Picture this: summer of 1975. A Sunday, which means church. My dress hangs loose from my body, and somehow still itches me. My brothers, Harry and James, stand on either side of me, bored expressions on their placid faces. My mother shouts; she always got very into the church songs. The ribbons she tied in my hair pull at my scalp. My father grips the bible and absentmindedly rubs the worn pages between his fingers, so it makes a nearly silent sound. I'm eleven, and aware of the boy behind me staring at the back of my head.
Afterwards, we break for snacks and drinks. Putrid sandwiches are stacked, freezer burn is melting off juice boxes onto the table cloth, sweat stains begin to peak their way onto men's shirts. My brothers are off with the older boys; somebody was smart enough to bring a soccer ball, and I watched from the sidelines as they played, wondering why my church insisted on doing this every year.
A figure comes up behind me; I think it's James, and I shoo him away. I was mad at him then because he had tattled on me, or something like that. "Sorry. I was just tryna watch the game." The timid voice replies, not at all like James. I turn and a boy my age stares back at me, blue eyes wide and nervous. His fiery red hair shines in the sun, short and his bangs too straight.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were my brother! Here, come, you can watch." I patted the grass beside me and he sat, with an awkward, forced amount of room between us. He plucked the grass with his fingers, as bored as I. After the silence grew uncomfortable, I pointed to two soccer players, running around the field.
"That's my oldest brother, Harry," The red-headed kid followed my gaze, "And my other older brother, James. They're great soccer players, but don't tell James that, because I'm mad at him right now."
"I won't." The kid promised. It lingered for a second before he shyly licked his lips and continued, "What's your name?"
"Brandy Murphy. What's yours?"
"William Bailey."
"Nice to meet you-"
"WILLIAM!" A man interrupted our viewing of the game. Red hot and angry, he seized William, who followed mutely with his head hung low. Defensively, I crossed my arms, which had the man glaring me down. He opened his mouth to speak, but my saving grace interrupted him, "Hey, what's happening?"
Harry had jogged over, sensing the face-off, standing protectively above me. He held his chin high as he faced the man; he was always very sure of himself.
The man said nothing, turning away and cursing underneath his breath. I watched as William retreated, arm held in the fist of the man. I didn't know the man, but I didn't like him very much, but I liked William. From time to time, over the next few days, I would wonder about him, hoping I'd be able to see him again.
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