2008 Woodie Awards
Pink chalk and right slippers mark the spot
Megan Bishop '07
Issue date: 9/28/06 Section: Portfolio
Elmira hated a lot of things. She hated the ocean and seaweed when it stuck between her toes. She hated peas and the ice cream cones that were shaped like upside down triangles. She hated the girl in her fourth grade class who lived next to her, because her hair was long and blonde and curled at the ends. All Elmira had was brown puffy hair that just hung there like the roots of a plant pulled from the ground. Her mother yelled at her for using such an awful word about things she knew so little about. But, Elmira didn't care. The word hate was something she actually liked. It rhymed with words like skate and partake, it was short, she could spell it, and it described her perfectly sometimes.
"How can you say that?" her mother would ask after Elmira announced she hated what her mother had cooked for dinner that night. Her mother would put down her napkin, and look Elmira right in the eye. Elmira would stare right back because she thought it was a stupid question to ask someone, anyone, especially your daughter. What she didn't like was up to her. So she would stay silent, searching her mother's eyes for her pupils instead. Her eyes were so dark that the little black dot and the deep brown color melted together like chocolate cake and chocolate frosting, and Elmira could never distinguish the two.
Even though she didn't respond, her mother would never break her stare. It wasn't until Elmira's grandmother would drop a fork or mumble something about salt or pepper or paprika, that the attention would shift, usually leaving Elmira angry and without any pupil in sight.
It wasn't as if Elmira hated everything. That, most certainly, was not true. She liked lots of things, like crunchy peanut butter, her Cinderella storybook, and her dog, Beatrice. She liked the color green and the way the sky looked without clouds. And, she liked to watch cartoons on Saturdays before drawing with chalk on her driveway. She couldn't understand why her mother couldn't just focus on the things she liked, and leave her and Beatrice alone to color the pavement with pictures of princesses who governed far away lands.
"How can you say that?" her mother would ask after Elmira announced she hated what her mother had cooked for dinner that night. Her mother would put down her napkin, and look Elmira right in the eye. Elmira would stare right back because she thought it was a stupid question to ask someone, anyone, especially your daughter. What she didn't like was up to her. So she would stay silent, searching her mother's eyes for her pupils instead. Her eyes were so dark that the little black dot and the deep brown color melted together like chocolate cake and chocolate frosting, and Elmira could never distinguish the two.
Even though she didn't respond, her mother would never break her stare. It wasn't until Elmira's grandmother would drop a fork or mumble something about salt or pepper or paprika, that the attention would shift, usually leaving Elmira angry and without any pupil in sight.
It wasn't as if Elmira hated everything. That, most certainly, was not true. She liked lots of things, like crunchy peanut butter, her Cinderella storybook, and her dog, Beatrice. She liked the color green and the way the sky looked without clouds. And, she liked to watch cartoons on Saturdays before drawing with chalk on her driveway. She couldn't understand why her mother couldn't just focus on the things she liked, and leave her and Beatrice alone to color the pavement with pictures of princesses who governed far away lands.