BY DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER
This story was first published in Witcraft in October 2023. Copyright is held by the author.
NOTHING GETS your attention like a rock to the head.
We were four. Devon was the kid next door — a lanky kid with white-blonde hair in a crew-cut like his dad’s. I was short for my age — with golden-blonde hair to the middle of my back, which my mom tried, unsuccessfully, to work into braids each morning and which, by day’s end, would be a loose, tangled mess. We were cute, we were almost the same age (Devon always reminded me that he was four and a half), we were next-door neighbours so our parents expected us to be best friends.
In those days, we were allowed to walk to nursery school by ourselves, through my back yard, across the yard of the neighbour behind us, to the crossing guard in front of the school. We held hands to cross the street once the crossing guard, Cookie Dare, said it was OK. Every day, Devon would say in his best, fake Southern drawl, “That Dare’s a Cookie!” and we giggled like it was the best joke ever. His hands were always sticky with grape jelly from breakfast and once he had a tight hold of my hand, he’d swing his arm as high as he could, pulling me off my feet a little, and dragged me, bobbing, through the crosswalk.
The nursery school was a series of rooms in the First Presbyterian Church basement. Devon and I were in different classes, where we would sing our songs, eat the snacks our mothers packed, and take a nap on little throw rugs we brought from home. I was long past napping in the middle of the day. I would spend the twenty-minute nap-time picking at my pink shag rug until they told us it was time to get up. Preschool was only three hours, but it was an eternity to a little girl who wanted to get home to play with her toy horses.
On this particular day, the pull of my new, Breyer Collection horse was overwhelming. I knew I was supposed to wait for Devon, but I just had to get back to play with the tiny black foal with delicate legs and splash of white on her forehead. She had a graceful, always prancing pose and fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.
As soon as we were released, I ran from class to Cookie Dare. She asked where Devon was and I lied. I said his mom had picked him up early. For the first time, I crossed the street all by myself. I was feeling pretty slick about giving Devon the slip. He’d just want to play tag in the backyard or climb the cherry tree again and make me wait even longer to play with my new horse. Devon was always showing up, whether he was invited or not. He’d come over when my mom put out the splash pool, or when I was riding my trike on the patio. Today, I just wanted to play by myself.
The neighbour’s yard behind ours was slightly elevated, braced by a loose, stone wall. I had just skipped past the wall and was about to run home, when I felt the thud and something wet on my head. I touched the wet spot and withdrew a hand covered in blood. I screamed — not from pain so much as shock. I turned to see Devon, seething with anger and panic. He’d wanted to let me know he was mad, but I’m guessing he hadn’t planned on the screaming, or the blood.
Devon glanced behind him like he might run, but his feet seemed to be frozen to the stone wall. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Are you OK?!”
“No, I’m not OK! You threw a rock at my head!”
My mom was in the back yard now. I could hear the metal screen door slam on the house next door, as Devon’s mom dashed over to join her.
By now, Devon and I were both crying and our mothers teased the story out of us between sobs. There were no accusations — no threats of lawsuits or punishments. Instead, both of our mothers simply demanded that we apologize to each other.
We were four. Mistakes were made. I got stitches and I’m guessing he got a spanking from his ex-Marine dad. And that was the end of it.
The next day, we walked to school together again. Devon was quiet as we climbed past the wall toward the crossing guard. I grabbed his sticky hand and said in my best Southern drawl, “That Dare’s a Cookie!” He smiled, and proceeded to swing me across the street.
***
Deborah Sale-Butler is a Portland, Oregon-based writer whose work has appeared in the Dead Girls Walking anthology, CommuterLit, Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, Etymology Press, Witcraft, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Mystic Owl, The Artisinal Writer, Underside Stories, Greener Pastures and Uppagus.