I don’t take part in the contest. I tell everyone I have a sore throat. I do that because my impression of a munchkin singing the We Represent the Lollypop Guild song, if I do say so myself, is dynamite. Real TNT. I couldn’t do that to my sister. Or to myself. I don’t want to wake up with worms in my bed.
When it’s the boys’ turn, they are good, too. Artie is excellent with his yo-yo tricks, especially that three-leaf clover one, but I think Willie O’Hara is a shoo-in for King. His jokes have us all in stitches.
This is his best one:
“Did you hear about the Polack who thought his wife was tryin’ to kill him because he found a bottle of polish remover on her dressin’ table?”
Now that everybody’s done giving it their best shot, we can’t wait to hear who the winners are.
“Attention, please,” says Barbie, the old counselor. Since she is the boss of the playground, she’s the one who’s got the crown in her hands. It’s made out of gold or something. Not like the tiara the girl is gonna get, with sparkling rhinestones. “It’s time to announce this summer’s King of the Playground.” She unfolds a piece of paper and says, “Congratulations… Willie O’Hara!”
You can tell everybody thinks that’s a great choice because they’re hip, hip hurraying!
Troo is standing next to me in front of the stage, looking very sure of herself when Barbie says, “And the Queen this summer is…”
That’s when my sister does something that I will never forget until my dying day. Instead of running up onto the stage to receive the tiara that I think she’s sure to win, Troo cuts Barbie off by shouting, “Wen… dy! Wen… dy! Wen… dy!” and then I join in, too, and before you know it everybody else in the neighborhood, even the mothers and fathers and the hoods who are hanging out near the fence, are chanting along with us.
Maybe it’s because another summer has slipped by and we all know Wendy doesn’t have many more left. Or maybe it’s because she looks so pretty in her frilly dress with her shiny hair and the new Cracker Jack ring I slipped on her finger before the party. Whatever the reason, what can Barb do? She tears up the piece of paper she has in her hand with the real Queen’s name on it, throws it up in the air and announces, “For the second year in a row… may I present her Royal Highness Miss…”
Wendy Latour. You’d think she’d be shocked and shy, but she isn’t. She acts like she knew all along that she was gonna be the one. After she glides up those stage steps and lets Barb take off her old rhinestone crown and put the new one on, Wendy waves and throws a load of Dinah Shore kisses to her adoring subjects.
And then the Do Wops burst into Rock Around the Clock and all of us grab partners and start dancing.
When Henry takes me by the hand, he calls me Peaches ’n Cream and I almost faint, that’s how good it feels to dance with my pale future husband. I don’t even care that Troo gives me that dumb smoochy face when she bops by with Artie doing the jack. Even though it’s a fast song, Dave and Mother are waltzing next to Henry and me. (Practicing for the wedding, I think. Mother has a hard time letting Dave lead so they have to work that out.) Even Nell looks less like death warmed over. She is doing the twist with Uncle Richie Piaskowski, who I really like. He laughed the hardest at Willie’s Polack jokes so I think we’re going to get along great because just like me, he doesn’t get his nose pushed outta joint that easy. (Of course, it runs to the large side, which Troo pointed out when she asked him, “What do ya use for a handkerchief? A bedsheet?”)
And Ethel and Ray Buck, man, oh, man. They are doing this new dance called the boogaloo. I’m going to suggest a dance competition to the counselors for next year’s party. Maybe next summer could be the “someday” Ethel mentioned to me.
Uncle Paulie is having a ball, too. He’s doing a dance with Granny in her muu-muu, which I think is supposed to be the kind of hula the girls do on Hawaiian Eye but to me seems very voodooish because my uncle is too jerky around the hips.
But best of all-I will love Dave forever for doing this-when a slow song starts up, he bows to Wendy Latour and takes her for a royal spin. Watching them, I can’t help but think about how she’ll be able to go on just the same way she always has giving hugs and swinging half-naked and showing up in the oddest places without everybody thinking bad of her for accidentally killing God’s worst employee.
Father Mickey isn’t the only one not having the time of his life tonight. Poor Aunt Betty. Mr. Stanley Talmidge, owner of the Uptown Theatre, gave her the brush-off at the party so she won’t get into the movies free anymore. And Mrs. Latour is also sulking because Mother won the cook-off with the blondies. Eddie, Nell’s butt of a husband, isn’t having the best night either. He was breathing so hot and heavy into Melinda Urbanski’s high-and-mighty bosoms that he didn’t notice right off the fire in the backseat of his’57 Chevy that somebody near and dear to me started. It wasn’t a four alarmer or anything, just big enough that Dave, who might have a lot more Viking in him than I originally thought, walked past me and Mary Lane very slowly with a bucket of water. Between the holes in the leather and the water damage, what a pity that Eddie’s gonna have to pay to get it reupholstered.
The block party doesn’t end until close to eleven o’clock. We all want it to go on longer, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Tomorrow morning Troo and me will have to go to Shuster’s to get our new loafers and Granny will put in shiny new pennies and then over we’ll go to the Five and Dime for our school supplies. The day after that we will walk these blocks with all the other kids in our new uniforms to Mother of Good Hope School beneath trees whose leaves are thinking about turning. Before we know it, Mother and Dave’s wedding bells will be ringing and Ethel will be making Troo and me warm Ovaltine instead of cold.
Not until we get back home after the party and get cozy between our sheets, once Troo has Daddy’s blue shirt on and her baby doll in her arms, do I tell her, “Givin’ away the tiara to Wendy… that was really something.” The reason I waited until we were alone was because I didn’t want to say anything good about her in front of everybody. She wouldn’t want her reputation wrecked. “You were gonna win for sure.” That’s a lie. When nobody was looking, I pieced together the paper with the real winner’s name. It wasn’t Troo who was going to be crowned. Believe it or not, it was monkey-bar-swinging Mary Lane. (That’s a pretty crummy talent, but I think Debbie the peppy counselor was too afraid not to make her Queen.)
Then we mention Lou Budette for Daddy the way we do every night, and after I butterfly-kiss my sister on her cheek, I add on, “I’m so proud of you.” I don’t think I’ve ever said that to her before.
My sister says, “Yeah, well. Ya know.”
I do. On the walk home from the party I figured out why Troo did what she did for Wendy tonight. Those two have a lot more in common now than they used to. My sister accidentally killed a father, too.
I move my hand to my favorite furry baby blanket part up near Troo’s neck. We haven’t talked even once about what we did to Father Mickey since that night. I kept the outside of her safe this summer the way I promised Daddy I would, but what about her insides? Her half-buried feelings? More and more, they seem important to me to dig up.