the creek

“Nah, them’s Jesus Bugs,” Morgan said before stabbing a stick into the mud. I could ask Morgan anything, and she always had an answer. I wanted to be right about everything, just like her.

The bugs glided across the water, their skinny legs spread, creating circular waves around each one. I watched them closely until my eyes were dry. I didn’t know why they were called Jesus Bugs. One thing I did know was that He loved me.

Do those Jesus Bugs love me too?

Probably not. I mean, they definitely didn’t look like Jesus. ’Cause I also knew Jesus wore a white Hanes shirt with faded blue jeans just like my dad, and on his wrist was a silver watch, also just like my dad. Oh, and he had no shoes, he never had shoes. Why would Jesus need shoes when He could just fly everywhere? And also, His dark hair was cut short and neat, just like my dad.

I thought about Jesus gliding across the creek waters just like the Jesus Bugs. I laughed.

“My dad would definitely love those bugs,” I said, but Morgan didn’t hear me. She had already leapt into the creek, a flash of yellow from her swimsuit.

“Hey! I thought we were gonna jump together!”

“Well, come on!” She disappeared into the creek before her feet popped up a second later.

I started to jump, but got scared at the last second, and sort of folded in half and flopped into the creek instead. Boy, were the waters cold. A chill shot from my toes to my eyebrows in a split second, and my feet touched something squishy. I squeezed my eyes closed and acted brave for Morgan.

If I stood on my tippy toes, I could keep my head above water. I gave a breathless smile to her so she wouldn’t see how hard it was for me to swim. I doggy-paddled my way to an old rotting tree trunk for help. I wrapped my legs and arms around it and picked at the soggy bark with the numb tips of my fingers.

Morgan floated on her back downstream, almost as graceful as those Jesus Bugs. How many more summers until I could swim like that?

Morgan was in second grade, and she was a shiny, golden star—two whole years older than me. Her mom and my dad were boyfriend and girlfriend now. And the first time we all met, Morgan showed my dad how she could touch her tongue to her nose. I thought she was the most talented girl I had ever seen. From that day on, I kept practicing in the mirror, but ain’t never could I get my stupid tongue to touch my stupid nose. I guessed I would just have to wait until I was a second grader too.

Morgan and I shared a room now, and we were best friends who did everything together, like sisters. And on the weekends we rode our bikes to her grandpappy’s farm and parked them next to his front porch. Then, I always followed Morgan all the way to the hidden creek on his property, except for when it rained. And sometimes, she held my hand on the way.

Something whirred past my ear and scared me. It was a bright red dragonfly, and its wings looked rainbow-y, like dirty puddles. It stopped above the stream and bounced around, searching for something. I let go of my tree trunk and fell back into the water—’cause with eyes and wings that big, it had to be a biter, and the best way to protect yourself from biters was to hide in the creek waters. The top of my head felt extra cold under the water, ’cause the sun had been shining down on it from up high, and it was starting to burn.

After Morgan had her fill of swimming, and after we shared a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, I followed her through the pastures to her grandpappy’s house. He owned that creek back there. One day I was going to own a creek too—one with extra Jesus Bugs.

The cicadas had started to get ready for bed and were starting to get real quiet. I could hear my breath from trying to run as fast as Morgan. It was hard keeping up with her.

“I’m tired,” I yelled. She didn’t hear me, and didn’t look back the whole time. I barely missed some stinky cow patties when walking through the tall grass, and now my ankles were itchy and red. My nose and cheeks burned from the sun, which made me shiver and gave me goosebumps, so I wrapped my Scooby Doo towel around my shoulders real tight.

The inside of Morgan’s grandpappy’s house smelled like every other grandparent’s house; it smelled of cigarettes and pine—and wood stove, the one that sat on a stage of brown, cracked tiles. His cane knocked on the wood floor and echoed as he took rickety steps, carrying a box of frozen blueberry waffles in his free hand. He plopped a few of them on top of that wood stove. When he wasn’t moving, the only other sound was the clicking of a giant clock, one that was bigger than me, one that sang a loud song every once in a while.

“They’ll take a bit to get cooked up. Getcha a paper plate and some syrup when they’re ready.”

Morgan hugged him tight, so I got up and wrapped my arms around them both. He laughed and pat my head. I really liked him, with his big ears and the grey hair growing out of them. When I finished hugging them, Morgan held onto him for a few more seconds.

“Maybe we can pick some blackberries?” I asked Morgan and poked at her shoulder so she would stop the super long hug.

“Them’s not blackberries, them’s mulberries.” She made sure to say ‘mul’ for an extra long time, leaning forward and rolling her eyes. Her grandpappy just laughed and fell back into his recliner.

My dad called Morgan “Sassyfras” for her attitude, a nickname she crinkled her nose at and laughed about. But the one time I called her that, I got in big trouble. So now I only call her that in my head, and with a whisper voice too.

“Nuh-uh, they’re blackberries. They’re black with tiny little juice bubbles—just like blackberries.”

“Blackberries grow on bushes. Mulberries grow on trees.”

“Blackberries grow everywhere.”

She sighed and ran out to the porch. Her grandpappy pointed to the cabinet under the sinks where the Tupperware bowls were. I picked the best one for blackberry picking. It used to be painted with pretty green leaves, but the paint was faded. I picked at the paint with my nails as I ran outside.

I had to climb up on the wooden rail of the porch to reach the blackberries hanging from the trees. A lot of the super ripe ones had already fallen and started to rot, staining the porch with a bunch of red and purple blots. I ate the plumpest ones straight off the tree, and wiped the juice on my bathing suit. Morgan wore one of my dad’s old shirts over hers and held it up by its edge, stuffing blackberries into it.

My bowl was half full when I stopped picking. Any more and Morgan would tell me I was picking too much. We carried them to her grandpappy. He said a big wow! at all the ones we picked. I dropped a bunch of those blackberries on my waffles, which were a little soggy, but I didn’t care. My tummy was hungry from swimming in the creek, anyway.

When my dad came to pick us up, he shook his head at our purple stains. He put me in his lap as he talked to Morgan’s grandpappy and stroked my hair. I didn’t even know what they were talking about, my dad’s voice felt nice and warm against my back. I was too tired to even tell him about the Jesus Bugs. I’d tell him all about them tomorrow.

* * *

When school started, we stopped going to the creek together. Well, that was because it wasn’t summer anymore. But also because Morgan and her mom moved away from the house. I still slept on the top bunk. Bottom bunk was Morgan’s and strictly off-limits. She didn’t like it when I slept on there. I asked Dad when she could come stay with us again.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” was all he said, while watching the History Channel. I sat next to him and acted like I was watching TV too, but really I was thinking about Morgan—how I still wanted her to teach me everything.

* * *

On my first day of second grade, I jumped off of bus number eight and ran to the bathroom, where I tried my best to touch my tongue to my nose in the mirror. I wasn’t even close.

“Dang it. My tongue’s just too short, is all,” I told all the other girls I wanted to show. None of them could do it either.

At the end of fall, I got a week’s pass bracelet for all the rides at the Persimmon Festival. I went with Addie, and we made sure to ride the Loop O’ Plane as much as we could…that was until one of us felt sick.

On Thursday, I saw Morgan, standing in line for the Zipper. That was the one ride left I still wasn’t tall enough to get on yet. But never mind that—there was Morgan! I made sure to tell Addie about all the times Morgan and I went to the creek and picked blackberries together.

“You should wave at her. She’ll see you from here.”

So I waved at Morgan, and shouted her name. I jumped up and down. She sure saw me, all right. Her friends giggled at something she said to them, before showing me her middle finger.

Addie gasped.

“She doesn’t like you,” Addie said. She handed me her Lemon Shake-Up and put her arm around me. The sweetness of it helped me swallow down the lump in my throat.

“She sure don’t,” was all I said back. I thought through all the days we spent together, and couldn’t think of one thing that’d make her show that finger to me. I only wanted to hug her, and for her to hug me back. We could have ridden rides together too. Was she just trying to be funny?

“Sassyfras,” I whispered to myself.

Well, that ruined the rest of my festival week. I didn’t want to get on the spinning strawberries no more, and I didn’t want to eat no more funnel cake either.

Maybe when I’m a fourth grader like Morgan, I’d understand why she had hurt my feelings.