Author's note: This story is copyright Samantha Peters, 2012, all rights reserved.
I wrote this story in about 20 minutes, but it has been in my head for 18 years.
"Cat Parker Sings 'America the Beautiful'"
We are sprawled out on the deck with the stars above us, and
the waves jostling the jet ski under us. I can feel the vibrations of the wood
when the jet ski hits the dock, over and over again, powerless to stop its own
abuse. The fireworks have not started yet; “dusk” is a relative term open to
interpretation. But I am not too concerned about it. The heat of the day has
burned off and although there is no breeze, we are comfortable in our shorts
and bathing suits.
Catherine,
who likes to be called Cat but I call her both interchangeably, says, “This
makes three years, doesn’t it?”
“It’s
not four?”
“I
don’t think so; the first time we came out here we were twelve.”
“No we
were eleven.”
She
props herself up on her elebow. “Twelve. I’m certain of it because we talked
about how happy we were that we tested out of reading.”
I
frown. “Did we really talk about school up here? God we were dorks.”
“Well
we were eleven, we hadn’t discovered boys yet.”
I blink
then look over at her, but she’s turned her attention to the sky and either
missed her mistake, or is dismissive of it. I go to argue but then I realize it
doesn’t really matter, and I look up at the sky too.
“There’s
Casseopia,” she points out. “And Ursa Major over there.”
All I
see are twinkling dots but I nod. “Yeah, totally.”
“You
can even see the twins still if you look over that way.”
“Yep.
Cool.”
She
stretches. “So how are you holding up, now that it’s been a couple months?”
There’s
a tone in her voice, one desperate to be casual but dying to get to it. She
can’t quite mask that she’s been thinking about this for awhile. “It sucks,” I
say.
“Well
sure, I bet it still stings a bit… but we’ve still got two years, and you know
what they say… plenty of fish and whatnot.”
“I
don’t want any other fish. I want Justin.”
She
glares at me. “You must come to the realization that Justin knows that wiggling
worm is attached a hook. He’s swimming right on by, and you’re sitting there on
a boat like a jackass. Hook another fish, eat it, and get over it.”
“I
can’t, Cat. I’m in love.”
“Pfft.
You’re fifteen. You don’t know what love is.”
“You’re
fifteen too!”
“So?”
“So you
have to be thirty-five to have the privledge of telling other people their
experiences are invalid. It’s like a law or something.”
“Okay
fine. But seriously, do you really think you’re in love?”
I
shrug. “All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before, and it hurts like a
bitch. Isn’t love supposed to hurt? And anyways if this isn’t love, I sure as
fuck don’t want to experience the real thing.”
Cat
nods. “Okay, I can deal with that. Maybe you shouldn’t worry about the other
fish then. Maybe just chill for a bit.”
I
didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t chill, because she wouldn’t really
understand. So I change the subject. “How are things with Mamma Emily?”
Cat
snorts. She always likes my nicknames. “Well she’s finally stopped crying every
time I enter the room, so that’s a plus.”
“Hey,
there you go. That’s something.”
“Yeah
sure. It only took her nine months. At this rate she’ll start talking to me
right about as I graduate.”
“Well
at least she acknowledges your presence.”
“Well
yeah she does, I guess. I mean she ain’t that bad really. She’s a hell of a lot
better than the last one.” By last one she means her mother, but neither of us
say this out loud. “You wanna know something funny though?”
“Sure.”
“You
remember Miss Oden, the cafeteria lady at Fairview?”
“Ha,
how can I forget? The way she sloshed those mashed potatoes out of the ice
cream scoop with that scowl on her face… and you never were quite sure what was
in the fish fillet…”
“Well
up until Mamma Emily, I thought Miss Oden was hands down the worst cook on the
planet. But I tell you what, I’d take a plateful of Miss Oden’s mush over
anything Mamma Emily cooks in a heartbeat.” I laugh, but she waves her hand and
says, “That ain’t the funny part. The funny part is, I eat every last crumb. I
mean I practically lick my plate clean. This woman burns cereal and I gobble it
up like a starving Ethiopian child.”
I
frown. “If she’s such a bad cook, why don’t you just fix yourself something?”
Cat
shakes her head. “That’s what I just can’t figure out. You know I’m a decent
cook- I’ve had to be, right? And I don’t mind it. But I just keep on letting
her feed me revolting grilled cheese sandwitches and watery spaghetti. And
sometimes I even eat seconds. I don’t know why. I must be insane.”
I look
at Catherine and she looks at the stars, rolling this little paradox over in
her head, trying to make sense of it. It is funny to me too, but not in the way
it’s funny to her. What’s funny to me is that she doesn’t see the obvious
reason why she eats Mamma Emily’s food. Why doesn’t Cat realize that the woman
could serve her fired turds and she’d scarf it, because it’s not about the
food. It’s about someone doing something just for her; someone is finally
treating her like a child and she’s starving for that.
But I
keep my mouth shout and say, “You probably are.”
Just
then the first firework launches and Cat’s on her feet. She does this every
year. Her hand’s on her heart and she gazes up at the sky as the fireworks ignite
the sky in eye-piercing rainbows. She starts to sing “America the Beautiful” in
a soft but earnest voice. She never says anything about America any other time
of the year, but for these few moments every three hundred and sixty-five days,
Cat Parker is the most patriotic American on the planet.
When
it’s over she plops down and says, “I’ve done that every year since I was
four.”
“Yes,
and every year you tell me that.”
“This
is the first year that Mother didn’t sing with me.”
I’m
surprised at the comment and I look at her, but she’s still looking up at the
sky, as if the fireworks are not finished. I’m a bit ashamed. I should have
sang with her. That’s what a good friend would have done.
