When we were young

You were so mean to me. I remember being the only 7-year-old girl to want to play-fight and you told me girls couldn't fight because we'd get hurt. Oh, boy, did I want to show you how wrong you were. When you told me to go play with my Barbie dolls I should have decked you. As a matter of fact, I think I did.

"Kendal Lee, did you hit that poor boy down the street?"

I stand with my lips poked out and my arms crossed over my chest. This is the stance my mama calls ‘The Tude' and promptly gives me a glare that tells me I'd better stop before she knocks the look off of my face.

"Kendal! Are you listenin' to me, girl? Did you hit that Hawaiian boy down the street?"

I look away and think about shaking my head, but I know that gesture will only get me into more trouble. Fighting and lying in the same day?  I was asking for a whoopin' and a weeks' worth of dishes.

"Yes, ma'am," I mumble.

"Dang it, Kendal. Like they need another reason to dislike us, you go and fight." Mama groans and lets the dish towel she's holding slap against her jean-clad legs. "Well, we're going over to his house and you're going to apologize."

"Mama..." I begin to whine.

She points a finger that tells me if I say another word the switch is coming out.

Mama is really good at telling me things without really having to tell me.

I sigh and reach for the door knob.

I shuffle my feet all the way, following behind mama. She looks back every so often to make sure I'm still there. When we reach the Jeffer's house, step up onto the porch and ring the bell, I'm thoroughly convinced this is the stupidest thing my mama has ever asked me to do.

"Hi, Mathea." Mama smiles cautiously when the oak door opens and Mrs. Jeffers pokes her head out.

Mrs. Jeffers is a stout woman with stern gray eyes, curly brunette hair and deep auburn skin. Mama said she's a ‘Cific Islander but I have no idea what that means. I rarely see Mrs. Jeffers smile unless it's during her weekly gossiping sessions with some of the other mother's whose kids go to my school. She's such a chatter box; at least, that's what mama always says when she's on the phone gossiping about Mrs. Jeffers gossiping.

"Hello, Lou." Mrs. Jeffers doesn't look too happy to see her and even less ecstatic about seeing me trying to hide behind mama's leg.

"Mathea, uh, I just want to apologize for Kendal." Mama grabs my shirt and pulls me in front of her. "And Kendal would also like to apologize to you and Keoni."

I look back at mama pleadingly but all I see is a wall of disapproval. I turn back to Mrs. Jeffers and sigh.

"I'm sorry..." I mumble and put my head down in shame.

"No needing to apologize to me," she huffs then turns to call over her shoulder to the victim in question.

I roll my eyes when the dummy slinks around Mrs. Jeffers' skirt. He isn't as dark as his mama due to his German daddy but he's dark enough to look ethnic. He's got a mop of sandy brown hair that needs a haircut and chicken legs that jut out from khaki shorts. I'm sure he'll grow into them one of these days. But for now, he is so ugly and annoying and mean. I can barely keep myself from pushing him down as he stands there with his head bowed and his shaggy hair falling into his face.

I feel a quick flick to my ear and I flinch. I sigh again and mumble an apology. "Sorry."

"There now. Kids will be kids, I suppose," Mrs. Jeffers says with a smile (which is very out of character for her) and opens the door wider. "It's hot out here. Want some iced tea, Lou?"

Even mama seems surprised when I look back and catch the quick flash of uncertainty. Mama and Mrs. Jeffers aren't friends and I've barely ever seen them say more than two words to each other. I hear more about Mrs. Jeffers than I actually see of her.

"Alright, that sounds wonderful." Mama steps around me and gives me one steely look that says it all. I'd better not misbehave or it'll be more than my butt.

When both women disappear, I shove my hands into my dingy blue-jean shorts.

"Aren't you going to say sorry to me?" I say abruptly and glare at the mop-head.

He lifts his face which is scrunched in confusion. "Huh? For what?"

It's then that I see the split in the center of his bottom lip. It isn't big but I feel a sense of pride in the fact that I did that. And he deserved it.

"For saying girls can't fight."

"They can't." he shrugs.

"Oh, yeah?" I step up to him, lift my fists quickly and get in a stance I'm sure will intimidate him. "Wanna see? I bet I could bust your lip again."

"You're stupid." He rolls his eyes.

"And you ugly."

He pushes me. "Yo mama!"

I shove his shoulders. "Yo daddy!"

"I'll kick your butt!"

"Let's see!" And I lunge.

We both got our butts kicked that day but not by one another. Our mamas put a tearing into both of us. I recall not being able to sit for about a week after that. I couldn't look at you and not get a throbbing in my rear for months afterward. Let's face it; I didn't want to look at you. I didn't like you.