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Nin Andrews
Calling the Snakes
I KNOW THIS story can't be true. But I
remember it. I can close my eyes and see it. I'm eleven years old. I
know this because it's my birthday, and it's hot as Texas outside. 92
degrees in the shade. It's the first day I'm allowed to go barefoot all
year. But I have to ask permission from my dad who says it's never hot
enough to take off your shoes. Why? He's from Memphis. My mom hates
heat because she's from Boston. I wonder if all marriages are like
that. I think so--but that's not what this story is about. Maybe it's
not even a story. Maybe I just dreamt it. To explain things--like why I
don't like the number eleven. Two ones, side by side, two skinny legs.
Stilts, awkward to walk on. Eleven, too old to be a kid, too young to
be a woman. I still wear underpants with the days of the week
embroidered on each one. Seven pairs, seven colors. My sister is
fifteen, and she has a whole collection of pink brassieres. My sister
wants to go fishing over at Milton's pond, and she says she will take
me because it's my eleventh birthday. But I know that's not why. She
doesn't give a hoot about my birthday. Oh no. She knows that if we
fish, then Jimmy will fish too. He will talk to me and glance at her. Me,
I want to say. Look at me. But he won't. He'll just
brag. And I don't want to be there, listening to Jimmy tell stories.
Like the one about snakes. Jimmy says he can call the snakes. I don't
believe him. I call him a liar. I say, Go ahead, prove it then.
And he does. Jimmy calls the snakes. Sitting beside us on the bank of
Milton's pond, looking at my sister, he makes a strange noise with his
throat and then smirks. He's full of shit. I think he's just showing
off. Creep, I say, and stare past him and out at
the lake. That's when I see them. Two water moccasins, side by side, a
perfect eleven, swimming. Jimmy sees them too, so he starts tossing
pebbles at the water. They turn their heads in our direction. I see
their sleek heads, the glint of their eyes, the U-swirl in the water as
they change directions. The snakes head right for us, and they don't
just stop at the water's edge. No Sir, they glide up the red-clay bank,
slipping over rocks as Jimmy sings snake tunes and laughs until they're
so close he could pick them up. Then he pelts them with stones. When
they're almost dead, he slices their heads off with his jack knife, but
their bodies continue to dance in slow S's. Why? I
ask. Why'd you do that? Because they're two of
them, he says. One snake never comes by itself. I'm so mad, I want to
punch him, but my sister is shrieking and crying, putting on a big show
so Jimmy will put his arm around her. And he does. And they walk off
across the meadow towards home, leaving me with the fishing gear. I
hear them laugh a little, and watch Jimmy lean his face into hers.
Their faces glow in the late afternoon sun. That's the first time they
kiss. I hate them then. I hate them both.
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