Growing up

A short story

“What’s that? Speak up!” He squints his eyes and leans over, craning his ear.

I mutter, “Catch up and pick Olson Mayo.”

He levels his eyes on me. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, turns his back and reaches for a bottle.

(earlier)

I don’t mind the explosions as much as I used to. Last year, right after I got the training wheels off my bike, I tasted the freedom of the big kids.  I pedaled my way to the end of our street, turned the corner and kept going. Places only two wheels could take me, past the confines of training wheel territory. But the first explosion, followed by several more, ignited a fear in me that pumped those pedals faster than I’d ever gone – before or since. Once I arrived home, I threw my bike down and covered my ears.

A lot can happen in a year. I grew up fast.

Now the big bangs and blasts don’t take me off guard. I expect them. I’m ready for them. I join with everyone else, jumping at the noise but pointing in awe:

“Four at once!”

“It’s changing colors!”

“Time for the finale!”

During the fireworks, we always eat our picnic dinner on our brown blanket, the one with the nubs. It reminds me of sitting on sand at the beach, except it’s just an ugly blanket.

My mouth starts watering in anticipation for Mom’s potato salad, cold lemonade poured from the thermos and a piece of fried chicken, pulled from the KFC bucket with grease spotting the Colonel’s head. I always peal the crunchy skin off first and mix it in with the potato salad. Mom then makes a face but can’t argue with my reasoning:  “It’s all going to the same place!”

But now as Mom reaches into the picnic bags, she pulls out peanut butter sandwiches and carrots. Carrots. Is this some kind of joke? Is Dad going to break down and laugh, reaching for a hidden bucket of fried morsels behind his back?

No. Mom and Dad take big, sticky bites out of their sandwiches and look to me to join them.

“Where’s the Fourth of July food? The chicken? The lemonade? I don’t want carrots!” I shout.

Mom tilts her head in a way that means, “Too bad. Get used to it.” Dad shrugs.

I dig my hands into my pockets and pull out lint, two dollar bills, and a warm piece of bubble gum. I look to the hotdog vendor, stand up, and announce my intentions.

“I’m getting a hotdog then. By myself.”

Clutching the money, I get in line.  My hands start to sweat, the lint lodging in between my fingers. I’ve never ordered and paid for anything by myself. I watch the people in front of me, memorizing how they step up, name the condiments they want, hand over two dollars, and step to the side to wait.

“Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo.” I repeat to myself as I get closer to the man hunched over the grill.

He looks at me. “What’ll you have?”

“Ummm … ” I look down and unfold the dollar bills, wiping the lint on my legs. I take a deep breath and glance up.