Page 78 of My Girl

“Push the flower basket,” I say. “The rat is behind there.”

The basket shifts. He squeals with delight. My heartbeat drums inside of me.

“Wow,” he says. “Gross! It’s squishy. Rod, you have to see?—”

I knock the ladder out from under him. The rope clings to his neck. Gage panics, his tiny hands clinging to the restraint, pulling it from his neck. He gasps. It’s not like the rope in the picture—not as tight—and he gets his stubby fingers under it.

Why isn’t it like the picture?

Does the type of rope matter? Or is it the knot?

I’ll be so mad at myself if I messed up the knot.

“Roddy!” he chokes. “Help! Please?—”

He dangles like a tire swing. My mind is fuzzy, like I’m underwater, looking up at the surface. His face turns pink. Then red. His fingers match. Everything swells like a balloon. His eyes widen, round, almost like that woman in the magazine.

“Gage!” a woman shouts, shoving me out of the way. Her flowery dress flashes past me, the same color as the dead flowers in the rafters. She grabs the little boy, holding up his feet.

“Mommy!” he cries.

Mrs. Galloway lifts him up. Gage wheezes. She glares at me.

“Get the scissors,” she demands. “A knife. Something!”

My vision focuses on her. I imagineherin the rope. The knot around her neck until her skin pops like a water balloon. Her insides leaking everywhere, like fingerpaint and red slime.

“Roderick!” she shouts. “Are you stupid? Don’t just stand there! Get the scissors! My baby could’ve died!”

Die?

I didn’t want to kill him. I just?—

I don’t know what it was, actually.

How long does it take for someone to die like that?

“Now,Roderick!”

I startle and run to the kitchen. I scramble through the drawers and hastily grab the kitchen shears. I rush over, and Mrs. Galloway rips them from my hands, cutting through the rope in a few quick jabs. Gage falls into her arms and sobs like a baby. He snuggles into her boobs. She rubs his head.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispers to him. Her eyes narrow at me like I’m dirty, like she knows it’s my fault.

It’s not. I told him to go up there, but he wasn’t supposed to get hurt. I just wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see if it would be like the magazine.

She points a finger at me. “You,” she hisses. “Basement.”

I hate going down there.

“Please, Mom,” I whisper. “I didn’t?—”

“Don’t call me Mom.” Her eyes widen, the red lines around her pupils like bloody spiderwebs. “I’m not going to argue about this.”

My chest hurts. I lower my head. She didn’t even let me explain. My hands curl into fists as anger fizzes inside of me, my skin hotter than an oven. She assumes the worst of me.

Sometimes, I want to be that awful.

I can’t let her win. She hates it when I question her parenting choices.