Any second, I thought as I ran to the front window. Ope, there they were. Sara, skipping to the front door with her arms full of blocks, and Dan, swishing his wooden spoon in the air like a lightsaber. I looked down at my Barbie watch. 4:29 P.M. Only a minute late this time. They’re doing better.
“Good, they didn’t forget their instruments,” Hank, my brother, said, peeping over my shoulder.
“I told ‘em I’d kick ‘em out of the band if they forgot again,” I muttered. “Where’s yours?”
Hank widened his eyes. “Oops!” He ran into the kitchen. I could hear the clanking and slamming as he opened and closed cupboards, looking for his pots and pans.
“And wipe off your face!” I yelled. “Yuh got spaghetti sauce all over. How are we ever gonna be professionals?”
Knock knock knock knock knock knock… Dan and Sara. They would never stop til’ I opened the door. Knock knock knock…
“Yuh ready, yuh weirdos?” I said, opening the door.
They ran in the house and immediately began to set up their spots on the living room floor.
“We’re practicing in the basement today,” I said. “Mom’s still asleep. She got home late last night.”
“Ugh!” Sara stopped looking at her blocks and sniffed the air. “Smells like smoke again. Is your Mom eating cigarettes for good?”
“Shut it, Sara.” I pointed my fairy wand microphone at her. “Let’s go downstairs.”
            We walked down into the unfinished basement, looking for a spot without screwdrivers or any pink insulation falling from the ceilings. Dan examined his wooden spoon. He took out his pocket knife and filed down the rough edges. Sara stacked her blocks into place—red, blue, green, red, blue, green—and folded her arms when she was done. Hank took out his two spatulas from under his shirt and banged on the pots and pans. When one sounded off, he picked up the pan and cleaned off the edges.
“Let’s start with the chorus,” Dan said. “That’s my favorite part.”
“Mine too,” Hank said. They high-fived.
Uh 1, uh 2, uh 1, 2, 3…
Dead dead Dadda and a half dead Mama
Skippin’ to church with muh big-head brotha.
Dead dead Dadda and a half dead Mama
Eatin’ hot shit in a pot fulla butta.
“Hot shit in butta!” Hank and Dan burst into laughter, rolling on the carpet and banging their instruments on the floor. “Hot… Shit!” Laugh, laugh, laugh, “with… Butta!” Sara and I grinned, but kept our composure. This was serious business, our band. And this was gonna be a hit. Only Mom wouldn’t like it. She doesn’t like the S-word.

1 Comment


  1. You’re writing fiction. Wahooh!

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