Incommunicado

Incommunicado — page 3
INCOMMUNICADO the only thing worst than being the poorest kid in town is being the poorest kid in the poorest town Number two never wear anything to school your mother buys at a church rummage sale In a town like ours someone’s bound to recognize it That was in the fall of 1938 more than three years ago and I can still hear the laughter after I left that cafeteria and walked down the hall to my classroom where I grabbed my coat also second-hand and rode my bike home I can still feel the sting of the rain on my steaming face I think the whole town of Sea Park Oregon population 542 is still laughing about it Today I’m a twelve-year-old seventh grader stuck smack-dab between being that skinny dress-less girl and a half-grown lady-in-waitin That’s what my oh-so Southern mother calls it That’s me a lady-in-waitin and I don’t even know what I’m waitin for Mom does though She also calls this change-over thing pooooo berty Yes that’s what she called it when I got the facts of life lecture pooooo-berty Sounds more like what you’d name a dang lap dog Anyway pooooo-berty and me are on a first-name basis The curse pimples greasy hair these bumpy chesty things and all So far twelve is a raw deal I fight it sometimes this whole pooooo-berty thing Sometimes I can’t wait to grow up and sometimes I just want to stay a kid And that back and forth tug-of-war is kind of the reason I am where I am now sitting in Sheriff 3