Free Three Little Words by Ashley Rhodes-Courter Page A

as props for my imaginary delicacies.
    She took a leaf, then let it flutter away without pretending to taste it. I made refined smacking noises with my lips. “Delicious, don’t you think?”
    The roar of an engine interrupted our game. “Wow!” Mitchell shouted as Ricky drove his dirt bike into the field on the other side of the boys’ fence.
    “Whoa! Check that out!” shouted Toby. He ran closer to the fence as Ricky splattered through puddles left by a recent thunderstorm. Toby yelped as some of the muddy water splashed him.
    Forgetting the gender boundaries, I rushed in position to be splashed next, with Mandy at my heels. As the bike came around, I held up my arms and got drenched. Playing to his audience, the driver angled closer to the fence and did a wheelie during his next pass. We whooped in appreciation.
    As I was cheering, someone clutched my arm and jerked me back. “What are you doing on the boys’ side of the yard?” Melissa bellowed.
    “W-watching the bike,” I stammered.
    “I’m going to tell Marjorie,” she said, “unless you get back on the patio.”
    Mandy scurried away, but I lingered long enough to catch another trick.
    When Mrs. Moss returned, Melissa told her that we had gone over to the boys’ side and blurted, “Ashley wouldn’t listen to me.”
    “You know what that means, girls,” Mrs. Moss said. “Twenty-five laps.”
    Mandy and I marched to the front yard and began to run around the long, horseshoe-shaped driveway, across the grassy spot laced with tree roots, then through the spiky weeds that lashed at my bare legs. Melissa had betrayed us! I was so furious that my eyes blurred. After three laps I stumbled; on the fourth, I tripped over a root. When I tried to stand, I couldn’t. “Get up, Ashley!” Mrs. Moss shrieked.
    “I can’t! I hurt myself.”
    She gripped a chunk of my hair and jerked me toward her. I yelped like a puppy whose paw had been stepped on.
    “Uh-oh!” Mandy gasped. “Ashley’s gonna get it now.”
    Inside the trailer Mrs. Moss drummed her fingers on the counter as she contemplated my punishment. I was hoping to get sent to a corner, where I could fantasize about a grand Cinderella wedding with Jonathan Rodriquez as my groom. Almost as if she were reading my thoughts, Mrs. Moss said, “Standing in the corner hasn’t taught you any lessons. Let’s see if squatting gets better results.” She pressed me under the kitchen counter. I knew from watching Mrs. Moss punish Heather that I had to hunker down without letting my head touch the top of the counter ledge or my butt or heels rest on the floor. My hands had to be straight at my sides, but I couldn’t put my fingertips on the floor to help me balance. “Ten—no, twenty minutes,” she announced.
    My left foot throbbed from the fall, so I leaned my weight on the right. Concentrating on a splash of light on the floor, I bit the inside of my cheek. I had a strong will and tough leg muscles, but in less than five minutes I needed my fingertips to steady myself.
    “I saw that!” Mrs. Moss crowed. She pulled a slotted spoon from a crockery pot on the counter and began pummeling my butt. I tried to escape her by crawling farther under the shelf and trying to reassume the position. I bit down even harder on my cheek and felt a rusty taste in my mouth. She kicked me several times to get me out from under the counter and then struck me even harder.
    Blood dribbled down my chin. “Please stop!” I pleaded.
    She glanced to where Mr. Moss was watching television.
    “Go to your room. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow,” she hissed.
    I lay on my bunk and moaned. My mouth was bleeding. My ankle throbbed. My legs were scraped from falling on the roots, and my bottom burned. That night, when I was getting ready to take my bath, I noticed the spoon had made a curious imprint: My skin was red where the spoon had smacked flesh, white where there had been holes.
    Only a few more days , I reminded