Not Any Girl
A lazy summer day. A field. A
football.
What more could a group of
nine-year-old boys want?
Being an even number,
apparently.
"We'll have to have a team
with an extra player."
"No, we won't."
The first speaker looked at his
friend incredulously. On closer inspection, though, one could detect a trace of
insecurity also. Peter never spoke unless he had good reason, and if Tom had
been a twenty-nine rather than nine-year-old, he might have taken the hint that
insecurity provided him with by reasoning, "opposing for the fun of it is
not Pete's style. He's more the practical sort. Determines the different sides
of an issue, takes a good look at one, inspects a good look at the other,
considers the optional rest - and picks. That's that. It's not that the word
'but' isn't in his vocabulary, it's just that he can't conceive that anyone
would want to make use of it. Come to think of it, he doesn't use superfluous
language, period. He knows what he wants and patiently waits until the dunderheads
around him have finished the discussion. So for him to utter something that is,
at first glance, so blatantly in contradiction with the facts as this, is
totally out of character. He must have his reasons for it".
As it was, Tom said, "Yes,
we will".
Meaningful look accompanied by
silence.
"Okay, what do you know
that I don't?"
"My cousin Alex is staying
here for a few weeks. Came yesterday. Will be here in a couple of minutes. Had
to help my mum with something. Plays a wicked game of football, our Alex."
"Why didn't you say so? I
guess we can wait some more. But if he doesn't show up we're starting without
him!"
"You mean I've never told
you about my cousin Alex?"
"I didn't mean that,
but no, you haven't. Why?"
Peter would have answered this
in his usual down-to-earth manner. In this particular instance, his answer
would have had the impact of a brick falling down to earth from a ten-floor
building. Because boys will be boys. But at this moment, the front door of one
of the houses on the other side of the field opened, and out came cousin Alex.
Who ran across the field wearing a pink shirt and long hair in a ponytail.
And the brick became the entire
building. Because girls will definitely not be boys.
"No way."
"Why not?"
"That's a girl."
"Nah. That's Alex.
And she..."
"Is a girl."
"If you put it that
way."
"I just did."
"Hi guys!"
"Alex, this is Dave, and
Rob, and Mark, and Tom. Tom was just saying that..."
"I can't play, right?
Because I'm a girl?"
"Yeah."
"Idiot."
"Hey!"
"Well if you're going to be
stupid, you are."
"Girls can't play football.
They're slow and they stink at it. My sister Kate won't even be goalie because
she might chip a nail, and girls whine!"
"Well I can. And I'm fast.
And I'm not your sister Kate. And I'm not going to fight you over this."
"Well duh, you're a girl.
They're chicken. Ow! My foot!"
"That's for saying that I'm
chicken."
"You just said you weren't
going to fight!"
And the bickering continued. One
might almost forget there were four more boys in the vicinity. Rest assured,
three of those four boys had almost forgotten this themselves. They were
staring open-mouthed at the exchange, thinking that while Alex certainly was
a girl, she certainly was not like any girls they knew. The fourth just grinned.
He'd seen this before and knew how it was going to end. Alex would convince Tom
to take ten penalties with her being goalie. She'd stop at least six. And then
she'd go off and play in front.
He was partially right. Tom
finally said that fine, Alex could play. But in the goal. And not
on his team. Which was rather stupid, seeing that he'd just encountered her
skills personally. But Peter thought it best not to argue.
"No! Peter, look out!"
The sound of breaking glass
indicated that this warning would, really, have done a good thing by coming a
bit sooner.
There is really not a silence
quite like the silence that booms into existence after the sound of something
breaking. Especially if the object breaking is of one of Mr. Peabody's windows.
But as is the way of silences, this also gave way. For a resounding
"Whooooooooo did
this?"
Mr. Peabody in a good
mood was not to be trifled with, as every single one of his current targets had
experienced either first or second hand. Mr. Peabody at this time gave every
impression of being a tank on the rampage, from intimidation factor to his
slightly mossy green colour. The effect was slightly spoiled by Mr. Peabody
carrying a football and wearing slippers, though. As by unspoken agreement, six
bodies made a single front, for it did not appear that Mr. Peabody was in a good
mood.
After coming to a full stop, Mr.
Peabody seized up his opponents. Thoroughly. Then he came to a decision.
"Nice try, boys. No single-fronting me. Who?"
With a silent call for help, Peter
opened his mouth.
"Me, sir," came a
small voice from the other side of the line.
It appeared Peter's call had
been answered. By his cousin.
"And you are?"
"Alexandra O'Neill,
sir."
"From the O'Neills down the
street, I gather."
"Yes, sir. They're my aunt
and uncle."
"I'll take it up with them.
What were you doing playing football anyway? Not a game for girls."
"I'm not terribly good,
sir, but they needed a sixth."
"So I gather. Well. Off you
all go then, here's your ball. Peter, is your father at home?"
"My mother is, sir."
"I'll go talk to her, then,
and you, young lady," accompanied by another stern look, "will
be hearing from your parents, I trust. Here's your ball." And off he
steamed.
Peter let out a sigh.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Now let's
play."
With that, positions on the
field were taken again. But Tom wouldn't let it go that easily. "Now hang
on. How did you do that? When I broke Mrs. Cleat's window last year he talked
her into keeping my ball for a week!"
"I know. Peter told me. I
figured I stood a better chance. Anyway," she shrugged, "my mum and
dad know that accidents happen. To me, mostly."
"You can play on my team
next time. And you don't have to be the goalie if you don't want to. You're
better at it than Dave, though. And er..."
"Yes?"
"You're not a girl."
"Huh?"
"You're a brick."
© 2004 Copyright held by the
author.