Woodrow Bailey, “Puberty’s Pride Destroys Innocence”
“Get that trim painted, boy, and I’ll be back.”
The cobalt blue 1963 Impala and Pop backed out of the driveway. The morning sun at 8 am was already burning the LA smog this September—my last day of tough year sixteen.
Since I didn’t tell Pop I had to register for school before I arrived from Louisiana, he made me paint Uncle G’s house. My sister Chris and I were there for a few weeks as we saw the next stop on our concert tour of moving around.
The house would be white with a dark green trim. The sun is taking early potshots at me as I sweat in silence.
“I know girl…right… He’s a clown for real.”
My sister Chris came out the front door with Uncle G’s niece, Tammie. They laughed at the freedom they enjoyed with a third shadow behind them. They went off the porch in flowery colors of dress shorts and tank tops. I ignored them as best I could as my dark green paint-stained white tee shirt and jeans were uncomfortable.
A third figure stepped off the porch as the sun caught her silhouette to widen my eyes momentarily.
“This is my brother Ju…Woody. Don’t mind him. He’s going nowhere today.”
Chris and Tammy laughed, but the third girl stared for a second.
“This is Regina, not that you care.”
“Hi there.”
“Hey…Woody”
I refused to look to spite them for teasing me for the umpteenth time.
“He must do all this work and go to school tomorrow on his birthday. Blame Momma for having you on the first day of school.”
Jennifer Frost, “Girl, Writer”
I used to bask in Mom’s bright yellow kitchen, my favorite haven from the changeable Iowa weather and the drafty rooms where the wind whistled, haunting me like ghosts howling in the dark. At her side, while she baked cookies, she taught me to put extra vanilla extract in the dough. When we baked a birthday cake, she showed me how to line my cake tins with waxed paper. Tonight, she showed me how to wash a chicken and get it ready for the oven. Together, we dredged the pieces in floury coating and fried them in oil, my favorite dinner.
Mom’s flaxen curtains and daisy wallpaper challenged the darkness outside while I sat in a kitchen chair and chattered about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the library book I’d been reading. Turning to me from the stove, she said, “I found something for you, Jennie.” She indicated a flyer, plain white with a small type, lying on the table. It listed the dates and times for an extracurricular activity, a weekend seminar that seemed to emphasize bookbinding. I was not interested, but Mom’s expectant face made me diplomatic. “Bookbinding? That’s nice.”
”Nice? I thought you’d be excited.”
”Why?”
”Don’t you want to write a book?”
Her words rang in the fragrant air where potatoes were baking and vegetables simmering. She kept talking as she crossed the kitchen, but I struggled to hear over my suddenly pounding heart. I saw her finger pointing at words I hadn’t noticed. Write your own story. Draw your own illustrations.
On The Edge 
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