Lisa Browder

It don’t take no schooling to be smart. It takes . . . well, I don’t know what it takes. But I know I done just fine without it. Prob’ly cause I’ve always been a bit of a scamp. Or so I’ve been called.

Anyway, the whole trouble happened about three years back. At the time, I was close to eight years old. It was the week before New Year’s, almost a new decade. I weren’t exactly sure what that would mean cause my whole life I’d only known the 40s. Nineteen-fifty seemed kinda important, like there might be all kinds of new adventures. And when Daddy got hisself fired, I knew I was right. That’s when we drifted the houseboat down the coast to Matamoros, Mexico. Daddy found work serving drinks at a local bar and Mommy washed the glasses in back.

I discovered tacos. Clemmie discovered Juan. The two of us wanted to stay forever, but three months later, Mommy declared that Padre Island was home so . . . home we went.

We hadn’t been back more than a week when Daddy stumbled in, way after bedtime. He fumbled around in the kitchen, clanging pots, dropping stuff and cussing up a storm. It weren’t long before the whole kitchen caught fire. By the time the smell woke us up, it was hazy inside and hard to breathe. Mommy made us grab our coats and run before the gangplank caught fire. She stayed to find Daddy.

You’d think a boat wouldn’t burn in all that water, but it did. Hell, you’d think Mommy and Daddy could swim, but they couldn’t. I still hear sizzling water, like bacon in a hot pan. Anyway, I don’t really talk about it.

We had nowhere to go so we chose the park, but that’s exactly where the Foster Care people came looking first. One guy nabbed me right off the bench. He pinned me down and shouted to the woman he’d caught one of the ragamuffin Anderson girls, a newbie for the orphanage. Clemmie wasn’t there, so I told them I was the only one made it off the boat. They bundled me up and carted me off.

I guess Clemmie was nearby though and saw them grab me. She knew where they took me cause there was only one orphanage on Padre Island. We’d gone there to visit Carolyn when her mother dropped her off along with her brother and three sisters . . . then disappeared. Never came back. About a month later, Carolyn went to stay with her grandma in Mississippi. We had no cause to visit after that, but we remembered the place – gray stone, mossy, cold.

Although I hated the park cause it was damp and foggy, I hated the orphanage more. It was warmer than the park, that’s for sure, but the other kids made fun of me, called me a river rat. They said my overalls were too short, my haircut was crooked and if you joined up the freckles on my face, you could see Texas. Ha ha.

The big folks were just as stupid as the kids. They made me talk to Sue Ellen, a fat lady with two chins and yellow teeth who was supposed to figure out if I was gonna be okay. She scrunched up her eyebrows so she looked real concerned and said not to worry, they’d find a loving family for me. Boy, did they screw that up. Didn’t take ’em long though. I learned from the files on the Matron’s desk (she never locked the door at night), these people wanted a girl – redhead, between seven and nine years old. Dead ringer, I reckoned.

They stuck me in that snooty home with Miss Mary and Barnaby. His friends called him Bernie (don’t know how they got that from Barnaby), but I called him Barnacle . . . behind his back. Always kinda testy, he was. He told me to call him “Father” – sort of arm’s length away from personal. And arm’s length was just fine by me; get too close and he smelled like an ashtray.

Barnacle was the uppity one. Fancied hisself high society cause he had a bunch of money and a big house. I overheard more than once how Miss Mary and her “spells” disgusted him. Pitied me cause my parents had been poor and we’d lived on a old crusty houseboat, but I loved that boat. We could always drift away from trouble, seemed like. Not any more.

Miss Mary, on the other hand, insisted on “Mommy.” Do I seem like a “Mommy” person to you? She fancied herself real hands-on and lovey-dovey but I only saw her once in a blue moon – usually when the pills wore off and she remembered I was there. Why she insisted on me in the first place, I’ll never know.

Meanwhile, the only thing I cared about was that Clemmie knew where I was. I’d copied the address for her before I left the orphanage. It was only about ten minutes from the park, an easy walk. She shinnied up the tree outside my window every night. We’d plan stuff while she ate whatever I’d filched from dinner. I wanted to sneak off straightaway but she told me to stay put. She was six years older than me and way smarter. She said I should hunt around cause rich folks always had money hidden away. Once I found it, we could go to Mexico and no one would care. No one would come looking for us. I liked the sound of that.

So I started snooping. I had lots of opportunities, too. Barnacle was gone all day (sometimes all night). Miss Mary, a skinny little twig with a soft constitution and a mind to match, spent most days sleeping all twisted up under those rose-scented sheets and the plump, purple blanket. She clutched a beat-up teddy bear with a stained pink bow around its neck. The days she came downstairs were mostly just to go out for groceries – I guess so everyone knew she was still alive. I’d have to pinch my nose as the dense cloud of Chanel wafted down the carpeted steps. She was all dolled up in matching gloves, purse, shoes and pillbox hat. Never invited me along.

But while she was gone, I searched rooms. I started with Miss Mary’s. Nothing.

Next I tackled Barnacle’s. Nothing.

I ended up downstairs in the library with the slippery, polished wood floors, leather chairs, and rugs so fluffy I disappeared when I lay down in the middle. The desk seemed the most likely spot to hide stuff and, sure enough, I found a bottle of whiskey tucked in the back of a bottom drawer. I won’t be tasting that stuff again. Nasty.

Then I found the little built-in hidey-hole underneath the desktop. Lordy, Lordy! It had nudies of the Foster Care woman from the park. She dropped by from time to time to check on me. She always brought cookies.

Seems like it ain’t all she brought.

There were about a dozen pictures, and she didn’t have nary a stitch of clothes on. Jesus, I never wanted to grow up to look like that. Who knew private parts could be so ugly? Ugh. I stacked the photos on the desk and moved on.

What else could I find? Where would I hide money if I were Barnacle? I eyed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. For sure it would have to be easy to reach. He wasn’t gonna put hisself out and do something physical like climb on a ladder.

I plopped down on the ottoman (fancy word for stuffed footstool) and stared up at the shelves, at all them dusty books. There had to be something there. What didn’t fit? My eyes wandered along the rows and finally I spied it. A little black notebook, not a speck of dust on it. It was crammed in between the fat, olive green book and the dark blue one with the cracked, spiderwebbed spine. It was shoved in so you almost didn’t see it.

Almost.

I couldn’t quite reach it but, heck, I could move a footstool just as good as the next person. I scooched it over, balanced on top, and tugged at that little notebook. It was scrunched in there kinda tight but I pried it out. And what do you know? Barnacle had sliced out the innards and put a bunch of money in there. I counted $20,000 (well, I wasn’t actually sure if it was $2,000 or $20,000 cause all the zeros confused me). Anyhow, now me and Clemmie could go to Mexico. We’d be free from all the grown-ups. No Foster Care people would likely come snooping.

Somehow, I was so busy imagining my new life (and the tacos) that I missed Miss Mary slinking in the door. I quick-like wadded up the money and stuffed it in my pocket when the front door slammed shut. I crammed the notebook back in the slot. But I scampered down too fast and that’s when things went south. The ottoman caught on the rug and tipped over, hitting the desk chair. Miss Mary ran in, all panicky, not cause I might be hurt, but to make sure I hadn’t scratched the floors.

She saw the nudies I’d forgot to put back in the hidey-hole and froze. Her hand flew up to her pearls. Red spots blazed on her cheeks. She plopped down so hard in the desk chair I swear it rattled her teeth. She spread the pictures across the desk. When she recognized Miss Foster Care, she gasped.

Right away, she banished me upstairs. It was eerily quiet. About an hour later, I heard Barnacle stumble in. Sounded like he was drunk as a skunk. Miss Mary hadn’t moved an inch from behind the desk, just waiting spider-like. I scrunched up against the door to listen. Boy, the yelling was fierce. They called each other all kinds of names – bastard, bitch, boozer.

The suddenly I heard my name. I cracked open the door. Barnacle told her to get rid of “the stupid kid.” He yelled he was leaving and he wouldn’t be back. He told Miss Mary she’d never be able to support me on her own and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna pay to support “that scamp.” Said you couldn’t knock “stupid” outta me with a sledgehammer.

I was a little put out, I have to tell you. Who put up with who? I was the one forced into shiny Mary Jane shoes and frilly, starched petticoats. And let me tell you: pink bows and red hair don’t go together, but I played along. I hadn’t caused no trouble. Well not much anyhow.

I heard Barnacle teeter out the door, slamming it behind him. Miss Mary “retired” to her room (we all know what that meant). I sat against the bedroom door, chewing my nail. Those words – “get rid of” – scared me. Get rid of me how exactly?

What should I do? I didn’t want to go back to the orphanage; I didn’t want to live with Miss Mary; and I didn’t want to sleep on a park bench. It was important to get out right fast before Barnacle discovered the money was missing. What, I wondered, would Clemmie do?

Well what happened, you ask? Here we are three years later. I’m all growed up now – I’ll be eleven next week and . . .

Oh, hold on a second.

“Excuse me. Waiter? Uno mas Coca Cola, por favor.”

Read more: The Scamp