and sends it to the floor. They stare at one another. Joey bolts barefooted, a red dab on the linoleum leading out the front door, every place his right foot touched the ground.