Greentree School

Eight years old, they scramble from the school bus bickering and shoving like a bitter old couple. The year is 1965, but could just as easily be the year before or the year before that—my Lizzie and Garth Emmons have been archenemies part-time and soul mates in the balance, from the day the Emmons moved in next door. Now our five-year old Clayton rides the bus, too, compounding the matter.
        Swaying on the porch swing, singing Itsy-Bitsy Spider with Regina, our vivid four-year old in the bright yellow tutu she picked out yesterday at the thrift shop, I eye the three troublemakers and try to imagine what's agitating them today. Every afternoon something different. Thoughts of Regina getting in on the act next year grab me by the throat.
        Garth lunges across the yard to his mother and buries his face in her belly. I'm 32, five years older than Marsha Emmons, but she's so overweight she looks older. She circles Garth's back with one hand and waves to me with the other. Ignored, their insane terrier Missy yaps and leaps in frenzied circles.
        One arm around Clayton, I reach for Lizzie, but she shrugs me off. The screen door slams; a moment later, TV blasts from the kitchen. “Turn it down, Liz!” I yell, and soften my tone to Clayton. “So how'd it go today, honey?”
        He snuffles. Wedged on the swing between Regina and me, he bellyaches about his teacher making fun of him for messing up his margins. Instantly inflamed, I flash back to kindergarten when my teacher mocked one of my paintings, degrading me in front of the whole class for coloring past the lines. As if the artist's goal was to stay within boundaries!

        Marsha waits with us next day under the old oak tree but the school bus passes without stopping. “Not again,” Marsha sighs, resigned. Regina totters after the two of us, finally abandoning my old high heels for the sake of expediency.
        Nothing much is said on the drive to the elementary school. We don't need to talk; we make the trip so often that words get in the way by now. Marsha must have just had her nails done. Her hands on the wheel look elegant, tipped by jewels. Marsha's entire allotment of grace seems to have been channeled into her hands. Admiring how they look, I feel a tad chagrined. Let's face it: Tending of the Hands is probably something I don't value like I should.

        At 3rd grade's first Open House last month, Lizzie's homeroom teacher Miss McKay commented, “Elizabeth has a high I.Q.,” with a tone suggesting the eight-year old read ninth grade level out of spite.

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