Dance Lessons (True Story Time)

Christmas morning! After all the presents had been opened and the candy eaten, Mom told Leslie and me that we had one more gift. "You are going to begin dance lessons," she said.
“Dance lessons!” squealed Leslie. “Ballet?”
“Ballet if you want, or you can take tap,” Mom answered.
“Whoopee!” I yelled, jumping up and down. “When can we start?”
Very soon the day came. After school we went to Studio Bochette. Through a large picture window, we could see girls in leotards and tights practicing in a sunny room. Some stood at a barre, watching themselves stretch in a mirror. Those girls had toe shoes and were learning ballet. Another group of girls, in tap shoes, waited their turn.
“Okay, girls, what’ll it be?” a cheerful lady asked us.
“We haven’t decided yet,” answered Leslie with dignity. “But we think we want ballet.”
“Well, while you think about it, come look through these toe shoes,” she offered, leading us to a small room with a large box of ballet shoes. We dug in eagerly, but all of the shoes were so big! After trying on every pair, and feeling like Cinderella trying on her step-sister’s big shoes, we gave up. The lady looked at mom and said, “Well, I know we have tap shoes to fit them.”
That’s how we decided to take tap dancing. We went in to a small dressing room and changed into our leotards and tights. They were both black, and so were the tap shoes. These shoes weren’t soft like the ballet slippers. They were like dressy church shoes, only they had heavy metal taps affixed to the bottom front. After we got them buckled on, we went into the studio with our class. The wood floor shone softly, polished by generations of dancing feet. We all stood in a line, wiggling with anticipation. Our teacher began our lesson.
“Watch and then do,” she instructed and she moved her leg quickly, flicking her foot and producing a tapping sound like a shod horse on cobbles. We all moved our legs quickly and all our shoes made sounds too - like a herd of elephants on steroids.
Laughing, the teacher showed us again, slower, and this time we sounded better. We learned to point our toes down slightly and “scuff” our feet quickly, almost floppily, against the wood floor. Every movement of our foot produced certain sounds, some heavy, some light and soft. Sometimes we moved quickly, sometimes slowly, toe, heel, toe, turn! This was fun!
All too soon the first lesson was over. And then we got a serendipity! We took our shoes off, but then our teacher said, “Come in here!” and led us all into a new room, one with mats on the floor. We got to do tumbling, too! Now we had two new teachers. They showed us how to tuck up like a cat and roll forward down the mat. I felt like a bowling ball as one teacher held me together and rolled me gently toward the other. I thought I could do it by myself. First I rolled off to the side and then I came undone, but they patiently tucked me back together and I rolled along straighter this time. After a bit of practice, our lesson really was over. We changed to our regular clothes and rode home with Mom, bubbling over with excitement and eager to return.
The next couple of lessons improved our technique. At the end of the third lesson, the teacher began talking about a recital. We learned we would wear costumes, like little Hawaiian girls, with flower leis and grass skirts. We began learning the steps, tap, cross the feet, turn. “Good, now your hands,” the teacher exclaimed. “As you cross one foot over the other, reach up, as if you are picking flowers off of a tree, and then gently put them in your imaginary baskets. Gracefully, girls!” Very gracefully she demonstrated, her hands moving gently. We practiced over and over, adding the hand motions as we tapped our way across the floor.
In tumbling we were learning to do back rolls. Leslie was much better at tumbling than I was. She could tuck up tighter and roll straighter. I wobbled more. I resolved to do better the next week.
But when the next week came, the phone was ringing as we rushed in from school. It was Mama saying she couldn’t leave work. “Oh, no!” we moaned.
“Listen,” she soothed, “it will be fine! I’m calling a taxi to take you to your dance lesson. When the taxi comes, go out and get in. The taxi driver will know what to do. Then I’ll be there to pick you up after your lesson.”
Wow. We were impressed. Neither of us had ever been in a taxi before. We heard a “beep-beep-beep” and looked out to see that the taxi had arrived. The driver was a very big man. If I’d been by myself I know I couldn’t have gotten in to that taxi, even if I had to miss dance lessons. I don’t know, but I think Leslie felt the same way. She looked at me and I looked at her and we looked scared. The taxi driver was in a hurry. “Come on, you girls, your mom said to take you to the dance studio.”
Well, he knew where we were going. That was reassuring. We got in the back seat and that helped some. We sat very close together. The taxi driver ignored us and that helped too. Then we were stepping out at the familiar small, white building and we were happy again. “We rode in a taxi cab!” we bragged to our new friends.
“Hurry, girls,” our teacher admonished, “you’re late!” The other girls were already going into the studio. We hurried to change and hurried out to practice. I looked at Leslie and she looked fine. But the teacher looked at me, and she laughed! Then everyone looked at me and they all laughed. I was bewildered. I tried to decide whether or not to cry.
“You hurried so fast you came out backwards!” the teacher explained, showing me the inside seams on the outside of my leotard. In the mirror I could see the tag sticking straight out on the back. The teacher took me back in the dressing room. She very kindly helped me to get my clothes on right side out. When we came back no one laughed at me anymore. Our music started and we worked on our routine. We knew what we were supposed to do, now. We had to tap, tap, toe, heel, reach slowly, turning all the way from one side to the other, all together.
I began to feel like a small Island girl. I could feel the sea breezes on my skin as I moved. The fragrance of the exotic flowers wafted to my nose as I gracefully picked them, placing them gently in the basket I’d woven from palm leaves. I couldn’t wait to wear a grass skirt.
Tumbling was still a challenge. We were learning to do a backbend. Leslie could do it by herself. She would stand with her legs slightly apart, arms up above her head, and lean her head back. Slowly she bent back until she could see the ground beneath and behind her. Gently she lowered herself backward toward it, palms stretched out. Over, over she’d lean until her hands were flat on the floor and her body made a bridge. She could walk slowly on her hands and feet, then bring her head and hands back up until she was standing! It looked fascinating - until it was my turn. At first the teacher helped me by holding me, her hand on the small of my back. But sometimes, when I leaned back, my feet would come up off the floor! I kept working until I learned to do a back bend too.
As the weeks passed, the recital moved closer. Now we practiced at home too. Our costumes were being made! Tumbling continued as well. We were learning cartwheels. I never quite mastered cartwheels, but Leslie could do them if she held her mouth just right! I could do about 3/4ths of a cartwheel. But you should have seen me do forward rolls! Even backward rolls. And I never put my leotard on wrong-side out again.
Finally the day came when our costumes were ready. We had to put them on and do our entire routine in them. This was called a dress rehearsal. Now we were as ready as we’d ever be. The night of the recital arrived! We didn’t go to the familiar studio. We went to the local High School. That’s where all the big productions were held. We had gone to rehearsals there for community plays in which Mom and Dad acted. Then we were waiting around, getting into mischief, learning “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater” on the piano, watching Mom and Dad in plays like “Fireman, Save My Child!” and “Charlie’s Aunt.” But this time Mom and Dad would be in the audience and we would be performing on stage! We had our costumes on, our flowers and our tap shoes. Giggling, we waited for our turn.
Teacher came and lined us up, reminding us that it was time to get serious. We were all in a line, smiles pasted on, when the curtain rose. It was a big, heavy, red, velvet curtain. As a man pulled a long cord, slowly the curtain went up. We could see rows of people looking expectantly at us. Where was Mama? Before we could find her and wave, our teacher was making “Phtt, phtt” noises to get our attention. We all looked at her and our music started playing - the same music we had practiced to over and over at our lessons. We began to tap out the rhythm of our routine. Tap, tap, toe, heel, reach high, turn. We smiled, danced, picked the imaginary flowers and placed them deep in our imaginary baskets. We were concentrating so hard, trying not to make mistakes. We danced our very best, trying to make our audience feel the ocean breezes of our island home. As we took our final positions, our music ended. Everyone clapped and cheered. We took our bows. We were dance recital stars!

The Ugly Daughter

(I hope you enjoy this true story about a good friend and I the summer we were 12 years old...)

"And this is my ugly daughter," announced Mrs. Hamilton with the calmness born of repetition, as she pulled her 12 year old forward.
I'd gone with my mother to the modest ranch-style house next door to meet the new neighbors from Georgia. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton met us at the door and it was evident at first glance that, from the scuffed toes of his dusty work boots to the roots of her dyed hair, they were complete opposites. After introducing himself as Claude and inviting us in, taciturn Mr. Hamilton returned to his comfy little "den" in the Florida room. Although he didn't say much, kindness was evident on his plain countenance. Mrs. Hamilton led us on the grand tour of her new home, laying newspaper down before us as if it were her coat over a mud puddle; or in this case, under a mud puddle, since it was her carpet she was trying to protect. As we stopped near the tiny formal dining room overlooking a living room with plastic covering the sofa, three young southern belles appeared from the back bedrooms. Mrs. Hamilton introduced her oldest daughter, Ginger, who displayed the tartness of lemonade in her witty speech. Next came shy little Melanie, sweet and refreshing as a tall glass of iced tea on a hot summer day. When she came to her middle daughter, the pride left her face. I looked curiously at the one who was my age, the one who'd been introduced in such an awfully matter-of-fact way.
Bonnie Claudette looked me straight in the eye and I was startled to see the mischief and intelligence dancing there.
"Take me as I am," she seemed to say, "and let's see where it takes us." That was one of the best bargains I ever made. Bonnie's features may not have added up to traditional Southern beauty, but her personality, imagination and sense of fun made her a peach of a friend.
Her name told the story, really. She was optimistically named Bonnie, which means beauty. But her middle name, Claudette, after the father she favored, was more descriptive of her outward appearance. Bonnie had six toes on each of her completely flat feet. She wasn't skinny, exactly, but she had more angles than curves. Her mousy brown hair frizzed uncontrollably out of its overworked barrette. She had rather bad skin, possibly because she wore a thick hedge of makeup to hide behind. Her large, brown eyes might have been her one beauty had she not had the misfortune of being born severely cross-eyed. By the time I met her, many surgeries had corrected this, but the ugly glasses she wore had lenses as thick as the proverbial coke bottle, creating a weird aquarium effect as if her eyes floated behind them. But Bonnie also means fine, good, robust. These things, I came to discover, described her perfectly.
Perhaps because she had known such casual cruelty from her own mother, Bonnie was very kind to others. She laughed a lot and had many friends. We'd have sleep-overs at her house and she was the perfect hostess. We stayed up late to watch really old horror movies, laughing ourselves silly over the goofy special effects. Our favorite was the Frankenstein hand, scrabbling across the floor while its intended victims stood patiently, screaming hysterically at their fate. "Stomp on it!" we'd yell at the screen. "Run out and close the door!" Giving up on them, we went to the bedroom to hold a beauty pageant, using Bonnie's bed as the runway. We shared our secrets, and then she would whisper, "Watch this," and yank open her bedroom door, causing her eavesdropping mother to fall against her. We laughed together later about the lame excuses her mother gave, but she never allowed bitterness to take root.
Bonnie loved to bake cakes as much as I enjoyed making cookies, so we decided to open a bakery when we grew up. But her real passion was boiled peanuts in a can. She craved them, and I know it was greatly to my credit, in her eyes, that I developed a love for them too. We walked to the little corner store, gathering bottles along the way to redeem for change. We worked hard at this, patiently searching out bottles that had been missed by the other, less ambitious children. Often full of muddy water, we poured out what we could and left the caked-on stuff for the poor, beleaguered store personnel to deal with. When we had enough, usually about 75 cents worth, we could buy a can of boiled peanuts! Clutching our prize with delighted anticipation, we hurried home to the can opener. Eagerly cutting open the can, we reached deep into the slimy interior with our fingers, pulling out soft peanuts that had been boiled in the shell and left in this preservative for brave, southern enthusiasts like us. We ate them with relish, sometimes finding triple nuts that were our version of four-leaf clovers. To our future bakery, we mentally attached a lean-to full of cans of boiled peanuts for our personal sustenance. You can take Bonnie from Georgia, but you can't take Georgia from Bonnie, and this relic from her upbringing was one she relished.
Her imagination made our friendship rich within a secret world all our own. When we played tennis in the road, we weren't two awkward pre-teens. Oh, no, we were Chrissy Everett and the identical twin, Missy, that we invented for her. Our feet were so tough that the hot road sizzled to no avail, and so bad at tennis that we spent most of our time chasing balls in the ditch anyway. The sharp sting of really dry sand spurs only hurt for a moment before we licked our fingers and pulled them out.
When the sun got too hot, we went in and wrote mysteries together. We allowed Chrissy and Missy to be our heroines, but evidently they were better at tennis, because after a few pages we left them to their frightening fate. We were sidetracked by a club we were forming. This was serious business, requiring an initiation, secret code and clubhouse. We decided it would be easier to agree on everything if we were the only ones in the club, voted on it, and it passed unanimously. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon coming up with a two-part poem that was our secret password. We tried it out the very next day. I went to her house, knocked, and was met by her mother. This dampened my enthusiasm briefly, especially when she informed me that, "Bonnie can't play."
"May I please talk to her just for a moment?" I begged, and she relented slightly. Leaving me outside in the carport, I heard her admonishing Bonnie to hurry and get back to her work. Soon Bonnie appeared. Self-consciously aware of her mother listening nearby, I quoted my half of our password poem. Bonnie, eyes dancing with mischief, quoted her part flawlessly. A look of triumph passing between us, I left to work on an invisible lemon-juice letter and Bonnie went back to her chores.
"Look, all we have to do is hold it over a candle," I explained the next afternoon, showing Bonnie her invisible letter. We got the candle from my new wax sealing kit and tried it out, amazed as the letters began appearing on the page. Then we each chose a seal for important club documents, a butterfly for her and the initial "T" for me. That important task taken care of, we began our search for a clubhouse. Luckily it was a Saturday, so we could give our full attention to this matter.
Bonnie's sense of fun was always ready to bubble to the surface, so her idea to use my step-dad's old john-boat as our clubhouse ended up being an hilarious adventure. In many ways, it was perfect. It rested in a shady corner of our yard, had two seats, and we were allowed to use it. The only flaw in its design was a multitude of hiding places for seedy characters like roaches. In fact, it had apparently been appropriated for a roach motel. Unbeknownst to us, they were all sleeping off a night of revelry that very moment. We climbed in and got settled for a meeting, and a few sentries came out to investigate.
"EEEEWWWWW!" we screeched, jumping up. This rocked the boat, so to speak, and a few more alarmed inhabitants came running out in their nightclothes. Well, we weren't going to stand for this! This was our clubhouse and they would simply have to go.
Impulsively breaking off small branches from a pine tree, we began swatting at the roaches. They ran out of the boat; we were winning! Except they kept coming. How many could there be, after all? If we could hurry the process, we could get back to our meeting. So Bonnie climbed up on the back seat and began jumping up and down. This drove the interlopers out and I beat them enthusiastically with my switch. Unfortunately, this caused them to flow over the side of the boat in a fleeing stream, eliciting screams from me and wild laughter from Bonnie. Grossed out, but determined to prevail, we switched places and continued our assault. But there is a reason why roaches survive and we discovered it that afternoon. They multiply and divide, and then they conquer. Our jumping legs and flailing arms could not hold up long enough to defeat them all, and we finally fell in an exhausted heap -- far away from the boat -- at which time they all filed back in and resumed their naps.
But the very next afternoon something wonderful happened! Bonnie's dad, whom we both much preferred, decided to go visit his side of the family on their modest farm, and he invited us to go along! This was too wonderful to be true! First of all, he was taking his truck, which meant we could ride in the back with the wind beating us into a disheveled mess, but even better than that was -- chickens! We had for some time been enamored with the idea of ink jars and quill pens, and had actually gone so far as to purchase tiny bottles of ink with our allowances. But quill pens seemed to be in rather short supply and most birds had the good sense to stay far away from us. This would be our big chance and we didn't intend to blow it. We arrived at the farm, pushed our wildly misplaced hair out of our wind-chapped faces, and got down to business. The grownups were busy, so we wheedled Bonnie's cousin into letting us attempt to get chicken quills, fresh from the factory! A good-natured boy, evidently much amused by us and ready for some fun, he quickly agreed and led us to the chicken pen.
The chickens were out pecking and strutting and doing their little chicken things. The element of surprise was on our side. They didn't act overly alarmed when we stepped into the pen, just "ba-awk"ing a greeting and then ignoring us. We each picked the chicken whose feathers we found the most beautiful and began sneaking up on our prey. This was going to be easy, we thought elatedly, reaching for the business ends of our chosen chickens. Just as we grabbed the tip of a feather, each of our targets hopped indignantly forward, looking as if they'd been goosed. Moving a little more quickly, we tried again, but this time each chicken exploded into movement, eluding us again. We looked at each other questioningly, as Bonnie's cousin chuckled delightedly and called his little sister to watch. Lips tightening in determination, we began running, our quill pens managing to stay just out of reach on the backs of their owners. Round and round we ran, chickens squawking, cousins holding their stomachs while rolling with laughter, and indulgent adults gathering to monitor the situation. They suggested we periodically switch targets, so as not to run the chickens to death. At this point, we were willing to settle for any quill at all, so we agreed, causing us to lurch and spin as we tried to grab any chicken in sight. Eventually our strategy paid off, as an unsuspecting chicken, lulled in to a false sense of security because we were chasing a different bird, allowed himself to stray into the path of our grasping hands. Flush with victory (and running), we climbed wearily, but triumphantly back in the truck, quill pens in hand. Those became our official club pens, used for writing notes, letters and creative stories. There was plenty of time for thought since we had to dip them in the ink every other letter or so.
Bonnie and I had so much fun together that I could never remember that she was considered ugly. It was rather fitting that her glasses magnified her eyes, luminous with kindness, intelligence and fun. I've heard that beauty is only skin deep, but under a thin veneer of weak flesh, Bonnie's beauty lay like a vein of gold, solid to the core.

On a Lighter Note...

(Okay, time for another story I've written for you. This one is fiction, based on the old childhood classic "Three Billy Goats Gruff." Enjoy!)

Three Tough Chicks From the ‘Hood

Mrs. Beasley pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she entered Detention Room 1-A. “Robert didn’t even want me to teach the literature course,” she chuckled to herself, thinking of her overprotective son.
“Mom,” he’d lectured, “once you cross that bridge, you’re entering a different world. I’ve heard that school isn’t even safe! It may be a girl’s school, but they have some real tough chicks over in that neighborhood.” She’d laughed at him, thinking she was a tough old biddy herself! Wouldn’t he have a fit when he found out she was substituting in Detention! Mrs. Beasley wrote on the chalkboard, tacked some things on the wall, and sat patiently waiting for the students to arrive.
Just then the door creaked dramatically as it was eased slowly open, finally revealing the timid eyes of a teen-age girl peeking around it. She took in the frail woman at the desk, and seeing Mrs. Beasley gazing back at her with interest, she quickly averted her eyes and scuttled past the desk as if afraid she’d be squashed like a bug if she went too slowly. Choosing the farthest seat from the front, she sat down quickly and looked at her lap.
Mrs. Beasley quietly observed her sole student, slumped down as if to make herself smaller. Her paperwork said the girl was in detention because she would not participate in class. The girl’s hair was looped and swirled elaborately around her small head. Her makeup was applied flawlessly and a bit dramatically. A series of increasingly larger earrings cascaded down each ear. Her animal-print blouse began with criss-crossing straps, became form-fitting in the bust and ended with a fluttery scarf-like point over dressy black slacks. Her feet were enthroned on 3” platform heels with gold cords affixing them to her ankles. As Mrs. Beasley took in the full picture, the girl seemed to shrink from her gaze.
“Well, shall we begin our assignment?” Mrs. Beasley asked softly, but the girl jumped as if she’d shouted.
“No,” she quavered, a small note of panic in her voice. “Please, let’s wait for the others. My cousin will be here soon.”
“All right, I suppose we can wait. I only hope your cousin is as stylish as you are, dear,” Mrs. Beasley commented casually. A strange look composed of pleasure and suspicion struggled across the girl’s features. She sat up a little straighter, placed her hands carefully on her lap, and studied an old playbill of Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” featuring a fashionable actress in elaborate costume, with frank interest. Mrs. Beasley quietly waited.
Suddenly the door banged open and a screaming young lady flew, laughing, into the room. Before the door could slam shut behind her, an eraser zoomed across the room, smacking the window on the far wall, a cloud of chalk dust hanging suspended above it in
the vibrating air. A young face, eyes crossed and tongue out, appeared briefly in the small window set in the door, causing the girl to laugh even harder. Suddenly aware of Mrs. Beasley observing her, the girl said, “Oops, hello!” and with a wave of her hand to her shy cousin, she flopped into a seat in the front. “I suppose we have to sit and be quiet for an hour,” she spoke flippantly to Mrs. Beasley, mischief dancing in her merry eyes.
“Oh, no, not at all,” Mrs. Beasley replied, nodding toward the chalkboard.
“Oh, no way!” the girl shrieked, noting the slogan there. ‘She who does not work, neither shall she leave,’ was emblazoned in Spencerian penmanship. “You mean we got to work? In detention?” as if detention were strictly a leisurely activity.
Mrs. Beasley smiled at the girl’s incredulous look. Indeed, you couldn’t not smile at this pixie, and Mrs. Beasley could plainly see how the girl must have disrupted the class, resulting in her detention. “Well, we better get started!” she began, but the second girl was shaking her head no before she even finished speaking.
“No, we got to wait for my friend. Can’t start without her,” she insisted.
“Okay,” Mrs. Beasley acquiesced. “ I only hope she has the delicious sense of fun you bring to the class.” The girl’s eyes widened in disbelief. She sat quietly contemplating this for a full five minutes, when the door opened, revealing a tall girl with a commanding presence. She stood calmly surveying the room. She absorbed the atmosphere for a moment, taking in the frail, quiet substitute, the timid, lovely girl in the back and the merry, exuberant girl in front. She read the chalkboard, glanced at the playbill, and spent a few moments on a poster of Sally Field in “Norma Rae.” She even noticed the eraser thrown to the ground. After she’d satisfied herself with looking, she sauntered into the room, the unmistakable challenge of authority in her eyes that had landed her in detention in the first place. She chose a chair in the exact middle of the room, and instantly the other two girls joined her, one on each side. In a clear, commanding voice, she stated, “I’m here. We can start now.”
“Ahhh,” breathed Mrs. Beasley slowly, with evident satisfaction in her tone. “A natural leader. How wonderful!”
The girl looked questioningly at Mrs. Beasley to see if she was being made fun of, but Mrs. Beasley beamed back at her with such delight that she relaxed. “What would you like us to do?’’ she asked.
That afternoon, walking back over the bridge to her apartment building, Mrs. Beasley smiled at the memory of the three girls’ enthusiasm as they read the parts in the play she’d brought with her. “How funny to see the looks on their faces when they found out I was the actress on the playbill!” she reminisced joyfully. “Now, when I have them in literature next term, they’ll set the tone for the whole class.”
Mrs. Beasley had a rollicking good time teaching literature at that school, and those three girls became her best students. The other teachers, who sat and glared for an hour at the silent kids in Detention, could never figure out what magic enabled her to manage those three tough chicks from that ‘hood!

Leslie and the Aliens

(Lots to say, no time to say it! For now, I thought maybe you'd enjoy a true story I wrote a couple of years ago.)

Because my sister was older than me it was only natural that she was smarter. I learned a lot from her. For instance, I learned that I was adopted. My parents had never told me about this, and in fact denied it when I asked, but then my sister had warned me that would happen.
"They don't want to upset you," she explained. "So they'll never admit it. But I remember it well! My parents and I went for a walk one day." Here she paused and looked at me to see if I realized the idyllic life she'd given up for me. "And there you were, floating in the sewer."
"How could I float if I was so little?" I questioned breathlessly, picturing my pitiful little self drowning in a sewer as a baby.
"Oh, you were floating on a log," she said airily, "and I found you. We all felt sorry for you so I fished you out with my umbrella and we brought you home. I've had to pretend like you were my sister ever since!" she finished with a sigh.
Naturally I appreciated the sacrifice she'd made for me. But just in case I wasn't grateful enough, she let me in on a weighty secret that burdened her young mind terribly.
"There are aliens, you know," she confided in a nervous whisper one day, as our kitten streaked across the bed.
"Really?" I quavered, making a grab for my sock just as the kitten attacked it and getting scratched in the process. "What are aliens?"
"Oh, they are monsters from space," she told me, "and they are mean!" I let go of the sock to suck on my scratched finger and the kitten disappeared under the bed with it. "If you don't do exactly what I tell you to do, they'll come and you'll have to go to space with them and be mean, too!"
"Why do I have to do what you say?" I inquired indignantly.
"I'm only telling you what they said," my sister said, hurt. "I'm warning you!"
"How do you know this stuff?" I inquired skeptically.
"Because I'm the only one who can understand them. So I'm useful."
"Well, I just won't go with them," I decided, but she shook her head sadly at my futile defiance. "They'll turn you in to one of them. Then you'll have to go."
"How?" I demanded shortly, a little fed up with these persistent aliens. I looked under the bed, but the kitten was up in the mattress springs destroying my sock. I got back on the bed and began bouncing, hoping to drive her out.
"There's something you have to drink," she started to explain, but I interrupted her.
"I won't drink it!" I avowed.
"Sure you will," she predicted, "after awhile, when you get thirsty enough. They won't give you any thing else to drink."
And that, it seemed, was that. Leaving my other sock on the bed, I went off barefoot to play. Leslie suggested we play "princess," That sounded good - until she informed me I had to be the prince! I started to argue, but then I remembered the aliens. I played prince. Later, she got to be Batman and I had to be Robin. It was a long day.
The next day, I suggested we play Mousetrap. "No, we're playing Chess," she announced. "Let's play jump rope," I'd beg. She'd get out pick-up-sticks. Eventually my mother began to notice my cheerful acqueisance to everything my sister wanted and one day she took me aside privately.
"You know, you can do what you want once in a while," she said, trying to pull my hair ribbon out from under the coffee table where the kitten was tearing it up. "You don't always have to do what your sister wants." She pulled her hand back quickly and reached for a magazine.
"No, I want to do what she does," I quickly answered, watching her poke at the cat with the magazine. "Especially since I'm adopted, you know."
"Tracie, you are not adopted," my mother said through gritted teeth.
"Mom, you know I'm not a baby anymore," I said. "You can tell me the truth."
"I think I hear your sister calling you," she said. She laid the tatters of the magazine on the table and left the ribbon to the kitten.
This went on for quite a while. One night, after our story, prayers, our drink, a trip to the bathroom, the bonus story my sister always shared with me about monsters, another drink, a swat for refusing to stop talking, and another trip to the bathroom, we settled down to sleep. Our backs were touching all the way down to our cold little feet to prevent anything from grabbing us from behind. We'd jumped into the bed so quickly and from such a distance that even the monster under the bed that waited each night to grab us by the ankles and drag us under for his dinner, had given up and gone to sleep. Aware of my parents on guard in the living room and the kitten closed up in the bathroom for the night, quietly shredding toilet tissue, I drifted off.
"Ow," I yelped. I'd been startled awake by something sharp poking me in the side. I tried to turn and look, but got poked again. "Leslie," I hissed in a whisper, but got no response. Sleepily rubbing my eyes, I got up and pushed the curtain aside. Moonlight poured in and I turned to the bed. My sister had vanished! In her place a small fury was twisting and turning, all claws and teeth and strange, hissing sounds.
I stared in disbelief for a moment, and then it dawned on me. The aliens had gotten mixed up! They'd missed me and gotten her by mistake! I burst out laughing and laughed so hard my parents came running from their room to see what could cause such mirth in the middle of the night. The light went on and the alien turned into our kitten! She'd been sprung from her confinement by none other than my sister, failing to shut the door tight after her last visit. My sister herself appeared, having been taken in to my parent's bed after a bad dream.
The spell was broken. I no longer believed in aliens. I no longer waited on my sister hand and foot. She didn't have a willing slave any more. Instead, we grew to be friends. One day she even admitted that I hadn’t been adopted after all.
“Nope, it was really me that was adopted,” she confessed with a melancholy smile. “I was a princess in Egypt, and you were my loyal servant. One day my kingdom was attacked by enemies. You managed to escape, and...”