Lashes

By

Arecee

Chapter 0ne

As far back as I could remember, my Mom and I had a ritual when she made up her face. She would apply mascara to my lashes. I would giggle and laugh and she would join me in the merriment. There was nothing sexual about it, nor did she treat me like a girl, it was just our little thing.

“Mark, honey, you have such beautiful lashes,” she would gush.

I would bat my lashes at her and say, “Really Mommy?”

“Honey you make your mother jealous. You have the longest lashes, they’re just beautiful, my pretty, pretty boy.”

I’d blush and run to my father and his reaction was to laugh.

“I swear, I think your mother wants a girl,” he’d say.

“Daddy, mom’s just goofing, that’s all.”

“I know Mark, come on, let’s go play ball.”

That’s what we did, played ball. I would try to throw, but at three it didn’t go far.

My father and I would play together everyday, teaching me how to kick a soccer ball properly, throw a baseball with accuracy, pass a football in a perfect spiral and how to be a real boy. Obviously these lessons went on for years so my game with Mom really didn’t affect me one way or the other. It was just a game she played with her little boy with long lashes.

We started camping when I was five. Dad was in his element and couldn’t wait to teach me how to fish. He taught me how to read a stream and where the fish lived, how to catch the fish and how to clean them. Mom taught both Dad and me the best way to cook the trout we caught. These were some of the best years of my life.

As the years passed the frequency of my mother’s ritual decreased. When I was three we would do it almost everyday. By the time I was seven it was maybe twice a week and at ten twice a month. Being perfectly honest with myself, I did miss the frequency, but then again I was a boy and I didn’t want to seem too girly.

When I was three there wasn’t girly or masculine, it was just mascara being applied to my lashes, nothing more, but as I grew older I knew mascara was for girls and not for boys. Funny thing though, my parents never made the distinction about gender and mascara to me, it was what it was, a black cream that went on lashes.

I think my knowledge of male and female came from my peers. I was never a big boy, but as the saying goes, I was tough as nails. Other boys would tease me for being too skinny and being in the shorter half of my class, assumed I would be a pushover for bullying.

Bullying was something that took place everyday in every grade in school. The bullies were always kids from families that didn’t pay enough attention to their children. Some were rich and some were poor, but they always had a common stream, they starved for attention.

By the time I was in second grade our class bully had done little things to me almost everyday to instill a wall of fear. The thing is, I didn’t fear, Frank, the bully, but thought he was a jerk. I think the reason was that I was very confident of myself. My father taught me how to box when I was four years old and we had sparred for three years. I love my dad and he loved me, which was why he was raising me as a man.

“It will never hurt you to know how to box, son, and maybe it will come in handy some day,” he said, as we weaved and jabbed.

Dad was always careful not to hurt me, but let me know each punch could hurt if not blocked properly.

Getting back to Frank, he decided to step up his torment on the smaller kids in the class, me included. Frank was tall for his age and was almost a head taller than me. The class had been dismissed for lunch and most of the kids still brought their lunches and ate outside in the schoolyard. Frank and his gang of three left after everyone else and started to run down the line slapping lunches from the students hands, both boys and girls. My lunch was knocked to the ground and the paper bag split open, spilling the contents in all directions.

“Hey, why’d you do that?” I yelled.

Frank stopped on a dime and turned to face me.

“What did you say?” he asked, with a growl.

“You knocked my lunch out of my hands and want to know why you did it?”

“Because I can, twerp,” he responded, shoving me backwards.

“Don’t do that.”

“Yeah, you going to make me stop?”

“If I have to.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Frank pulled his arm back and let fly with a punch in my direction. Funny thing about boxing, if you do enough of it, you can pretty much tell when and where a punch is coming from, and Frank had a telegraph attached to his right hand. Stepping back from the punch was easy as was his second try to connect. As his hand sailed by the second time, I slammed my fist into his stomach and quickly connected with a left hand to his mouth.

It seemed as though Frank became a statue as the shock and pain became known to his brain. Tears welled in his eyes before he ran off sobbing. So much for the big bad bully I sniggered to myself. Frank left me alone after that, deciding to pick on someone who wouldn’t fight back, mainly girls.

I would watch him bothering some of the other students and glare at him, which made him pack up his group and move on to the first grade students. I soon became one of the popular kids in class with both the boys and girls.

Depending on my mood, I would eat with the boys one day and the girls the next. When I was with the boys we’d do the usual boy things, grunting and making fart noises and just be little boys. When I ate with the girls I would giggle with the best of them. I found I rather like the feminine part of my personality. I might have been tough as nails, but I did have a softer side too, one I very much enjoyed.

As the school year progressed my circle of close friends grew to about four or five of boys and girls. My best boy friends were Jack, Billy, Stanley, Warren and Theo. The girls were Rebecca, Marcy, Lori, Rachel, and Cindy.

As time passed Cindy became my best friend, boy or girl and we would tell everything to each other, even the most intimate of secrets.

During boy time, I was able to spend time with my boy friends and do all the things boys do, play king of the mountain, tag and war. I would get dirty with the best of them. When I spent time with the girls, my activities were different. We would play Jacks, hop scotch, and jump rope. No I didn’t play with dolls, Barbie or other wise. I didn’t think I was a girl nor did I want to be one, or so I thought.

Before I go much farther I should say where I live. My home is in a town called Colfax, California. Colfax is in the Sierra foothills east of Sacramento. It’s known for being the place where the first stage robbery took place during the gold rush. To me it’s a wonderful place to live as it’s almost like living in the wilderness. The thing that shatters that thought is that Interstate 80 runs right through the middle of town.

My family lives at the edge of town and my friend Cindy lives three houses away from me. Jack and Billy live close by but for some reason I feel closer to Cindy and not because she lives close to me. As I said we share our closest thoughts and there is many a day we wander the forest near our homes.

Cindy is my closest friend. I know I already said that, but I want to make sure you know how close we have become. Cindy is the prettiest girl I know. She’s four inches taller than me, has long blonde hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t say Cindy is a girly girl, but she’s close. She plays sports and is on several teams, soccer and basketball. She’s not an all-star and she plays to please her parents.

Being a small town there isn’t much to do, for kids or parents and the interaction between parents with children in sports drew her parents like moths to a flame.

Parents watch their children play, but it’s more about socializing rather than watching their kids play a game. Cindy’s parents were that way. I’m not saying they didn’t like watching her play, but the parties with other parents were much easier to attend than watching a bunch of kids trying to have fun while a parent screams to pass the ball to their kid.

“I can’t wait until I’m too old to play these games,” Cindy lamented.

“Aren’t you having fun?” I asked.

“Not really. My mom and dad sign me up every year without even asking if I want to play anymore. I know I’m not a very good player but they say it’s good for me to compete. I’d rather read a book or walk in the forest. I hate playing soccer.”

“You’re not that bad.”

“Yes I am, and how would you know? Have you ever seen me play?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“I think you were seven.”

“God Mark, that was three years ago.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

Cindy chuckled at that thought. “God we all were. I could barely kick the ball. Don’t you remember, you were just as bad as me?”

“I guess, but we’ve both improved. I’m an all-star now, so I’m sure you’re really not all that bad?”

“I am, and I’m not like you. You practice all the time, juggling or what ever you call it. I have no desire for that and I have other things on my mind.”

“What other things?”

“You know my mom was a model before she married my father. Well, she wants me to try to be one too, and I really want to try.”

“But why?”

“Because it will be something a girl does. I want to feel special at something, just not sports.”

“You’ll be very good at it,” I responded. “You’re the prettiest girl I know.”

“Thank you. You won’t be angry if I’m not playing soccer anymore like my best friend?”

“What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t want what you wanted? I love you Cindy.”

We hugged for the third time that day. It wasn’t a boy hugging a girl, but two best friends showing their support for each other.

“Come on,” she said, “I want to show you something.”

She grabbed my hand and led me through a thicket of small trees and brush until we reached a small clearing with a stunted oak tree in the center.

“What?” I asked.

“Just watch,” she whispered.

Cindy and I sat in the dry grass at the edge of the clearing. The quiet stillness drew our attention to the tree in the center of the clearing. Every sense I had, became more aware of the part of nature we were witnessing. Subtle aromas of dry leaves and grass permeated the air we breathed so quietly. Every movement of every leaf drew our watchful gaze. Finally the moment Cindy had brought me to witness, our reason for being here, a bird flew into the clearing and landed in the tree, a piece of dry grass hanging from its beak.

The bird hopped up onto a junction of three branches and deposited the straw onto a small pile of other debris, fluffed it around and flew off for another find for her nest.

“She’s making a nest,” Cindy whispered.

“It’s beautiful,” I replied, and it was.

We sat mesmerized for the next hour as the tiny bird came and went, followed by its mate. There was something wonderful and private watching this ritual with my best friend, not a boy or girl, but two people loving nature together.

We left the clearing and walked back toward our homes, Cindy and me, best friends for life. We hadn’t said a word for several minutes until Cindy spoke.

“Do you think Barry Randle is cute?”

“Why?”

“He keeps looking at me and, well, I think he is.”

I should mention Cindy had started down her long road of puberty. She had been growing as of late and her features had softened noticeably, but I wondered why she would ask me my opinion of another boy. I guess being a best friend makes one forget about ones sex, but only wants the opinion her closest friend.

“Yes, I think he is,” I opined.

“Oh, good. I was so afraid you might not like him.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, maybe you think someone is cuter or something.”

“Cindy, I’m your best friend and all I want is for you to be happy, I love you.”

That gained our fourth hug of the day.