Burn, Burn, Burn

My sister and I have been trying to kill each other for years.  When we were young, we were at our most vicious. The first time was at a party.  We were the only two children, supervised by numerous blue shadowed eyes but no one really paying any heed to us.  We were wearing little shorts and backless halter-tops made of pretty white cotton, lined with soft frills.  Our blonde hair was plucked firmly on our heads in high ponytails.  Pebbles were getting caught in our sandals that were made of torn white leather, cracking and weak from sweat.  A permanent black smudge pressed in the leather beneath my big toe.  The powder blue swing set was large, ominous and freckled in rust.  The metal creaked and swayed and the large posts easily pulled up from the ground, leaning and ready to lift out of the earth.  We were taking turns pushing each other, watching the grass give around the base of the A-frame.  We waited for the set to tumble forward and launch us into the sky.  We tired of waiting for the collapse and sat in the dirt, Indian style, and plucked out stray pieces of grass.  We were little taller than adult’s knees and the party seemed to occur above this invisible line.  We were stuck petting a fat black dog whose eyes bulged like two well-fed ticks.  We were able to pour ourselves juice out of a big green thermos that had a red button to push and release the spout’s spurt into Dixie cups.  There was little else until we spotted a small and smoldering barbecue, just our size.  It was a lazy orange color that faded along the edges into a pinecone brown and matched many of the cars in the parking lot.  An adult had removed the dome and placed it aside.  A hot ladybug with 3 silver eyes, one of which was its smoking eye.  The eye was now lifeless.  The heat and smoke poured from the miniature grill.  There were only a handful of ashy white briquettes, a pile of dry elbows with a red glowing wound missing much needed scabs.  We could reach out and grab the hotdogs that were splitting and sizzling pig juice.  There were deep black grill marks that we wanted to trace.  A man with a dirty beard winked at us and plucked each of the dogs off the grill with an open bun.  Snugly, the meat fit inside the bread boats.  He walked away with them on a plate and did not replace the lid.  It sat still and useless and the grate of the barbecue called to us.  He had opened the ladybug and we knew that when a toy was left, exposed and at our level, it was meant to be played with.

We immediately rose from the ground and stepped gingerly further away from the grill.  The adults smoked cigarettes and drank from cans and bottles that sparkled in the sunlight which was blinding and turned everyone’s head into a blond halo or a brunette raisin.  My sister and I had agreed upon the rules.  We would do a three-step tango and then dip.  After each dip we would change leads.  We clasped hands and marched forward.  She led.  One-two-three. Dip.  Her fingers entwined in my halter strings and she almost pulled the small cloth triangle from my chest.  The top slipped and exposed a non-descript tiny nipple, Thumbelina's slipper.  We giggled and covered it back up.  It was my turn.  One-two-three. Dip.  I folded her over, my hand buried in the small of her bare back, and her hair dangled and the ends hit the dirt.  We were singing in Polish while we danced—she loves me, she loves me not; going back and forth, the entire time moving closer and closer to the charcoals, singing Kocha…Nie kocha---knowing we were approaching the hot grate.  We were giddy.  We knew one of us had to dance into the flames.  It was exciting to think of how it would end.  We could move no closer.  We were at the end of our she- loves-me, she-loves-me-not dance.  I had my sister’s back in my hands.  I put my fingers around the back of her neck and I rested her down onto the miniature barbecue.  She did not resist. 

Someone noticed and ran screaming.  I was holding her down and she wasn’t moving.  I let go and stepped back. Someone pulled her off the barbecue; her back and legs had perfect grill marks and were plumping up like swelled sausage.  She began to scream and tried running but fell backward into the dirt.  Small pebbles stuck and wedged uncomfortably in her skin.  She continued to scream, but it wasn’t the pained animal wail that should come from such a painful burn.  What she screamed was, “You cheated!  It was my turn!”  And she sobbed horribly, her back glazed with dirty blisters that popped as quickly as they appeared.  My mother scooped her up and carried her to the back of the Monte Carlo, white and green 7-up.  She carried her delicately; face down, like she did when she held us in the cool water of the pool, on our stomachs, with our legs kicking.  My sister cried and kicked as my mother held her in the backseat and they both cried.  I was surrounded.  One of my mom’s friends picked me up and hugged me to her chest.  There was a collective sigh and a thank god that I didn’t get hurt.  They all assured each other that everything would be okay.  That she was all right and I would be fine.  But it wasn’t.  We had just started to play our murderous game.