I mentioned before that when I was a little girl I loved to read. Sometimes I got so into a book, I had to be pried out of it.
“Just one more sentence,” I said to my teacher, Mrs. Insulman. Sometimes us kids called her Mrs. Insulated Underwear. That was mean, but sometimes Mrs. Insulman was mean, too, especially to the boys. She grabbed them by the tiny hairs at the bottom of their crew-cuts, right down by the neck where it’s super-tender, and she yanked those boys wherever she wanted them to go. I had my hair pulled before, but never by the short hairs like that. Still, I could feel that pain just piercing right through to my brain when I saw her do it.
“Okay, just one more sentence.” Mrs. Insulman went back to correcting papers. All the other kids already went out to recess. I sneaked and finished the paragraph, then that page just begged me to finish.
“Go to recess,” Mrs. Insulman looked at me over the top of her glasses. He eyes were cloudy and yellow looking around the edges and the left eye could look right at me, while the right eye was still grading papers. Just looking at those eyes was a tinsy bit scary.
“Just a second. I gotta finish the thought.” I knew I was pushing it, but that book was so darned good; one word just led to another sentence, then the paragraph needed to be finished, and next thing I knew, I was turning a page. I tried to read faster, so Mrs. Insulman wouldn’t notice.
“Get outside and play. You need to get the stink off of you.” Mrs. Insulman had her ruler in her hand as she started to get up, so I put my bookmark in, slammed the book shut and headed for the door. No one ever told me I had to get the stink off me. That was meaner than all get out. Still and all, I sure didn’t want my short hairs pulled, like she was always doing to those boys, so I got the heck outa there.
Nowadays, I still have a little problem letting go of a book or a project and coming up for air. So if you don’t see any new posts for a while, it’s because I’m working on a new project: I’m getting 2,000 words together to enter a writing contest. Perhaps one day you will see Once A Little Girl in your local bookstore. Keep your fingers crossed for me, and say a little prayer. Just a little one, no sense in getting the lines clogged with my little wishes, when there’s much more pressing prayers for God to answer, like World Hunger, Peace, and Unemployment, oh and Football games.