Scout Days
A story by Melinda Borucki
A slice of life, a taste of nostalgia, and a memory of a risk well
taken.
The parking lot of St. Mary’s had been a stream of
trucks since first period. Fascinated, we watched as the home of the
St. Mary’s Scouts football field transformed into a temporary residence
for The Zipper, The Tilt-O-Whirl, and Funnel Cakes Sold Here!
I burst into my house, penny loafers kicked off
mid-stride. The scuff that marred the wall—ignored. Blue plaid wool
skirt and white pressed oxford damp with sweat—on the floor instead of
the hamper. The Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with its pink hearts and
smiling unicorns tossed on the kitchen counter, the homework within
tabled until after Labor Day.
The gates didn’t open until eight. As eighth
graders, we sat at the summit of the St. Mary’s hierarchy. Our last
year of grade school before high school. Tradition alone dictated we
had to be first in line to buy our unlimited ride bands. We were, after
all, the ruling class.
The money from watching the Miller brats, stashed in
my cash box beneath the posters of Kirk Cameron before he found Jesus,
and Corey Haim before he found heroin,
paid my way.
Dep Scrunch in my spiral perm and a quick glance in
the mirror confirmed there was no bologna in my braces. The pilfered
makeup from my sister’s drawer in the pocket of my jeans guaranteed my
weekend would be spent imprisoned within the four walls of my bedroom
if my Mom saw me. The agreement had been mascara and lipgloss but not
until my birthday. So the eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick I had
hastily chosen would earn me a one-way ticket to grounding.
There was definitely no dating either. Not until I
turned sixteen.
“Win a prize for the ladies!” the carnie called,
“five dollars, five darts!”
Brian hit one balloon; he didn’t know I could hit
all five. He won a plastic dog for me; its paint was already chipping
off.
Sitting under the willow trees, making fun of his
girly screams on the Rocket, morphed into too wet kisses from lips that
tasted of Cherry Sno-Cone and cold fingers under cotton training bras.
Relief when the squeaking of the dog toy distracted Brian from going
further. I’d never been to second base before. As if the patron saint
of squeaking dog toys had summoned her, Sister Francis appeared just as
awkward limbs were returning to owner’s bodies.
“Mary, surely you had something less constricting,
and certainly weather appropriate to wear.” The good Father stated on
Tuesday morning when we returned to school.
The Catholics don’t bother with air conditioning.
Sweat soaked hairlines, and flushed cheeks were a billboard to my
attempts at covering the scarlet brand of my sin with a virtuous white
cotton turtleneck.
Brian’s friends, possessing big mouths and an
abundance of bravado enlightened the good Father into the reason for my
obvious discomfort. My indecency was exchanged for kneelers and
rosaries, lectures and calls to parents. I returned the toy to Brian.
It was more befitting him anyway.
Copyright © 2016 Melinda Borucki