LJ Idol Week 1
It's hard being seven and a crybaby. I hated the way that wordless rage would build up inside me and overflow in pitiful, silent tears, but I couldn't control it. My big sister knew it, and she knew all the ways to make it happen. Taunting, teasing, relentless pestering; I'd try to ignore it, but I'd always get mad. I'd get mad and the tears would come.
I was a coward, too. I was afraid to try new things, afraid to take the risks that more co-ordinated children breezed through. It was just another thing for my sister to tease me about. "Cry-baby four-eyes! Chicken chicken chicken!"
She never got in trouble for it, though. Somehow, she always sensed when someone was coming, in time to move innocently away.
I was a bookworm, and an easy target when I was reading; in another world, I wouldn't notice as she'd sneak up to me. Her favourite trick was to push the book so it would smack me in the face. Otherwise, she'd snatch it away and hold it out of reach, laughing and laughing with her stupid big mouth.
But I grew. I grew faster than her, and I caught up. One day she grabbed my book and held it high, but as I stood up I could see the realisation in her eyes that this trick wasn't going to work any more.
She ran. I followed. I'd had enough. I was tall enough now that I could almost keep up as she ran outside. She reached the end of the driveway and spun to face me. The road was busy, and we weren't allowed near it. As I reached to grab her arm, she looked around in desperation. She hurled my book onto the road. It flipped open and skidded across the tarseal, its pages crumpling and folding as it came to rest near the centre line.
Those damnable tears welled up again. I was mad, madder than I'd ever been. She knew it, too. I could see the faintest twinge of fear in her eyes, but as always she covered it with belligerence and bravado.
"Go and get it, then!" she taunted. "Or are you too scared?"
Too angry to speak, I shoved her. She stumbled a tiny step backwards, and started laughing at me. I turned away, looking frantically for my book through tear-fogged glasses. Mum would be furious if it got ruined. What if a car ran over it? I'd be in so much trouble. But if she saw me go on the road... and what if I got hit by a car?
I teetered on the curb, weighing up my anxieties. A chortled "Chicken chicken chicken!" decided me. I judged the traffic, scrambled to the centre and scooped my book up.
It was anger that propelled me to throw the book at her. It was adrenaline that guided my aim. She crumpled to the ground, clutching the bridge of her nose.
"What- what on earth is going on here?" It was Mum. Uh-oh. "Why were you on the road?"
My tears dried on my cheeks as my rage ebbed away, replaced by a feeling that could only be called guilty success. "Because I'm not a chicken."
I was a coward, too. I was afraid to try new things, afraid to take the risks that more co-ordinated children breezed through. It was just another thing for my sister to tease me about. "Cry-baby four-eyes! Chicken chicken chicken!"
She never got in trouble for it, though. Somehow, she always sensed when someone was coming, in time to move innocently away.
I was a bookworm, and an easy target when I was reading; in another world, I wouldn't notice as she'd sneak up to me. Her favourite trick was to push the book so it would smack me in the face. Otherwise, she'd snatch it away and hold it out of reach, laughing and laughing with her stupid big mouth.
But I grew. I grew faster than her, and I caught up. One day she grabbed my book and held it high, but as I stood up I could see the realisation in her eyes that this trick wasn't going to work any more.
She ran. I followed. I'd had enough. I was tall enough now that I could almost keep up as she ran outside. She reached the end of the driveway and spun to face me. The road was busy, and we weren't allowed near it. As I reached to grab her arm, she looked around in desperation. She hurled my book onto the road. It flipped open and skidded across the tarseal, its pages crumpling and folding as it came to rest near the centre line.
Those damnable tears welled up again. I was mad, madder than I'd ever been. She knew it, too. I could see the faintest twinge of fear in her eyes, but as always she covered it with belligerence and bravado.
"Go and get it, then!" she taunted. "Or are you too scared?"
Too angry to speak, I shoved her. She stumbled a tiny step backwards, and started laughing at me. I turned away, looking frantically for my book through tear-fogged glasses. Mum would be furious if it got ruined. What if a car ran over it? I'd be in so much trouble. But if she saw me go on the road... and what if I got hit by a car?
I teetered on the curb, weighing up my anxieties. A chortled "Chicken chicken chicken!" decided me. I judged the traffic, scrambled to the centre and scooped my book up.
It was anger that propelled me to throw the book at her. It was adrenaline that guided my aim. She crumpled to the ground, clutching the bridge of her nose.
"What- what on earth is going on here?" It was Mum. Uh-oh. "Why were you on the road?"
My tears dried on my cheeks as my rage ebbed away, replaced by a feeling that could only be called guilty success. "Because I'm not a chicken."