Free Nobody Cries at Bingo by Dawn Dumont Page A

the attacker — picks you up, turns you upside down with your head between their knees. Then the attacker drops into a sitting or kneeling position. Your job is to scream for help that never comes.
    Once the Manitoba cousins arrived, summer vacation began to move at a breakneck pace. There were three-hour long soccer games played against the fading sun, diving competitions off the dock at the beach, and games of Sasquatch in the woods late into the night.
    Sasquatch: there have been few things I’ve done in my life that have inspired such a heady mix of excitement and intense fear. Every night as all the kids headed out the door to play the latest game, I could feel my legs shaking. “This is a bad idea,” I would whisper to myself. But I would never turn back from those dark woods.
    The game began after the sun went down. Sasquatch was best when the only light came from the Bics carried in our back pockets or the whites of our eyes. We’d tramp through the woods, crushing leaves beneath our feet, our joking voices and laughter scaring the rabbits and deer across the prairies. There would be anywhere from seven to twenty of us spread through the woods.
    The game began when one of the older cousins, usually Malcolm, tied a scarf around his neck until he “passed out” and “became crazy.” I don’t understand why this step was necessary, as the mere act of putting a scarf around your neck on the reserve would at the very least qualify you as eccentric.
    Malcolm was a showman. He would wrap the scarf around his neck multiple times and pull on the ends until his eyes began to bulge. He’d continue pulling even as he slowly sank to his knees. His head would fall forward and his dark hair obscured his face. The more naïve of us would approach him with concern. “Malcolm, are you okay?’
    Malcolm would begin growling. Experienced players knew it was time to run. The younger ones wouldn’t budge because they were worried about their older cousin. Malcolm would reward their concern with a painful beating.
    After “becoming crazy,” Malcolm hunted every one of us. If he found you he threw you down and delivered hard fast punches to your thigh (these were known as charley horses). Sometimes, he got out of control — usually with his younger brother Nathan — and the punches would be delivered to more sensitive areas and then a fight would start. While hiding, the little kids would hear the scuffling of the older kids and we knew that it was a matter of time before one of them, or both, would begin crying violently, as boys do.
    When the game went well, the best you could hope for was getting to huddle in the dark, cold woods without getting a beating. Yet the whole game was worthwhile for that 30-second chase that happened when the Sasquatch spotted you. You’d run as fast your short legs could take you over the uneven terrain. The Sasquatch toyed with you, sometimes running past you and slapping the back of your head as he passed. You’d try to turn but he’d already be ahead of you again. You both knew there was no chance you could escape him at this point but you’d run anyway. And giggle nervously. This took away most of your breath so finally you’d fall onto the ground, paralyzed with laughter and fear. The game taught me a lot about night navigation and reconnaissance work. More importantly I realized I could run and pee myself at the same time.
    Another reason we loved having our Manitoba cousins around was they always had at least one extra boy with them: a boy that we weren’t related to! This was something new for Celeste and me. One summer they had a foster child named Adrian Fox staying with them. Fox: even his name suggested how cute he was. If you were wont to have daydreams about tall, dark and handsome princes, as I was, then Adrian fit the role perfectly. Even better, he came neatly packaged with a sad story of