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Laughter
My first grade teacher, Mrs. Harrison, warns me to stop laughing. She glares at me over her rimless glasses, points her index finger as if it was a toy gun, then folds her arms squarely across her chest. I look at my best friend, Joanie, with her short red hair and cocoa colored freckles. She snickers as she covers her face with our first reading book, I See Tip; a story about a golden collie. I am learning my first verbs: "run Tip run", "skip Tip", and I laugh with Joanie at the pictures of this large furry animal with a long pointed nose and a flurry of hair feathering down its neck, skipping alongside a smiling little girl with blond hair and blue eyes.
I wonder where Joanie hides her laughter when the teacher looks her way. Just the sight of her causes an eruption of giggles from somewhere in my tummy, shooting up my neck and out my mouth-like the sparklers we light on the Fourth of July or when we ride the roller coaster at Kiddieland.
How will I ever survive in school if I can't stop laughing? I close my eyes and concentrate on the smudges of poop on the gravel carpet in my parakeet's cage. I still want to laugh.
I think about the time Mommy yelled at Joanie and made her cry because she refused to eat the crust of a fried egg sandwich. I remember my dad's anger this morning because I didn't turn off a cartoon playing on our new television set. My arms still ache from his strong arms tugging on mine, as he dragged me over to the couch and positioned me on his lap, just right-my tummy and chest positioned over his thighs. He tells me how bad I am and warns me about a whipping I'm about to receive. I close my eyes and pretend I'm hugging Tip—feeling the softness of his hair against the side of my face.
I wear long sleeves today so Joanie won't see the redness on my arms-lines that look like stringy roots of a plant. I squirm around my chair trying not to feel the pain. I imagine what my butt looks like. I think it must be red with patches of purple and I'm glad no one sees it.
My giggles subside until I peek over at Joanie and she makes another funny face, wrinkling her nose and squinting her eyes as if she is blinded by unbearable sunlight. She contorts her face and her eyeballs look as if they might pop out of their sockets. Daddy's eyes look like that before he hits me. His nostrils widen while his face turns the color of beets. Joanie stretches the skin on her face in different positions-just to hear me laugh.
My laughter is loud-like my screams when Daddy runs after me. He lunges from behind and pulls down my pants while he shouts, "don't wiggle." My pajamas rip and I hear the sound of cloth tearing and leather against bare skin.
One day, when Daddy yelled out for me, I stuck a small pillow inside of my pajama pants. He turned me over on his lap, set his belt on the chair, and pulled out the pillow. I thought I heard him laughing, but I couldn't see his face. He still gave me a whipping.
Joanie turns and looks at me. Her book is open to a picture of Tip sitting on green grass, and she whispers a joke we both know about a pickle factory. The teacher's chalk makes funny sounds as she scrapes it along the blackboard. I stick my index fingers into my ears to cut off the grating noise. Joanie places her fingers in her gums and her mouth looks crooked while her lips grow fat and purple. I can't stop laughing.
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