My mom is a doormat. My dad is a saint. By some law of cosmic balance, they produced me, a walking catastrophe. At three, I spiked the church chili with Ex-Lax and then lit an M-80 in the men's room. At five, I stole Mrs. Henderson's racy lingerie and tucked it into Pastor Dave's Bible. At seven, I forged a love letter from my dad to the town widow. At ten, I took a baseball bat to the old man who offered me candy to get in his van, then hog-tied him to a tree. To protect what was left of my "reputation," my parents fled our hometown and never looked back. Until the year I graduated college, when my uncle called. "Your branch of the family ain't got no boys. You're a dead end. We need to talk about who inherits your daddy's share." "I found a man for your girl. He's willing to offer $50,000. I need that for my son's wedding." "And I need you to sign over all your property and assets to my boy. It's his birthright." "Do as I say, and there'll be a spot for you in the family cemetery." Oh? We have a family cemetery? You should have said so. I've never dug one of those up before. 1 My dad, Frank, is the most famously "agreeable" man in the county. When my grandparents died, my Uncle Burt said that as the eldest, he should get the family house. My dad said, "That makes sense," and moved into a tool shed on the edge of the property. Five years later, the county seized that plot for a new highway. The payout was $100,000. Uncle Burt said, "I've got three boys, Frank. You've just got the one girl. To keep the family name going, you gotta help your nephews out." My dad said, "That makes sense," and handed over $99,000. Three years after that, my dad married my mom, Linda. He asked Burt for a little of the money back. Burt just sneered. "Ask for what? That was a gift, you fool. You don't ask for a gift back." My mom is a world-class pushover. Her life motto is, "Oh, well. It's fine. Everyone's just doing their best." If you push her, she retreats. If you yell, she flinches. Two pushovers, stacked on top of each other, make one giant target. They endured Burt's exploitation until they finally couldn't take it anymore and moved to the city. If you can't beat 'em, run away. And then, as if by cosmic joke, they had me. All the anger they swallowed their whole lives, I was born to spit back out. At three, our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, yelled at my mom for "being as useful as a screen door on a submarine." I waited until Mrs. Gable was in her outhouse, lit a pack of Black Cats, and tossed them in. The explosion was... memorable. At five, my dad walked past Mrs. Henderson's porch and didn't look at her, so she told the whole town he was "undressing her with his eyes." I stole her leopard-print bra from the clothesline and put it under the pillow of Mr. Miller, whose wife was famously jealous. Mrs. Miller's screams were heard three blocks away. Mrs. Henderson had to get stitches from the nail marks. At ten, the man on the corner offered me candy to "see what was under my shirt." I waited until he turned around, hit him with a rock, and when he was down, I tied him to a tree and cut his arm with a box cutter "to let the bad blood out." He woke up freezing and screaming, offering me his life savings to let him down. I took it, and my parents used it as a down payment on our house in the city. After that, my reputation as a hell-raiser eclipsed their reputation as pushovers. Life was normal. Until my uncle's phone call. 2 The first day back home. We hadn't even gotten our bags out of the car before Uncle Burt shoved three burlap sacks at us. "It's corn season. Get to shuckin'." My parents just looked at each other, took the sacks, and followed him to the field. It was 100 degrees, high noon. My parents disappeared into the corn rows while Burt and my Aunt Mavis sat in the shade, "supervising." "Twenty years in the city, you forgot how to work!" Burt yelled. "Watch the ears, Frank! You break one, I'll break your arm!" "Linda, you eatin' at all? You're slow as molasses!" When a neighbor walked by, Burt's tone changed instantly. "Hey, Jim! My brother's just such a hard worker, you know? Just got here and insisted on helping. Can't stop him!" "Frank, buddy, take a water break! It's hot!" As he said it, Burt "accidentally" kicked the water jug. It rolled into the dirt, spilling most of the water. "Oh, clumsy me!" Mavis chirped. "Well, no sense in wasting what's left. Dirt don't hurt! Drink up, Linda!" She picked up the muddy jug and tried to shove it at my mom. I shot forward, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. The jug came free. And, "oops," it tipped over, pouring a cascade of muddy water right over Mavis's head. "Aunt Mavis," I said, my smile not reaching my eyes, "that's enough." "Why you little...!" She sputtered, looking around for a stick. My mom grabbed me. "Mavis, she's just a kid, don't mind her!" "A kid? She's 22!" Mavis was ready to throw a rock. I picked up a large, flat stone. "Here, Auntie. Use this one. It's bigger." She reached for it. With a sharp crack, I snapped the stone in half with my bare hands. "You take a piece, I'll take a piece," I said, grinning. "Let's see who's still standing." Mavis froze. 3 She scurried back to Burt. "That girl... she's feral," she whispered. "What?" "She just... she broke a cinder block. With her bare hands!" Burt squinted at me. I gave him a big, friendly wave. "It was a fluke," he sneered. "Those two marshmallows couldn't raise a wolf." "You just watch yourself. The buyer is coming tomorrow. If he likes her, that's $50,000 for us!" "I know, I know." It was getting late. Mavis told my mom to go home and make dinner. "I'll help!" I chirped. Mavis actually flinched. "No! You... you stay and help your father." I watched them walk away. The field was empty except for Burt, my dad... and me. My smile faded. Five hours. In five hours, my "family" had insulted my parents 35 times and threatened them six. I finally understood why they never wanted to come back. They weren't just relatives. They were parasites. Well, time to do some pest control. I grabbed a shovel and walked over to two small, grassy mounds at the edge of the field. "Uncle Burt, whose graves are these?" He puffed out his chest. "Your grandpa and grandma's." Ah. The ones who let this all happen. "Tsk. They must be so bored, stuck here for decades. Don't worry, Grandma! I'm here! I'll take you on a trip!" The shovel hit the dirt. I was digging fast. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Burt roared, scrambling to stop me. 4 I was too fast. He'd charge, I'd dodge, then run to the other grave and start digging. He was old and slow; I was a seasoned expert at chaos. In ten minutes, he was wheezing, and both graves were leveled. "That's the family plot! That's our heritage!" he screamed. Your heritage, I thought. I don't care. I dropped the shovel and gathered a huge pile of dry corn stalks. "Don't worry, Uncle, I'll fix it! They say when a grave 'smokes,' it's a sign of good fortune!" I flicked my lighter. The dry stalks went up in a whoosh of fire. "Look, Uncle! They're on fire! This is way better than smoke! You're about to get so lucky!" Burt's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fainted. He landed, with a sickening thunk, right on the broken cinder block I'd left behind. "Sarah, run!" my dad whispered, terrified. "I'll say I did it!" I just brushed the dirt off my hands. "Run? The game just started. I haven't even said hi to Aunt Mavis." "Your uncle..." "He'll be fine. A little heatstroke never killed anyone."
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