shanmonster | Dec. 30th, 2008

Carla was born years after all her other brothers and sisters had grown up and left the house. She was a total surprise, her mother's last hurrah before menopause struck.

We lived in a trailer park in a pine valley far up in the Rockies. The trees loomed high all around, leaning in over our homes. Every few hours, they'd shake as a CP freight train passed by, and pine cones and needles, stirred by the vibrations, sifted onto the ground. We kept our collie tied at all times lest he wander out onto the tracks.

Carla was mean, and had a dog as mean as herself. His name was Patches, and he was a cocker spaniel. Both Patches and Carla put on a good face around grown-ups. She'd smile sweetly, and he'd wag his tail, but when the adults turned their backs, they turned into bullies. She punched and bit me when I wouldn't do things her way, and Patches waited until my collie was tangled up in his rope, then would sneak up behind and bite his neck and head.

I didn't like Carla, but because she was the only kid close to me in age, she was my friend. I didn't like Carla, and I didn't like her little dog, either.

One day, shortly after I'd moved there, Carla and I pretended to be horses, and we pranced, snorted, and whinnied our way deeper into the woods. She stopped prancing all of a sudden, and squatted a little, making farting noises.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Pooping like a horse."

"Horses don't have to stop to poop. Only to pee."

Carla shook her head. "Of course they have to stop to poop."

"You're wrong," I said. "My horses pooped all the time while they were pulling wagons."

"Nuh-uh," she said, and pulled my hair suddenly.

I scowled, but didn't hit her back. I turned away from her and spied something sticking out from under some brown pine needles. I walked over and swept the needles aside, and there on the ground I saw a waterlogged magazine. It was called Sex to Sexty and had a cartoon of a woman with giant boobs on the cover.

I'd seen one of these magazines a couple of years before on the ferry ride from Cape Breton to Newfoundland. The magazines were high up out of my reach, and had cartoons of mostly naked people, and sometimes funny-looking animals, on them. My mother had told me they were dirty magazines, filthy things, and not the sort of thing nice people ever looked at.

"What's that?" demanded Carla.

"Nothing," I said, flipping through the warped and stiff pages.

"I found that," said Carla. "It's mine. Give it back."

"You're a liar," I said.

"I am not," she shrieked. "It's mine."

"Fine," I said. "Tell me what it is." I knew she hadn't seen any of the drawings yet.

"It's, it's about...." She pouted, then darted forward and ripped the magazine out of my hands. Not wanting the precious thing torn, I let her take it. I'd find a way to get it back, and study it further. I stood behind her and read over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages. I saw a picture of a dog peeing on a parking meter. The parking meter sign said "Violated." I didn't get it.

Mystified, we stared at the drawings of pillowy boobs and pencil eraser nipples, sheep with long eyelashes, and people holding martinis. We didn't know what it was about, but we both knew no adult could find out we had this magazine. And so, when Carla was through looking at it, she put the magazine back on the ground, and covered it back up with pine needles.

The next day, I snuck back into the woods, grabbed the magazine, and hid it somewhere else. She never asked about it. I think she forgot all about it.

One afternoon after school, I wandered into a nearby gully and found a rusty hamster cage, complete with a wheel. I was very excited. I'd never had a hamster--just normal-sized pets like dogs, cats, and horses. A hamster was tiny and cute. I got a piece of sandpaper out of my Dad's toolbox and spent some time sanding off the cage, fantasizing all along about the amazing hamster I'd soon get.

Then Carla showed up. The avarice was palpable. She watched me sanding it. "That's mine," she said.

"No, it's not," I said. "I found it. I'm going to get a hamster."

"No, it's mine." She said this with the absolute sureness of a spoiled brat.

And sure enough, the very next day, the cage was gone, along with my dreams of a pet hamster. I hated Carla, now. I wished she would die.

One day she knocked on my door and announced, "We're going to play with dolls"

I got out my one and only doll, a Barbie knock-off I'd chosen because of its amazing black shoes. I liked the shoes so much I'd never taken them off the doll, and had, in fact, taped them on so they'd never come off. Carla had many dolls. She had an entire room in her trailer devoted to her toys. She had dozens of Barbies, and even had little closets with Barbie-sized full-length mirrors. She had a Barbie convertible, a Barbie motor home, and a whole bucket full of Barbie footwear.

So I played with my doll until I had to pee, and when I came back from the bathroom, the shoes were off my doll and on one of her Barbies. "Give me my shoes back," I said.

"What shoes?"

"The black doll shoes. Those are mine."

"No, these are mine. I had them all along."

"Give them back, now!" I reached for her doll, and Carla slapped me and screamed.

Her mother came running in. "What's the matter, dear?"

Carla pointed at me, her bottom lip trembling. "She's trying to steal my Barbie shoes."

I stared at Carla in astonishment. "Those are my shoes. They're the only ones I have."

"Now Shantell," said Carla's mother. She looked down at me. "You shouldn't lie. Play nice."

Aghast, I looked from Carla's mom back to Carla, who now wore a smug expression. Then, without saying a word, I picked up my barefooted doll and left. Patches growled quietly at me as I went out the door. I turned and stared at him, and he tucked his tail between his legs and slunk into the kitchen. I shut the door behind me, tossed the barefooted doll onto my doorstep, and went back out into the woods. There I read the magazine while stewing in indignation. I decided I'd rather have no friends than ever hang out with Carla again.

For weeks afterward, I waited to see if Carla's mother would invite me in for milk and cookies. If she did, I decided I would sneak into the toy room and take my shoes back. But I never did get invited, and the shoes remained elusive.

One day, while I was in the library at school, an announcement came over the intercom system. One of our schoolmates had perished in a car accident. It was Carla.

I froze. I'd wished she would die, and now she was dead. Maybe I could get the shoes back. And then I felt guilty for thinking such a thing. But only a little.

When I got home, Mom and Dad told me about the accident. Carla had not been wearing a seatbelt. Apparently, if she had been, she'd only have had a broken leg. Instead, her body had been tossed through the windshield, and she died a broken, shrieking mess of bone and flesh.

A few days later, I noticed Patches hadn't been by, tormenting my dog when he got tangled. Carla's parents had had him put down. Everything that reminded them of Carla they'd had destroyed. All her clothes and toys had been taken to the dump. All her clothes, all her toys, and ergo, some of my toys, had been burned.

I pictured Carla, with her petulant expression and mean, narrowed eyes. I tried to feel sad, but I only felt relieved, and all I could think of, over and over again, was "Ding dong, the witch is dead."

Even still, I never again wished anyone would die.