an excerpt from

Wonderfully Dysfunctional:
It Must Be Genetic

by Buffi Neal

Chapter 1: Late for School Again

If the majority of us are dysfunctional, wouldn’t that make us normal?

The man who once thought my many quirks irresistible rolled up the sleeve of his pressed shirt, patted it and said, “Nothing much to tell. I come from a normal, loving family.”  I stopped picking at the rip in my jeans just in time to catch the marriage counselor’s nod. I repeated the word “normal” over and over in my head. How could I compete with normal? The counselor cleared his smile. “Now tell me about your family, Buffi.”

“Let’s see, Mom was a bra-burning hippie who named me after her favorite folk singer. Dad is a free-spirited Jew who protested the Vietnam War by moving us to a kibbutz in Israel. The other man I call “Dad” is a conservative Catholic who kept Mom hidden from his wife and kids. My grandmother married her second cousin, a minister and the love of her life. Unfortunately, he secretly preferred men. He was better than her first husband, though, who secretly preferred children. My younger brother slept under the coffee table and my sister was once kidnapped by my grandmother. Most of my family has an uncontrollable urge to laugh at funerals. I guess you could say we aren’t normal, we’re just wonderfully dysfunctional. But really? What family isn’t?”

***

This morning is no different than most. I’m in bed, recounting the blurry details of those useless counseling sessions. It’s been more than a year. Why must he still haunt me in the morning?

Three generations of failed marriages. The label of divorce now permanently engraved on every part of my life, feels like a birthmark instead of a tattoo. I turn over, adjust the pillow under my head and soak in every detail of my new home. I smile. I don’t miss the $3,000 cherry dining room set or the toile wallpaper I so carefully chose. Maybe I miss the happy family I’d dreamed would sit there, passing around my best cooking on my creamy-white wedding china.

The funny thing is, I never pictured myself growing old with him. I assumed it was because he was going to die young. I thought it would be a plane crash, a car accident or an incurable disease. I never guessed it would be divorce.

Before we were married, he never mentioned his plan to retire to a ranch in Montana with horses and a dog. If I’d known that I could’ve saved us both fifteen years. I’m going to be on a beach. Any beach. I’ll wear my hair in two long white braids; I’ll ride around town on a three-wheeled bike with a flower basket and a bell. I just don’t know who I’ll be riding home to.

I left it all behind except for the two babies sleeping next to me, who aren’t really babies anymore. My suitcase kids. So flexible and easy going I can pack them up and bring them anywhere.

Nine-year-old Amanda is a human rubber band. Awake, she’d be balancing on one leg, walking on her hands or scaling the sides of a doorway. And don’t let that angelic face fool you. She’s really an adult trapped in a kid’s body, ironically destined to look half her age for the rest of her life. Just like all the women in my family.

Derek, seven, is already an inch taller than petite Amanda. Derek, a name I chose that means “the great ruler”, can be found organizing intricate games on the school playground. The teachers call him a leader. When I was a kid they called me bossy.

My bed is positioned against the longest wall of the living room of my new one-bedroom condo. No need for a couch. I gave Amanda the master bedroom. What the hell do I need a bedroom for these days? And besides, what parent spends time in their bedroom? Sex becomes a quickie here and there and the kids infiltrate the marital bed anyway. There are parents who have successfully claimed the master bedroom and enjoy private nights without the kicking feet of little offspring. But they had to suffer the screaming days. You know, the “let-‘em-cry” method of getting the baby to sleep alone. I never made it through more than two minutes of crying. I wiped my tears, folded the crib and kicked it Eskimo style.

The kids and I sleep in the living room. It’s not normal, but it feels right. And I’m so tired of doing what feels wrong, just to look like we’re normal. For the first time in my life there’s no one to answer to. I can be the mom that I am, not the mom people expect me to be. I have the freedom to be perfectly imperfect.

It’s time to get up, but I’d rather lie here watching the sunlight color the hair of my sleeping babies. My thoughts drift. A hundred miles south of me, there’s a nursing home by the Jersey Shore. Does the same beautiful sunlight shine on the gray hair of my grandmother, dying in room 213A? Is anyone there to watch it?

The nametag outside the door reads “Marjorie” but we call her “Mopsie”. I imagine that the nurse, hurrying past, doesn’t notice Mopsie’s mouth hanging open. Her pale blue feet, tangled up in a starched white sheet, may go unnoticed as well. If I shake my head, the image might clear. I don’t often think of her. Why this morning?

The last time I saw her she told me to go away. She didn’t actually say “Go away,” but she pretended to be asleep. But I’m not the favorite grandchild, and Mopsie’s too old to pretend that I am. If I’d visited more, she would’ve taught my kids to play Gin Rummy and curse. Twice divorced herself, she could’ve helped me through mine. But time is running out for the matriarch of my family. She may succeed in bringing her secrets to the grave with her; secrets that should have been revealed long ago.

She’s the last of her generation, longing to join her siblings. Her basement full of treasures tells the story of a family that was once so prominent they had a set of china for every day of the week. Her purple kimono hangs on the wall of her now empty home, a reminder of her teen years spent traveling the world. The kimono seems to know the truth and patiently waits for her return.

I shake my head one more time. Go away Mopsie.

I tip-toe over to Amanda who is sleeping on an oversized chair in the living room. Five little pink toenails peek out from under her fluffy white blanket. Somehow her dark hair looks dull without the glow of her bright blue eyes. I bend over, putting my face in front of hers. I feel her sweet breath on my cheek. I see myself in her sleeping face. Did she have this many freckles yesterday? I kiss her eyelids. She opens her eyes then stretches her arms like a cat, and gives me a huge smile. What is that power her face has over me?

Pinching the hem of the blanket I say, “Do you have room for a big-old fat-old mommy?”

Her little groggy voice replies, “Yer not fat mommy.”

I say, “I will be some day.”  It’s the same routine every morning. She holds the covers up and I climb in. I whisper, “Wake up my little Mandy-Lynn.”  No response. “I know you hear me. It’s time.”  No sign of life. Eyelids glued shut. I pick up her tiny hand and smile at the half-peeled pink polish matching her toes. Her hand becomes my little puppet. I hold all her fingers down except the middle one, which I wave in circles. Her lips move slightly, but the eyelids are still tight. In a high-pitched voice I say, “Talk to the hand Mommy. I’m never gettin’ up.”  A crack in the armor, and… huge smile. Now laughter. Mission accomplished.

The cell phone startles me. The clock scolds, late for school again. In her ear I whisper, “Sorry Baby-Girl, Mommy’s done it again. Go get dressed. I’ll wake up your brother.”

I climb into my bed next to Derek. I brush back his sandy blonde hair releasing a breeze of strawberry-scented shampoo. I soak it in. His lips are so plump that I have to resist the urge to bite them. He digs his head into my pillow, groans like an old man and pushes me away. We stayed up way too late watching the Apprentice series, discussing our brilliant business ideas and shouting “You’re fired.”

Now it’s time to transform myself into the morning drill instructor. “Get dressed.”  “Find your socks.”  “Brush your teeth.”  “Eat your breakfast.”  “Hurry up.”  The sound of my voice is annoying and familiar. I’m my mom, but powerless to play any other role this morning.

The ringing of the phone gives us all relief from my barking. Amanda tumbles across the room to see who keeps calling. “It’s Aunt Tami.”

“Don’t answer,” I yell back.

Derek’s swimming beneath a pile of jackets and shoes in the hall closet. Why does he always lose his left shoe? I hand Amanda her backpack, hold the front door open and instruct, “Start the car. Turn the heat on. Do NOT sit in the driver’s seat.”  Derek runs out to catch up to her.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I tug on the hem of my gray hooded sweatshirt and turn sideways. Will my boobs magically cooperate this morning? I know I should wear a bra. Why do I fight it? Mom never wore one, so I strip and put one on.

Outside, I’m not surprised to find the kids sitting on the roof of the car. Their giggles fill the morning air. I look down at the ground to hide my smile and jump into the driver’s seat. The car shakes when I put it into reverse. The kids scream, “STOP!”  They slide down the sides of the car. When they open the doors, I hit the steering wheel and gasp. “You scared me to death. I thought you were in the back seat.”  They laugh and we all pretend that they really scared me.

On the drive to school we argue over the radio station. I’m going through a little country phase, Derek prefers rock or rap and Amanda is just disgusted with our lack of taste. We settle for morning talk radio which we all hate.

Amanda says, “Mom, let’s talk about what we’re gunna buy when we win the lottery.”

Derek interrupts, “No, let’s talk about our business.”

I turn down the radio. “Which one?”

Derek crosses his arms and furrows his brow annoyed that I can’t read his mind. “Yo-Mamma Gum,” he says.

Amanda pulls on the back of my seat trying to find me in the rearview mirror. “Mom, tell him it’s called Rude Candy, not Yo-Mamma Gum.”

I become the referee. “The company can be Rude Candy and the first product can be Yo-Mamma Gum. You can come up with our second product, like You’re-So-Dumb Sour Balls, or You’re-So-Gross Gummies.”

Amanda adds, “Okay, but you can’t have Derek come up with the Yo-Mamma jokes ‘cause they’d be stupid.”

Derek laughs. “Yo Mamma so poor, she can’t pay attention.”

“You see. He didn’t even make that up,” Amanda protests.

Derek yells, “You’re fired!”

“You’re both fired,” I say. “Get out of the car.”

I love to watch them walk into school. I’m releasing my offspring into the world. I hope they make good decisions. I hope the other kids are nice to them. I hope their teachers don’t punish them for being late. Most of all, I just hope they come back to me.

The cell phone rings. Again. I resist the urge to throw it out the window. “Hey Brat-face, have you heard of texting?”

My little sister Tami says, “Have you heard about Mopsie?”

“You know,” I scold her, “the more you call me, the less I wanna answer.”

“If you’d answer your damn phone, I wouldn’t have to keep calling you,” she snaps back.

The radio clock catches my eye: 9:35. “Shit. Late for school. Late for work. Gotta call you back, Tami.”

Chapter 2: Tighty-Whities

If you’re ready to lose someone you love, have you already lost them?

The smell of brewing coffee draws me into my kitchen. Years of memories marinate in the familiar scent: my brother’s car, mornings on the beach, nighttime talks on the front porch. The smell seems naked without the Marlboro smoke that came with my family. Oh how I wish cigarettes were good for me. Like that sexy, big-armed man you know is going to bring you pain, but you let him in anyway.

Boxers and a white t-shirt are my business attire; Good Morning America is my cube-mate. I’m the token woman in the technology department at one of the world’s largest banks. My title is “Vice President.”  Sounds impressive? Feels like a prison sentence.

The ping of manly techno-banter rings through my headset. I’m not the only one in my department who’s working from home, just the only one they don’t want working from home. A man working from home has a good work-life-balance. A woman working from home? She must be running a day care.

We design elaborate computer systems installed around the world. But these conference calls are too often just an opportunity for my male coworkers to play the corporate version of “Who’s got the biggest penis?”  I wish they’d break out a damn ruler and measure, so we could all get some work done.

Bitter? Maybe a little. But if you had to report to someone half your age, with one quarter your experience, you might be bitter too.

I take a deep breath of my coffee’s steam. My last breath of sweet freedom before it’s my turn to spew the morning status.

“Buffi?”

The screech of a coworker’s children pollutes the conference call. I’m so distracted by what sounds like the torturing of a cat that I barely hear my name. It’s my manager probably requesting a status report. Sad, but true, I’ve memorized the voices of all twenty-five coworkers. I hit the un-mute button. “Yes?”

“Buffi, please keep your phone on mute.”

Before I can reply, the high-pitched screams magically fall silent.

I want to say, “Most of the men on this call have children too. Did you know that? And you, the one with the dying cat, grow some balls and man-up.”  Instead I say, “I was on mute.”

Where’d all the real men go? Maybe I should’ve picked a blue-collar job like plumbing or carpentry. Then I’d be memorizing the voices, deep ones, of men who sweat their way through the work day. Real men wearing jeans and t-shirts to work. But I’m stuck spending my days with these tighty-whities.

Each morning I place my shriveled creativity on a shelf. Then I respond to emails, make phone calls and write documents that nobody will ever read. Today, I’ll make-it-happen for my adolescent boss, cover-my-ass and babysit an arrogant young developer who’s paid twice as much as he’s worth. A typical day in corporate America.

Why do I do it? Healthcare, five weeks vacation and a very hefty paycheck. The Golden Handcuffs. Oh, how strong and beautiful they are.

My living room’s my unofficial office and my computer lives in an armoire next to an oversized window. Coworkers ask me why I’m allowed to work from home. I answer, “I’m not allowed to work from home.”

I have great assets: my masochistic work ethic, fifteen years’ experience and my winning charm. My downfall, however, is sure to be my unwillingness to conform to corporate politics. I like to do things my way, a trait I’m powerless to change – even for the child I’m forced to call my boss.

The sound of my nails clicking on the keyboard fills the air. The vibration of my cell phone startles me. Shit, it’s my baby sister Tami. I can’t believe I forgot to call her back. She’s always finding new ways to take something from me, either my attention or my money. It’s probably another get-rich-quick scheme. The last one? A mobile hot tub business. God. I can still hear her saying, “Sit back and relax… the party comes to you.”

Her text message reads: “call mom mopsie dying”

Like a robot I send out a flurry of email notices to my team, coworkers and boss. “I will be off-line until tomorrow. If you need to reach me…”  My sister Randi would’ve asked for the day off, but not me. Family emergency? I’m taking the day off. Why ask a question if the answer means nothing?

I run to the bathroom to freshen up, and on the way I dial Mom. On the sixth ring, when I’m about to hang up, Mom answers. “Oh baby. I’m so glad you called.”

I can hear the tears soaking each word. “Mom, what’s going on with Mopsie?”

“The nurses were trying to reach me all morning, but this freakin’ cell phone was dead. I’m on my way now, but I could’ve been there already.”

“What happened? Is she breathing? Did she fall?” I need more. Any morsel that’ll tell me how sad I should feel.

Mom gulps down her tears and breathes out, empting her lungs into the phone. “I knew something was wrong. I was laying in bed this morning thinking about the old Chevy. You know, the one Mopsie used to let Randi drive when she was nine. Why would I think about that? I knew it.”

“Me too. I was thinking about her too. That’s weird.”

“She’s unresponsive. And I’m not there.”

I take the toothbrush out of my mouth. Spit…spit! “Since when? What happened?”

Mom’s sob echoes through the phone. “I don’t know. The nurse found her in a coma and oh my God, they said her feet are turning blue.”

I’m running to the closet. “Hold on a sec, Mom.”  I try pulling my t-shirt off around the headset and almost drop the phone. It can’t be right. Now on her ninth year of Hospice, my grandmother is not the dying type. “Are you sure, Mom?”  I rummage through the drawer for underwear.

“She doesn’t have long to live. Maybe an hour. Maybe a day.”

The cracks in her voice make her sound so desperate. This is the day we’ve all trained for. But Mom doesn’t seem ready. She sounds like my fifth grade teacher, the one who wore her gray hair pinned back with a thousand black bobby pins. This is not my strong sixty-something year old mom. Who is this crackly old imposter?

My bladder is now the old lady in the room. Since having children my bladder seems to have a mind of its own, so I run back to the bathroom.

“Okay Mom, I’ll get Randi and meet you there. Don’t drive like a maniac. We don’t need two funerals this week.”  Did I really just say that? That wasn’t funny. What’s wrong with me? Actually, it was funny. But Mom isn’t going to think so.

Mom says, “What are you talking about? What’s that noise? Sounds like you put your freakin’ phone in the dishwasher. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it!”

My stream freezes at Mom’s command. Why can’t I do that when I’m sneezing? I’m relieved to hear the strength back in her voice. “Nothing Mom. Drive safe. Love you.”

I refuse to worry. Not again. I’ll rush, and I’ll drop everything, but I won’t worry. We’re constantly celebrating her last birthday party, her last Christmas and her last appearance at a family dinner. Randi even changed her wedding date so Mopsie would be alive to attend. That was five years ago. Even though she wants to, she can’t die. So later tonight, I’ll be driving myself home, grateful I didn’t worry.

I pull open every dresser drawer, then rummage through the dryer. Where are all my underwear? When I’m not looking, they’re everywhere. Dozens of them, even the well-behaved pink-flowered ones that don’t ride up and never give me four butt-cheeks. You know ‘em; you’ve got your own pair. The ones you can’t remember buying. The same ones no store in America seems to sell anymore. Today, they’re hiding just to annoy me. Go to hell underwear, I’m goin’ commando.

Chapter 3: Codependent

Having someone you can’t live without is a blessing… until they die.

“Randi, hey, I’m on my way to pick you up. Mopsie’s in real bad shape.”

“Mopsie never dies,” she says back. “She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Randi’s right. But if she’s wrong…  “She’s in a coma. So the way I see it, you have no choice. You’re coming with me. Have your neighbor take care of Little Bean.”

“I don’t know if I can. I’ll call you back.”

“Nope. Already on my way.”

“Shit. Fine, pick me up.”

Randi was the first born grandchild and, despite all of my attempts to be perfect, she’s Mopsie’s favorite. Undeniably. About a year ago, I called Mopsie.

“Hi, Mops.”

“Hello, darling. I’m so glad you called.”  There was a lift in her usually sleepy voice. “My new home health aide made me pancakes, and my fireplace is spitting smoke into the second floor. And how is your day?”

This was not the Mopsie I knew. She was never this chatty. “Well, I’ve been cleaning the house all day. The kids are with their dad, and…”

Mopsie interrupted, “Oh! It’s Buffi. Okay dear, well, I love you. Goodbye now.”  That was my grandmother.

But, you know, I don’t blame her. Randi’s my favorite, too. She’s my everything, my twin soul, separated at birth by thirteen months only because she likes to be early and I like to be late. Randi’s my protector, my day planner, the keeper of all my secrets. Just today, someone accused me of being codependent on Randi, so I looked up the definition. Wikipedia, the knower of all things, reports, “Codependency describes behavior, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or care taking.”  So yeah, I agree. I’m codependent. But Randi’s codependent on me too, so they cancel each other out. Right?

Anyway, maybe codependence isn’t a bad thing. Have you ever felt you were half of a whole? That if you lost the other half, you would die? That’s how Randi and I are. We share one life. When I was a baby, she would climb into my crib and sleep with me. We were in the same grade. We went to the same college, and now live in the same town. The only reason I don’t duct tape her to my side is we have opposite taste in men.

People mistake us for each other, which is ridiculous because we look nothing alike. She’s got the curvy Marilyn Monroe look, with the natural blonde hair and the big green eyes, while I’m more the girl-next-door, brown hair and nothing-special blue eyes. My high school crush said, “You’re gunna be so hot when you grow up.”  I was fifteen, but looked like I was ten. I hated him after that.

How I yearned to trade my scraggly brown locks for Randi’s blonde ones. She always got the real Barbie, and I got Barbie’s friend. The brunette. Nobody even knew her name. And clothes? Randi got pink, which left me with yellow. The consolation color.

Throughout college, Randi kept us all drunk with free shots – Red Death, Tequila, sent over the bar from drooling admirers desperate to get her phone number.

Whatever Randi got, I wanted… but she never cared as much as I did. One Christmas she got a huge elephant and I got a little teddy bear. I obsessed all day about her elephant. It was so much bigger, and even at the age of seven, I knew bigger was better. That night Randi said, “I’ll trade you my elephant for your teddy bear.”

I got my wish… but why did Randi want the bear? Maybe the bear was better. So I asked her, “Which one do you want?”  Whichever one she wanted was the best one.

Randi studied the bear and then said, “I don’t care. You pick.”  I stared deep into Randi’s eyes and reached for the elephant. She didn’t even flinch. I traded. Randi and the bear fell deeply in love. My elephant? Lived in the dusty corner of our bedroom, too big to be snuggled. To this day I don’t know which gift was better, the elephant or the teddy bear. But I’m convinced Randi still knows.

***

I park the car outside Randi’s condo. She can sense when I’m close, so I’ll just wait in the car. How long will it take her today? I bounce my palms on the steering wheel to the beat of the first song that comes to mind, “Randi Randi Bo-Bandi, Bannafanna Fo-Fandi..”  Oh God, someone please stop me. I fling back my head, let out a restless sigh. I stare at the radio, the front door, then back to the radio. Like a mental patient, I could repeat this over and over again, endlessly.

At last the door opens and Randi bolts out, overnight bag in one hand, water bottle in the other. Just before reaching my car, she looks down to hop over her son’s baseball bat and smashes face first into a telephone pole. She disappears from sight. When she doesn’t get up I rocket out of the car and yell, “Would you hurry up? Stop fucking around.”

Randi gets up, her hand pressed against her forehead and hobbles into the car. I turn my head to hide my smile. She’s closing her door and I peel away from the curb. She snaps her seatbelt and says, “I wasn’t fucking around. I hit my head. I think I got knocked out.”

“I know, dumb-ass,” I spit out, and follow with a full belly laugh. Randi’s laughing too.

My twin soul and I begin our journey to the bedside of our half-dead grandmother. Except she probably won’t be half-dead at all. She’ll probably tell us to go away so she can sleep some more.

I put on my sunglasses, turn the radio up and pretend we’re headed for the beach. Right on cue, the radio belts out, “You who are on the road, must have a code that you can live by…”  Randi chimes in for the chorus, “Don’t you ever ask them why…”  We’re really beatin’ it up when a random thought strikes me. I turn down the radio. “Do you think Mopsie ever got over Aunt Sally dying?”

“I would never get over you dying.”

There’s nothing more to be said. I knew she was thinking the same thing.

Mopsie was the second of five, just like me. Codependent? Definitely. It must run in the family. Mopsie and her sister Sally lived in the same town all of their lives. They retired to a little house in Plymouth, Massachusetts and there they spent their days crafting Fabergé-like eggs. They were known around town as “The Egg Ladies.”  Together they enjoyed a simple happy existence, until Sally died of cancer. Mopsie became the sole survivor of her four siblings.

Just like that, a once-vibrant redhead became a nothing, a couch pillow, stuffed only with memories. Mopsie never made another Fabergé egg. No more late night martinis and shared senior early-bird dinners at the local diner. No more garage sale Saturdays or morning walks to feed the ducks. And no one left to tell her secrets.

We moved Mopsie to New Jersey to live near the family. She squeaks by on chicken broth, nighttime talk shows and Gin Rummy. Mom encourages her to volunteer, to join a bridge club, to make good use of her precious life. Instead, Mopsie chooses to lie around and wait for her beloved, Death. I guess it’s her right.

I’m driving, deep in thought about one of my many business ideas. Pillows. Mine would be different because they’d be extra soft and encased in a shabby-chic fabric. They’d replace those ugly square throw pillows we all have. Bed pillows for the couch.

Randi fumbles through her pocketbook to find her singing phone. “Yeah,” she answers, and after a brief pause, “Okay, honey.”  I sense she’s crying when she takes extra time putting her phone away. My fists tighten around the steering wheel; my foot presses harder on the pedal. What did her husband say? She turns to me and answers the question I didn’t ask. “He said to tell Mopsie he loves her and goodbye.”

Shit, I don’t want to see Randi cry. During my divorce, I proved how strong I was by not crying. But Randi cried for me. I’d call her and repeat every cruel word said to me that day. After we spoke, I’d fall into a peaceful sleep. Randi paced the halls of her home, furious.

***

Our family was always running from bill collectors. Each year we got a new home, a new school and new friends. During second grade, we lived in a gang-riddled apartment complex. Mom had no idea the neighborhood was so bad – the apartment was the most spacious we’d ever lived in. Randi and I had our own bathroom with beautiful blue shag carpeting. Mom said it was gross to have carpet in the bathroom, but for six months it was our palace. There was a legendary playground just steps from our door. Dark wooden bridges and thick rope webs connected three square platforms of my imaginary ship. I was Tinker Bell flying across the monkey bars. I scurried through the wooden maze of my afternoon home and enormous trees cooled me with shade. Acorns dotted every surface. Oh the beautiful acorns: children’s gold.

One day after my seventh birthday I ran all the way home from school. The babysitter held the apartment door open. She knew my routine. It would take me only a minute to throw my books down, grab my Barbie suitcase and speed out to my playground ship. My stomach danced. I knew it would be the day I’d complete my acorn collection. I wore my purple and brown patchwork coat with a furry hood, an outfit that would become stamped into my memory.

While collecting my gold nuggets, one of the neighbor girls insisted I give them to her. “No way.”  I growled, “Get lost, Pirate.”  I pranced over to an unexplored patch of playground and continued my search.

“Hey you,” I heard. I didn’t look up. I’d found an entire pile of acorns that the squirrels hadn’t broken yet. I sat back on the heels of my dirty sneakers. When I felt something hit the back of my head, I turned to find two large girls, hovering right above me. I knew exactly what they wanted. I slammed my treasure-chest shut and jumped to my feet. I wasn’t scared, I was mad. All forty pounds of me.

I scurried towards home, around the dumpster-wall, which seemed to be two stories high. I rounded the other side and stopped short. Standing there, blocking my escape, were two boys. Huge ones. I held tight to my Barbie suitcase and moved backward, not realizing I was backing right into the garbage dumpster area. Three big walls surrounded me with only one way out. I heard the leaves crunch under the running feet of the pirate-girls. The girls took their place blocking the exit while the boys climbed the walls of the battle arena. I tightened the death-grip on my suitcase. One of the girls mocked, “Now you’ll give them to me.”  She had one hand on her hip and her head shifted from side to side, with each word.

I gripped harder. “No I won’t. Get your own.”  I should’ve been scared. Randi wasn’t there to protect me. But before I recognized the danger, one of the scrappy scavengers stomped on my foot and pushed me backward. I regained my stance. Punches and kicks rained on my little body. I stood strong and still. A perfectly positioned kick to my right shin shot pain up my leg. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes. I lost my balance and fell, my hands scraping across the cement. It was a punch to my mouth that knocked me down. My suitcase tumbled into the corner of a dumpster and one of the proud thieves scooped it up. Laughter echoed through the garbage pit. I stood up empty-handed and spit out a chunk of blood. Blood splattered on a leaf, and a tooth tumbled out. It was my first fight. I lost but I didn’t cry. I marched home listening to the shreds of laughter filling the playground. This wasn’t over.

I hurried past the babysitter and found Randi’s open arms.

The babysitter placed her hand under my chin and lifted up my face. “What happened?”

I bit my lip and waited for her to leave the room. She obliged. She knew me. My words, like my tears, were shared with only a few. In my small family circle, I was an energetic chatterbox. Outside that circle, a mute.

I looked down at my throbbing palms striped with blood and dirt. “They took my acorns.”

Randi shook her head. “Stupid acorns.”

“They’re not stupid.”

Randi wiped blood off my cheek and stared at her fingers.  I watched anger color her face with red splotches. “I’m gunna kill them.”

Randi had a short temper, and a quick hard fist. Nobody messed with Randi, so usually, nobody messed with me.

She knew exactly what to do. “We need a weapon,” she said.

I followed her to the bathroom, the bedroom, and then to the kitchen. Randi didn’t care about the acorns. No, when Randi saw my bloody face, she wanted revenge. The plan was complete. We were busy in the kitchen getting ready for the big battle when the doorbell rang. The babysitter answered the door. Randi sent me to eavesdrop. I peeked around the babysitter and spotted two boys. I spun around and darted to the kitchen. “It’s them. They’re at the door. Do it now.”

Randi walked toward the enemy and I jumped up and down behind her. The babysitter took one look at us and slammed the door.

“Open the door,” I said.

The babysitter pressed her back against the door. “What in the hell are you two doing?”

With a pot holder in each hand, Randi was holding a vat of boiling water. “We’re gunna melt them.”  Randi the pit-bull stared into the babysitter’s eyes. When she realized the babysitter would not open the door again, one tear trickled down Randi’s cheek, then another, and another. The babysitter confiscated the pot and sent us to our room.

We were stewing in defeat and devising new plans when the bedroom door creaked open. The babysitter’s arm stretched into the room. Her hand was clenched in a tight fist. “The boys said they were sorry and brought you this.”  Her hand turned over and opened. It was my tooth.

I took the tooth and said, “But where are my acorns?”

Mom moved us the following week – I never did get my acorns back. Thirty years later not much has changed. Mom still moves every year. I still don’t cry. And Randi still protects me.