Never Worked

Chapter 2

September, Eastern Shore, MD 2000

"No, I don't like him!" I screamed at the top of my lungs at DeAndre, he was such an annoying older brother. I wanted to punch him.

"Yes, you do!" he yelled just as loud, pointing to me. Yep, I really, really wanted to punch him.

"Ouch! Mom! Dreah punched me!" he screamed. Snitch.

"Because I don't like him!" I did like him. A lot. But he didn't know that for sure, and he certainly didn't have to scream it for everyone to hear in the church vestibule. His name was Mitchell and he was so cool and older, I mean he was like 12! I had no chance, and I definitely knew he wouldn't like an 8-year-old like me. I wasn't even technically eight yet, so I denied as strongly as my almost eight-year-old attitude would allow.

Taking my punch as a sign that we should fight it out right here, he hit me back, and then it was on. We continued until my mom and grandmother had to pull us away from each other. Hand slaps and waving fingers of shame inducing disappointment followed. "DeAndre stop hitting your sister, she's a girl, boys don't hit girls, she could get hurt. You're older, you should know better." My mother said. They walked away to do their separate jobs for Bethal Baptist's betterment and left to DeAndre's defense of "She's not a girl, she annoying!" He seemed to forget that this was all his fault in the first place.

"This was all your fault in the first place!" I crossed my boney arms, filled with all the aggression a pre-preteen could muster.

"Why? Because you looooovvve him?!" He teased.

Okay, now I was angry. Just as I went to tackle this overgrown toddler to the ground, my grandmother came back into view and grabbed my hand to usher me to our usual seat on the left hand of the sanctuary. I turned my head to my brother and gave him a look with the promise of retribution as we walked up the aisle.

I didn't know what love was, all I knew was when I looked at Mitchell he wasn't just another boy. He was, Mitchell. In my almost eight-year-old mind, everything he did was just better. He smiled better, he spoke better, he definitely looked better, and I always found myself looking at him. Even at eight I knew he was special, and no matter how many times I tried to convince myself to forget him because he would never want me, I couldn't help it.

He was this gangly little twelve year old caramel skin colored boy who just always held my attention no matter where he was. I only ever really saw him in church though our families knew each other for years. Hence my older brother's desire to taunt me in the house of God of all places.

I took out the loose leaf paper my grandmother had given me to doodle on during service and began my next masterpiece. It only took me a few moments to look up and seek out the source of my fascination, I looked to my right and saw the back of his head as he was talking to his mom. That was all I needed, just a glimpse of him, even if it was the back of his head. I stared as long as I could without drawing too much attention and then went back to my own little Picasso.