a problem child | Jessica M. Scott
When I was five, I tried to kill my sister Lacey the weekend before Thanksgiving. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. The four of us were sitting in the Saturday afternoon traffic on Highway 395 South heading toward Reno. My father was driving, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Next to him, my mother was flipping through coupons for our shopping trip. I was sitting behind my mother. My seatbelt was on, but I was rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the radio. I’d like to think it was something badass—like AC/DC. “Can we get Rice Krispies at the store?” “Cheer-os,” Lacey shouted. My mother sighed. “We’re not buying a ton of cereal that’s going to get stale. Everyone can eat Cheerios.” My father and I grumbled. Across the backseat, Lacey was strapped into her car seat. She was two. Her hair was dark blonde, a blue headband holding back her curls. Her tiny sneakers drummed against the plastic edge of the car seat in counterpoint. I took a long, hard look at Lacey. Couldn’t we leave her by the side of the road? There were plenty of other cars; surely someone would pick her up. Maybe a family who needed a kid that didn’t like applesauce, who forced me to eat nothing but Cheerios and cried when all I wanted was to sing along to Sleeping Beauty and shuffle waltz with my imaginary prince in the privacy of my half of the bedroom. The traffic cleared up. We started moving, passing cars in the right lane. My father caught my eye in the rearview mirror and winked. “How you doing back there?” “Good, Daddy,” I answered, giving him my sweetest smile. No one asked me if I wanted a sister. I liked playing by myself. I was perfectly content to read and listen to records on my Cinderella record player. But I couldn’t do that when Lacey was sleeping. Or when she was fussy because it made her upset. I had to share my Barbies, even though she constantly chewed on their heads. Her sticky slobber matted their hair, and her teeth pitted their faces with acne scars. 32 | story week reader 2013
My mother asked my father a question—the perfect distraction. I eased off my seatbelt. Scrambling across the seat, I released the seat belt holding Lacey’s car seat in place. Lacey giggled, smacking at my hands. The time to play pattycake had passed. I yanked up the door lock. The chrome handle was cool in my palm. With a pop, the door cracked open. A piercing hiss of air filled the back seat. My mother twisted around and screamed, “Pull over! Pull the fucking car over!” Tangled in her belt straps, she lunged for the car seat. I was thrown back against the far door as my father slammed the brakes and stopped on the side of the freeway. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. My mother tore off her belt and climbed into the back. The hazard lights were ticking out of time with the radio. She got the door closed and relocked it. Right on cue, Lacey burst into tears as my mother got the car seat resettled. “What is the matter with you? Your sister could have died!” “I—I don’t know. I just thought—” I stammered. I didn’t know how to explain that I just wanted peace and my toys and my cereal and for everyone to stop fussing over the stupid baby all the time. “No, you weren’t thinking at all,” my father spat. “Get up here now.” I clamored into the passenger seat. Usually, it was a privilege to sit up there and be the co-pilot. This time, I felt sick. He buckled me in before looking at my mother then switched off the hazard lights and pulled back into traffic. The very next day, my father traded in that four-door Mazda for a two-door Chevy Blazer. That was the only time I pulled a stunt quite like that. So what if a few years later Lacey was forced to get a pixie hair cut the day before school pictures because I snipped her bangs off to a quarter of an inch, or if she threw up for an entire afternoon because I convinced her the mud pies I’d made were, in fact, chocolate? But we didn’t get another four-door car until I was sixteen years old.
story week reader 2013| 33