Dragon Brains Galore

The Bus Incident

It’s early. The sun is only just coming through the windows. My sister looks up from under her blankets as Daddy comes into our dim room. He tells us he’s going out today. Looking at us both, he motions to me. “Oh, yeah,” I say, jumping up to get ready! My sister looks put-out, but she always looks that way when he picks me. As I pull on my clothes, I slip into my own thoughts. “He must love me today to have picked me. I’ll make sure he loves me all day long today!”
As I hurry to eat breakfast (plain Cream of Wheat), I smooth my worn blue and black plaid jumper. I had to make sure I looked perfect for Daddy. Mom starts fixing my hair, but Daddy sends her away. She and my sister wish us goodbye as we get into Daddy’s old mismatched blue truck. We stop by a fast food place on the way and he orders burgers, fries and a large soda to share – “My favorite!”
Town fades from view and soon even the farms turn to woods. We turn down a plain dirt road and finally turn into the driveway of one of Daddy’s friend’s place. He lets Daddy store his stuff at his shop. Big pine trees spread out all around the house and shop, like green and brown walls.
I slide out of the truck and follow Daddy towards the big yellow bus. I see the rack he made to go on top of it lying on its side next to some painting equipment. My eyes light up at the thought of painting. The rack is made of long bars and sheets of perforated metal. It’s as long and wide as the bus. He has been working to turn the bus into a sort of motor home and the rack is like a balcony-slash-deck. But right now, he just uses the bus for storage.
Daddy spends some time in the shop, and his friend shows me some welding he’s done. After a while, he leaves and Daddy comes out to start. By then, its midday and it is getting hot. He hands me a small shop brush and leads me to the rack. He tells me to brush all the dirt and dust off the rack so he can start painting it. I start brushing away the dirt from the cracks, my mind telling me it won’t take long. It does. I start getting tired after a while, and as I look back, I see Daddy has started painting. His sprayer goes back and forth in even strokes. My clothes start sticking to my skin and sweat gets in my eyes. My sisters and I always wear dresses, but I start wishing I could wear pants and a thin T-shirt, as the sun’s ray’s pound onto my thick dark dress.
I reach the end of the rack. Daddy says I can rest in the shade nearby. I sit watching the ants crawl through the pine needles that are strewn over the ground like a thick blanket. Daddy keeps painting until the whole thing is done, then goes over and puts the things away. I look at the glistening coat of black paint quickly drying in the hot sun.
As Daddy walks back, he shakes out his old black shirt full of holes and goes to look at his paint job – he finds dirt! I still remember the shock as he grabbed my hair and forced my face down towards the bits of dirt so small I hadn’t seen them. He pushes me away, yelling at me. How could I have let this happen? I’d worked so hard to make him happy.
A greasy fist connects with my cheek. The smell of axel grease and dirt fills my nose. A red-hot pain aches through my head as I hit the ground, but it doesn’t compare with the pain I feel inside. What can a child do when the one she called “Daddy” does something she doesn’t understand?
I lie in the dust, a sick taste in my mouth and a pain in my heart. His old ratty boot hits my ribs and hips again and again. I do not cry – crying is for babies. He stops and walks back to the rack. I watch him brushing the dirt I missed away from the fresh paint. A silent tear escapes and runs down my cheek, leaving a trail of mud behind. I struggle to breathe as my ribs scream in protest. I lie there until he calls me to go home. I get into the truck in silence. I say nothing and make no sound, even though I want to cry. On the way back, he buys a large soda and drinks it in front of me. I say nothing, even though his eyes dare me to ask for a drink.
We reach home around dark and Mom asks about the dirt on my face, but he soon distracts her attention somewhere else. Only my sister sees my pain, the pain she has felt and knows well. We go in to dinner, saying nothing. A child is seen and not heard, so our silence is all that is heard.