Curving close, Exit 19 snaked around our backyard.

I watched as traffic circled me. There were so many vehicles: Trans-Ams, convertibles, big rigs, vans, station wagons.

But, soon, sirens began to scream. Honks, screeches, and beeps wailed non-stop.

"Glitter, glitter, glitter, glitter."

Twisting, I spun fifteen revolutions.

Magic was gushing from my body. It churned around the slide and seesaw.

"Please protect me . . .and Reba . . .and Ma too. Don't let no one crash into us!"

"Leeeee! Your hair!"

I was glaring at myself. Endless chocolate knots sprung into the atmosphere. Ringlets grew and grew, wrapping around me.

"Jesus Christ," my sister snapped.

"I'm sorry."

She orbited me, clutching a bouquet of brushes.

"Can't ya' hurry?" I asked.

"Shut up! Your hair sucks."

Caving, I fell to my doubled fist. Tubes and canisters crowded the vanity. There were tons: gel, mousse, hairspray, VO5, toner.

Reba grabbed a puff and stabbed the gnarly nest.

"Owww!!!"

"Quiet!"

Jerking hard, she yanked. My head snapped back all the way.

"Come on!"

Tiny pops began to crackle. Finally, the brush tore through, breaking free. Coils of ripped-up hair tinkered to the floor.

"God! Don't you ever comb this bush?"

"I try, but it's too hard. Wish I had hair like yours."

She scowled at her own strawberry locks. Patting and wrenching, Reba sighed. "My hair don't do nothin'. My hair blows."

She snatched up a can of Aqua Net and doused her feathered head. A sweet mist showered down over us. The glue cooled my skin, fading to hard stickiness.

"Finished?" I asked.

"There's nothing I can do. It's impossible. Gotta' call Jeff anyways."

Jumping and jerking, I dodged every carport crack.

Like always, Mrs. Tremaine's poodle yipped. His name was Martin and he was seven inches tall. Martin had soft black fur.

"Hey there, Sugar Pop," she said, untying a basket of wet pillowcases.

"Mornin'."

"Lord. Got so much dang laundry to do."

Her moo-moo fluttered, exposing thick brown thighs. With a smile, she slapped the dress down.

"Is it too early to come by?" I asked.

"Course not. I git up at five-thirty every single day. Just gotta' keep it down. Mr. T's still in dreamland. Sleepin' late again."

I tiptoed closer. "I'll be extra extra quiet."

"Ya' all ready for school?" she asked.

"Guess so."

"How is grade five?"

"Always the same."

Martin waddled over. Shifting on three tiny limbs, he wobbled and crashed.

"Poor little man," Mrs. Tremaine said. "He's always fallin' down. Wish to Christ he never lost that leg."

She draped a bed sheet over the line, clipping it with giant wooden clothespins. Sailing free, the pink cloth snapped. Countless clusters of black holes freckled one side.

"What happened to your sheets?"

"Ya' know how Mr. T's always sleepwalkin'? Well, he just gits up in the middle of the night, lights a Lucky, and lays back down. He's famous for smokin' in his sleep."

"That could be dangerous."

"Say. . .will ya' help me git' all my new returns together?"

Humming, she dragged a stuffed garbage bag along. Rainbow flip-flops cracked and smacked the heels of her feet.

"Where did ya' find all these ones?" I asked.

"Well, mostly from the plaza trash. Can't believe people just throw out their bottles and cans. Each one is worth five whole cents!"

Mrs. Tremaine ripped open the shed. Stepping in, stale fumes washed over us. One horsefly buzzed by and escaped.

"Dang!" I said, swatting.

A giant city of tin skyscrapers lined each wall, each shelf. There were millions: Coke, Coors, RC, Shasta, Slice.

"Now don't forget," she said. "Look for our state on top of each one. If ya' don't see it, it aint no good."

Right away, I went to work, building new goo-covered towers. "So, when you goin' to turn em' all in?"

"Dunno', Lee. Someday."

"Well. . .there must be a billion bucks worth by now."

Mrs. Tremaine grinned, popping out a crushed up Miller can. "Just look at ya' hair today! It's so wild."

"I know! I hate it! Wish I had straight hair."

"Why don't ya' just chop it off?"

"Then my big ears'll stick out. Kids'll call me names. I can't do nothin'."

"Mmmm. See . . .I got real curly hair too. So, I go to my sister's salon. She puts in some straightener and straightens it all right out."

I fingered a kinked curl. "What's that?"

"It's some sorta' chemical. They pour it on your head and all those waves just disappear."

"Really?"

"Yep," she said. "All my girlfriends do it too."

"But I'm a boy."

"So."

"And I aint black like you."

"Sugar Pop. . .it don't matter. Ya' can do anything ya' want."

"Well. . . gotta' try somethin'," I beamed. "Even Reba says my hair's impossible."

"Then, go to the salon."

She folded up the bag. Leftover tonic dripped to her toes. "All done for now. I'm gonna' git more cans later."

We stepped out, shortcutting through the flower garden. Gingerly, Martin crouched down and peed on a marigold.

"Lee!"

I spun, my Reeboks shredding over the pavement.

"Lee! Lee!!"

It was a girl from my class. Her name was Joanne Murphy and she was the tallest girl I knew. Joanne had wispy blonde hair.

She galloped toward me, clutching a shoebox. Joanne was covered in florescent jewelry. It clinked, chiming with every stride. Pink teddy bears swung from her lobes and rainbow jelly bracelets crawled up her arms.

"Did you finish the social studies work sheet?" she huffed.

I stamped my sneakers and began trudging. "Nope. Forgot."

"You can copy mine if you want."

"Hey, what's in your box?"

With a smile, she lifted her lid. "Cookies. For class. Peanut butter ones."

"Yummy."

"Have one."

"Really?"

"Of course."

I reached in and nabbed the largest.

"Your hair looks beautiful today, Lee."

"Naw," I said, chomping fast. "My hair blows."

She shuffled and shrugged. "So. . .ya' know. . .I hope John isn't mean today. I hate boys."

"But. . .what about me?"

"You're different. You're a sweetheart. And John isn't."

"He's just. . ."

"He's a asshole, Lee."

John was Joanne's brother. He had stayed back two years before and ended up in our grade. They both looked so much alike: same nose, same chin, same eyes, same ears, same face.

But John was evil. . .the evilest.

She twisted her neon rings. "Why don't cha' show me another one of your spells?"

My teacher handed out more activity sheets. His name was Mr. Tambo and he always gave me C +'s. Mr. Tambo didn't have any hair left.

We had just begun learning state capitals. I knew I'd never remember them all. There were so many: Richmond Virginia, Topeka Kansas, Montgomery Alabama, Jackson Mississippi, Augusta Maine.

"Your quiz'll be next Thursday," Mr. Tambo droned.

But whispers began to wash up from the last row. "Hey Curls. . ."

I quickly glanced back. John and Ricky Henderson clucked between muffles of laughter. Their desks were crowded with Garbage Pail Kids and torn-up notices.

"Curls and curls and curls and curls," he chimed.

Joanne swerved around, scowling. Both her middle fingers popped up.

"Don't forget about St. Paul, Minnesota," Mr. Tambo said. "Everyone forgets about little Minnesota."

And then, shots blasted the back of my head. Three or four sopping bullets clung on. The balls stuck, embedded in walnut locks.

"Gaylord," John snapped.

A huge swell of giggles arose.

Flaming, I faded to pinkness.

"Curls and curls and curls and curls. . .just like a little girl."

More matted waves locked around me. Spirals bound, pulling tighter and tighter.

"Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle, sparkle."

Whirling, I squinted through blackness.

Power pulsed inside of me. It was beaming beneath my skin. It was racing through my organs.

"Go away. Vanish and disappear. Please. Please. Please."

Finally, I fumbled for the switch. White neon bulbs exploded.

And I could see myself.

Still, curls curved all around my head.

I was ugly. . .the ugliest.

Mrs. Tremaine said straightening my hair would cost thirty dollars. I went home and pried open my coffee can bank. But there wasn't much at all.

I knew I'd have to find the rest myself.

Barreling upstairs, I headed for Reba's room. I burst through, colliding with a tacked-up Kirk Cameron poster.

"Lee!" she screamed. "FUCK YOU!"

Reba was sprawled across the bed, denim shorts bunched at her knees. An issue of Sassy sat on the nightstand. It lay open to a shiny Chad Allen centerfold. Twitching, both Reba's hands fiddled between her legs.

"GET OUT!"

"Sorry!"

I slammed the door and rested my head on Kirk's lap. After almost two minutes she began hacking.

"You can come in now," Reba finally called out.

Breezing through, I flopped on a thrashed, pink beanbag. The insides squished and collapsed as I sunk in.

"Try knocking next time. Dink!"

"Sorry."

"Jesus! So. . .what do ya' want anyways?" she asked.

"I'm broke. I need money."

"Why? You're only nine."

"I'm gettin' my hair straightened."

"You are?"

"Yep."

Reba sighed, "Well, maybe it'll help."

"But I don't have any money. I gotta' pay for it."

She snapped her retainer in and out of place. "Sell something. Kids sell stuff all the time. Like cups of fruit punch or some shit."

The telephone started whining. Instantly, she picked up the cream rotary resting beside her.

"Hello. . .Jeff? I was just thinking about you."

I burrowed through the attic, squeezing by pink puffs of insulation.

In back, Nana's old potholders were buried, boxed. There must have been a hundred: red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, gold ones, black ones.

Carefully, I dotted the lawn with each knit square. Using glitter and chunky bubble letters, I drew a sign. It read, "4-SALE!!!!!!"

As I waited, toots tinkled from Route Two.

But only thoughts of my beautiful new mane drifted through me.

"Curls and curls and curls and curls."

John and Ricky whizzed over on brand new Huffys. They braked, skidding before me.

"Whatcha' sellin' Curls?"

"Tryin' to raise money for a new haircut?" Ricky asked.

They both tittered, clucked.

"Why don'tcha' be quiet," I said.

John swept blonde tresses off his forehead. "Know what you look like, Curls?"

"Huh?"

"A fuckin' nigger."

Ricky broke into a fit of chuckles. Scratching at his crew cut, he doubled over.

"You do! You look like an ugly nappy faggot nigger."

And then, a massive body blacked out the light.

Growling grumbles roared from deep inside her. "Hey!" Mrs. Tremaine shouted. "You two shits got somethin' to say?"

"No. . .no," John stuttered. "We gotta'. . .um. . .get back home."

"Then why don't you fuckin' get goin'. Now!"

Instantly, John and Ricky pedaled off, their gears clicking. Both boys glanced back twice.

With a sigh, Mrs. Tremaine kicked at the broken pavement.

"I hate them," I whispered.

"I see why."

"They're just. . .horrible. I wish they'd go far away. To, like, Jackson, Mississippi or some place."

"Well, don't worry, Sugar Pop. Maybe someday they will go away."

Martin limped over. With a squeak, he pranced in circles.

"You can come help me find more cans if ya' want," she said, finally grinning. "But, first, how bout' I git some of these beautiful potholders from ya'.

I sat with my head slung back. Peering through beams of sun, I watched heaven strut by. It was crowded with so many things: clouds, kites, jets, balloons, plastic baggies.

"Lee!"

I shot up.

Joanne smiled, skipping closer. A new pink heart pendant swung from her neck. It swooped side to side, ringing with the rest

"A potholder sale!" she shrieked. "Cool."

"It's stupid. It's dumb. Nobody's gonna' buy em'."

Joanne scanned the turf, fingering each square. At last, she snatched up two purple potholders. "These please. How much?"

"I aint gonna' charge ya'. If ya' really really want em'. . .they're free."

"Thanks Lee! You're the greatest!"

"Naw."

"What are you gonna' do with all the money you make?"

I froze. "Well. . .can't say. It's a big secret."

"Oh. . .okay."

Springing up, I carefully straightened the leftovers.

"I have something for you too," Joanne said.

"What?"

"It's a special present. A spell of my own."

"Really? What kind?"

She grabbed my hand and squeezed. "A strong one."

We sat Indian-style. Rotting crab apples spotted the lawn around us.

Gently, Joanne linked onto my pinkies.

"Repeat after me, okay?" she said.

"Okay."

"1. . .2. . .3. . .4. . .5. . ."

I copied her.

Magic rushed, burning between us. It flickered, seared.

". . .6. . .7. . .8. . .9. Please make John die."

The words just came.

I snatched back my hands and crashed to the side.

"Bet this one'll work," Joanne said.

Twice a year, the nurse checked our entire school for lice. Her name was Ms. Bloomfield and she wore sweaters in summer. Ms. Bloomfield had short, permed hair.

I was next in line. Mashing down the tangles, I shuffled on. Cases of awards and medals glowed beside me. There were so many: soccer trophies, football trophies, baseball trophies, track trophies, spelling bee trophies.

"Curls and curls and curls and curls."

I jolted.

"Bet you got lice," John said.

"No, I don't."

"There's probably tons of bugs in there."

"Be quiet. Dink."

He grabbed my shoulder, digging in. "Know what?" John said. "I hate you. I hate you."

Ms. Bloomfield busted out into the hall. Shuffling through stacks of paper, she coughed again and again.

I knew I'd be able to escape him. It was my turn.

But then, the telephone rang. Ms. Bloomfield scrambled back to her desk and plucked up the line.

"You know, Curls, one of these days, I'm gonna' mess you up."

As tears bulged in my eyes, I shook.

"I'll get you," he grunted. "I will. I'll show you what little faggots get."

"GO AWAY!"

Leaping, I shot to Ms. Bloomfield's office.

"Curls and curls and curls and curls. . .just like a little girl."

Once more, I cast a spell.

Traffic bolted on, grinding, revving.

"Shimmer, shimmer, shimmer, shimmer."

I closed my eyes and reeled about.

The magic sparked in my bones. It was pouring out. It was flooding the backyard.

"Please give me straight hair. Please make me beautiful. Please. Please. Please."

And a distant howl cried closer. Soon, those sirens blanketed me.

I was sneering at my dim reflection. As always, the locks stood tall and puffed. They were impossible.

"Leeeee!

Booming, big bangs thundered from above.

"Leeeee!"

Reba raced down stairs, through the parlor, and into the bathroom. Breathless, she panted in the doorway. Wet hair clung to her forehead and cheeks.

"LEEEEE!"

I snapped, "What?"

"Jeff just called."

"So…"

"He said some kid from grade school got in a big crash on Route Two. Guess it was really really bad. Some Murphy kid. Do ya' know him?"

Racing, I stomped through muddy gutters.

And then, I found her.

Joanne sat by the corner, a tin box wedged under her arm. "Want a brownie?" she asked. "They're for class today and. . ."

"Joanne. . ."

"See . . .there's some with nuts and some without. . ."

"JOANNE! Is. . .is John dead?"

My chest was sinking and swelling. I pulled at a knotted curl as puddles filled my eyes.

"Lee," she giggled. "No. He's alive."

"Well . . . is he okay?"

"I guess. He's got two broken legs. Some cuts too."

A tear slid down my face. "We did it to him, ya' know! It's our fault! Because of our spell!"

"He was supposed to die."

"But . . ."

She grabbed my wrist and tugged me close. "He deserves to be dead! John would do the same to me . . .and to you too. Maybe next time that spell will work. All the way."

Rocking in place, I began to sob.

"It's okay, Lee. How about that brownie?"

John was absent for a long time.

But one half-day, I saw him again.

Flopped in a wheelchair, he sat by the principal's office. Both his legs were sealed in white plastered casts. Each had already been decorated with so many names: 'Milo Morgan, Reggie Lauderdale, Ben Erickson, Denise Rockefeller, Otis Kipp.

I poked at my burry crown and inched over. "Hi John."

"What do you want?"

"Well . . . I just wanted to tell you that . . . I'm really really sorry about your legs and everything."

"Shut up," he hissed. "Just shut your ugly face."

"Soon, you'll be able to walk and run and ride your bike again. Soon, you'll feel twenty times better. I promise. This. . .this should have never happened."

"Get away from me."

With blazing cheeks, I scurried toward Ms. Bloomfield's. My sneakers squeaked across the lobby linoleum.

"Hey Curls," John called out. "Someday. . .someday, I'm gonna' stick my dick right up your ass. And I'm gonna' jam it in. And I'm gonna' rip you open. And I'm gonna' slice you up."

"Huh?"

"You heard me," he said. "I'm gonna' fuck you. Better watch out."

At that second, I could feel the power begin to zoom inside me.

It charged through my brain. It raced through my heart. It filled my body.

Fuming, I hopscotched back. "Know what?" I said. "I hate you. More than anyone or anything."

He chuckled. "Curls . . . you're not even a boy. You're a little girl."

"Be quiet. Right now."

"Curls and curls and cu. . ."

I lunged ahead, whacking his cheek.

And I reached for John's golden hair.

"Fuck you! FUCK YOU!"

Two giant chunks tore free.

Cackling, Mrs. Tremaine twirled around the breezeway. She gripped a fan of money between her two brown hands. "Sugar Pop! Look! I'm rich! I'm rich!"

"What's goin' on?" I asked.

"See, me and Mr. T. got my brother's truck and went down to that redemption center. Cashed in all the bottles and cans. Finally."

A smile erupted on my face. "How much?"

"Oh, I dunno'. Looks like a billion bucks, though. Don't it?"

"Yeah."

With glee, Martin squawked at my feet. I picked him up and stroked his neck.

Beeps were bleating from Route Two.

"What do ya' say we go to the salon? Ya' can get some of that straightener. I got the money. It'll be an early birthday present."

"Well. . .I dunno'," I said.

"Changed ya' mind?"

"Maybe."

"Well. . . I like your hair the way it is anyways. It suits ya'."

"Think so?"

Mrs. Tremaine pulled at my curls. "It's big and wild. . .and handsome.

 

©2003 Michael Graves - Contributor's Bio