What would Junie B. Jones do?, Barry Rachin [best memoirs of all time .txt] 📗
- Author: Barry Rachin
Book online «What would Junie B. Jones do?, Barry Rachin [best memoirs of all time .txt] 📗». Author Barry Rachin
Mitzi's mother, a short dumpy woman with a mottled complexion similar to her daughter’s, cracked the door open. She wouldn't let Benjamin's mother in, but listened with a constipated expression, her eyes compressed to tiny slits and lips pinched so tight that the crow's feet on the side of her head stood out in bold relief. When Benjamin's mother finished speaking her mind, Mrs. Brookfield shouted, "Get the hell off my property!" But Mrs. Carter didn't budge. Mitzi's mother started yelling and hollering all the louder, but the squat woman didn't seem to be making a whole lot of sense that Benjamin could wrap his eight year old brain around. Mrs. Brookfield was just like the daughter. Or was it the other way around?
The dumpy woman made a motion to slam the door shut, but Mrs. Carter, who had a firm grasp on the doorknob, positioned her right leg against the molding and, using the foot for leverage, muscled the door wide open. Mrs. Brookfield collapsed in a heap, sprawling backwards on the living room rug. Stepping over the threshold into the home, the uninvited guest shut the door behind her. "Aw crap!" Benjamin muttered.
Five minutes passed. Things got very quiet. The front door opened and Mrs. Carter emerged. Before his mother reached the car, Benjamin could hear Mrs. Brookfield screaming hysterically. She let loose with an endless barrage of profanities, and then a second, childish voice began sobbing inconsolably, bellowing and begging for mercy.
"Every blade of grass has its own angel," Mrs. Carter leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. "Such a lovely metaphor!" The bedlam at the Brookfield residence continued unabated. Mrs. Carter turned the ignition key and put the car in gear. "Every blade of grass,” she repeated like a soothing mantra, “has its own angel who leans over it and whispers, 'Grow!' Grow!'" At the end of the street, the woman pulled up at a stop sign and looked both ways. "For the next ten years or so, I'm going to be your personal angel. How's that sound?"
Benjamin nodded his head vigorously. "Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot!"
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The dumpy woman made a motion to slam the door shut, but Mrs. Carter, who had a firm grasp on the doorknob, positioned her right leg against the molding and, using the foot for leverage, muscled the door wide open. Mrs. Brookfield collapsed in a heap, sprawling backwards on the living room rug. Stepping over the threshold into the home, the uninvited guest shut the door behind her. "Aw crap!" Benjamin muttered.
Five minutes passed. Things got very quiet. The front door opened and Mrs. Carter emerged. Before his mother reached the car, Benjamin could hear Mrs. Brookfield screaming hysterically. She let loose with an endless barrage of profanities, and then a second, childish voice began sobbing inconsolably, bellowing and begging for mercy.
"Every blade of grass has its own angel," Mrs. Carter leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. "Such a lovely metaphor!" The bedlam at the Brookfield residence continued unabated. Mrs. Carter turned the ignition key and put the car in gear. "Every blade of grass,” she repeated like a soothing mantra, “has its own angel who leans over it and whispers, 'Grow!' Grow!'" At the end of the street, the woman pulled up at a stop sign and looked both ways. "For the next ten years or so, I'm going to be your personal angel. How's that sound?"
Benjamin nodded his head vigorously. "Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot!"
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Publication Date: 09-09-2010
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