The backyard was her favorite place. She had found a four-foot-long stick that was sharpened to a point at one end. Girl practiced throwing it from every position she could think of: standing, of course, but also kneeling, sitting, and even lying on her stomach in the grass. When she tired of throwing her spear, she’d climb the old, metal clothesline post that hadn’t been used for hanging out wash since her family had moved in, maybe longer. She’d perch on the crossbar and practice looking at things. She wanted to earn the name “Eagle Eye,” the name she called herself when Brother wasn’t around to mock her for it. She tried to count the flowers in the garden at the other end of the yard, she scanned the grass for any interesting toy Brother might have forgotten about, and with the height of the pole she could see over the white picket fence into the Witch’s yard next door. The Witch was a mean, old, nasty lady with grown-up kids and an above-ground pool in the back that she never, not even once, asked Girl if she wanted to swim in. The Witch wrapped her rose bushes in burlap every fall and her yard was filled with English ivy so she didn’t have to mow. Girl’s whole family called her the Witch, ever since she had come over to the fence and asked Stepmother, “Do you mind moving your weed garden to another spot in your yard? Your weed seeds are blowing into my yard.” Stepmother had been so mad her face turned red but she didn’t say anything back. Stepmother believed in respecting your elders, which was also why Girl had to say, “Thank you Stepmother, you’re a good cook,” after every meal, even though she never meant it, not the good cook part for sure but not the thank you either, because it was Girl’s opinion that feeding the family was the role of the parents, and Girl knew Stepmother could be doing a better job. Food wasn’t love or art or something to take pride in in her house. Dinner was hamburger on a piece of whole wheat bread. It was a can of Veg-All, and Girl swore that she would never eat a square vegetable when she grew up. It was spaghetti with Ragu, and Girl never actually tasted a meatball until she was in high school and had a boyfriend with more money than her family had. Dinner at Girl’s house was bland and cheap and fast in a cold room on a Formica table, and she wasn’t allowed to wear her winter coat at the table.
She heard her mother calling her for dinner, but she pretended not to. Stepmother was making “campfire stew,” which was the grossest of all the things she made. Fried hamburger meat mixed in with rounded hunks of canned stewed tomatoes that looked like what Girl imagined a fertilized chicken egg would look like, if you cracked the wrong one open. Like a bloody egg sac. This was mixed in with Veg-All, like everything else. Sometimes Stepmother would give Girl a piece of whole wheat bread spread with margarine to dip into the stew, and that was better at least. But if they were low on bread, it was just the stew in her blue plastic bowl, the chunks of meat and vegetables sitting in a puddle of reddish-brown water. Mother called her again, and Girl could hear the edge to her voice, so she knew she’d pushed it as long as she was able. She wiped her dirty hands on the sides of her jeans and went inside.
“Stop making that noise with your spoon,” Stepmother said.
“What noise?” Girl asked. She already knew not to chew with her mouth open, and to keep a napkin on her lap, although it always slid off onto the linoleum floor and she mostly just wiped the grease from her fingers on her pant leg. She wasn’t yet old enough to be embarrassed about the permanent stains on the thighs of her jeans.
“You’re clinking your teeth with the spoon!” she said. Girl tried to open her mouth wider. “Stop it! I told you once …”
“I can’t eat without hitting my teeth with the spoon,” Girl argued. The spoon was big and it hit her back teeth every time. She wasn’t trying to do anything.
“Try harder,” Stepmother said. “I can do it, and so can you.” Girl’s mother didn’t say anything. Mother never said anything when Stepmother got in one of her moods, which was practically every night now. Girl tried as hard as she could to eat quietly, and kicked Brother under the table, but not hard. She didn’t want to hurt him, she just wanted him to pay attention to what an asshole Stepmother was being again. He just smiled evilly at her, though, because he was glad it was Girl getting yelled at this time instead of him.
Stepmother blew her nose into her napkin and looked at it, then threw the napkin in her empty bowl. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger back and forth on her eyebrows and looked at her watch. It had a pale gold face and a brown leather band. She never liked anything girly. She was just counting the hours she had to hold herself together until the kids went to bed. Only an hour and a half left to go.
Girl didn’t hate Stepmother, not then. But she knew something was different lately. When Stepmother laughed it had a franticness at the edge, but she didn’t laugh much anymore. She used to play the piano, and Girl and Brother would try to act out whatever form their stepmother called out: hot air balloons, a seed turning to a flower, a lion, a mouse. Stepmother used to
