A short story.
I’m Rowena, but folks call me Weenie. I’m known as the bravest girl in Feltor County. It ain't really mentioned much, but everybody knows. I asked Daddy once, why nobody talks about it and he said that some things are just better left unsaid. I’m gonna tell you about it anyway.
Every mornin’ on the way to school, me and Sam walk past Mr. Malcolm’s house. It’s the prettiest in the neighborhood. His yard is especially green and the bushes are cut into fancy shapes.
Mr. Malcolm’s always workin’ on stuff outside, but the neighborhood kids won’t go within ten feet of him. They heard he worked at Millicent’s Bakery, until he was fired for chasin’ someone outta the store with a pastry knife. I’m glad the kids are skeerd of ‘em. That might sound mean, but after I tell ya why, you’ll understand.
The day I first talked to Mr. Malcolm was the most memorable day of my life. I became Feltor’s fearless, instead of just Sam’s little sister. I’ll tell you about it, but you can’t tell anybody.
Me and Sam were playin’ catch with Jimmy and Jerry Murphy, the Irish twins from Chester Street. Our ball landed in Mr. Malcolm’s birdbath and he dried it with his shirt and held it out for one of us to fetch. You’d think he was holdin’ a dang grenade the way the boys stared at it.
Jimmy covered his mouth with his ball cap and grumbled, “Weenie, I’m not messin’ with that fella.” Jerry and Sam both nodded.
“Ya’ll are sissys!” I hollered. “Yer not gonna git it, are ya?”
Sam shook his head and muttered without movin’ his lips, “He’s mad as a hatter!” Sam’s eyebrows arched so high they touched his bangs.
“I’ll get the dang ball, skeerdy-cat-Sam! You’d better close yer eyes before they slip sockets. They’re bulgin’ like a bullfrog.”
I had no idea what a hatter was, but I wasn’t skeerd of one. I marched right over to Mr. Malcolm and greeted him.
“Mr. Malcolm, I’m Rowena.”
Mr. Malcolm held out the ball and smiled.
“Ya know, you should show those pearly whites more often, Mr. Malcolm.”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Like this?” he asked, as he jutted out his jaw and growled like an angry bear.
Half of me laughed ‘cause he looked funny, and half ‘cause the boys took off runnin’.
“I think you scared ‘em off, Mr. Malcolm.”
“I see that. I guess that leaves more cookies for us, Rowena.”
Mr. Malcolm brought lemonade and cookies out to the porch.
Come to find out, Mr. Malcolm wasn’t fired; he retired! He laughed at the pastry knife story and said I could straighten the boys out, now that I knew the truth.
I crammed another cookie in my mouth. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. If I tell ‘em you’re a mighty nice baker, they’ll eat you outta house and home!”
Mr. Malcolm agreed.
Some things are just better left unsaid.
I’m Rowena, but folks call me Weenie. I’m known as the bravest girl in Feltor County. It ain't really mentioned much, but everybody knows. I asked Daddy once, why nobody talks about it and he said that some things are just better left unsaid. I’m gonna tell you about it anyway.
Every mornin’ on the way to school, me and Sam walk past Mr. Malcolm’s house. It’s the prettiest in the neighborhood. His yard is especially green and the bushes are cut into fancy shapes.
Mr. Malcolm’s always workin’ on stuff outside, but the neighborhood kids won’t go within ten feet of him. They heard he worked at Millicent’s Bakery, until he was fired for chasin’ someone outta the store with a pastry knife. I’m glad the kids are skeerd of ‘em. That might sound mean, but after I tell ya why, you’ll understand.
The day I first talked to Mr. Malcolm was the most memorable day of my life. I became Feltor’s fearless, instead of just Sam’s little sister. I’ll tell you about it, but you can’t tell anybody.
Me and Sam were playin’ catch with Jimmy and Jerry Murphy, the Irish twins from Chester Street. Our ball landed in Mr. Malcolm’s birdbath and he dried it with his shirt and held it out for one of us to fetch. You’d think he was holdin’ a dang grenade the way the boys stared at it.
Jimmy covered his mouth with his ball cap and grumbled, “Weenie, I’m not messin’ with that fella.” Jerry and Sam both nodded.
“Ya’ll are sissys!” I hollered. “Yer not gonna git it, are ya?”
Sam shook his head and muttered without movin’ his lips, “He’s mad as a hatter!” Sam’s eyebrows arched so high they touched his bangs.
“I’ll get the dang ball, skeerdy-cat-Sam! You’d better close yer eyes before they slip sockets. They’re bulgin’ like a bullfrog.”
I had no idea what a hatter was, but I wasn’t skeerd of one. I marched right over to Mr. Malcolm and greeted him.
“Mr. Malcolm, I’m Rowena.”
Mr. Malcolm held out the ball and smiled.
“Ya know, you should show those pearly whites more often, Mr. Malcolm.”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Like this?” he asked, as he jutted out his jaw and growled like an angry bear.
Half of me laughed ‘cause he looked funny, and half ‘cause the boys took off runnin’.
“I think you scared ‘em off, Mr. Malcolm.”
“I see that. I guess that leaves more cookies for us, Rowena.”
Mr. Malcolm brought lemonade and cookies out to the porch.
Come to find out, Mr. Malcolm wasn’t fired; he retired! He laughed at the pastry knife story and said I could straighten the boys out, now that I knew the truth.
I crammed another cookie in my mouth. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. If I tell ‘em you’re a mighty nice baker, they’ll eat you outta house and home!”
Mr. Malcolm agreed.
Some things are just better left unsaid.
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