777 words
My first foray into 750 Words since 2018. Life, y’all. This one came easily; I just intensified actual memories. In reality, we got the “way back” to ourselves and I’m sure there were land wars, but they didn’t include as much overt violence. But it is true I was relegated to the middle seat because I was the middle child. Make it make sense.
If I were to continue this story, I’d probably find a way to make that middle seat the place to be. Or Tina would get left at a truck stop or something.
And yes, those Tiger Beat “kissable pin-ups” were a thing. Ew.
It didn’t make sense, Tina thought as she squirmed in her seat. Well. It wasn’t a “seat” as much as it was a “designated spot” on the sticky vinyl bench. She was always in the middle, even though she was not the smallest child. “You’re in the middle because you’re the middle child,” her older sister Susan insisted, and those in authority did not disagree. To her left, her younger sister Amy slept, curled up comfortably with her head protected from the hardness of the window with a pillow procured from her bedroom, festooned with Holly Hobbie visages. A stuffed version of the plucky prairie girl rested between her arms, her once luxurious yarn braids shorn and unraveling. Tina watched as Amy’s head bounced lightly with the movement of the car, and Tina wished with all of her 9-year-old might for a giant pothole.
At Tina’s right, Susan flipped through a Teen Beat magazine. She had a subscription—she proudly told anyone who would listen like that was some big whoop—and it seemed to Tina that she would take on a sort of smug look when she flipped through it, as if she was reading Popular Science rather than about the dating preferences of Donny and Marie. She was envious of Susan in this moment; Tina had never been able to read in a car without getting nauseated. She wondered if sitting by the window helped. She watched as Susan flipped the page to a “kissable pin-up” of Lee Majors, lingering for a moment, then turn the page again. Tina had long since stopped wishing nausea on Susan, because that could turn out very bad for herself.
Tina looked down at her legs. They were clad in her favorite corduroy shorts that were admittedly getting too small. This was probably one of the last times she’ll be able to wear them, she thought, plucking at a piece of lint. Her legs jangled from the fuzzy lime-green fabric, bony and tanned and freckled. She had to straddle the “hump” in the floor well, each of her flip-flopped feet on either side of the hump. Many a war were started over that hump. Tina maintained that, because she didn’t have a place to put her feet, she was owed space on either side of the hump. Susan said that because it was possible to put both of her feet on the hump, she should really do that, and furthermore, she should cradle both of her knees together with her arms so there’s less chance of one of her legs brushing her.
“For 6 hours?” said Tina, loud enough for her parents to hear, in the hopes they would intervene. They would not.
Susan would shrug and turn the page of her latest magazine. “I bet the astronauts who went to the moon were more uncomfortable. You can do it.” These kinds of statements were usually punctuated with a crack of gum and a sickly whiff of strawberry.
“Well, I’m not Neil Armstrong and we’re not going to the moon,” Tina would say, and slide her foot into what Susan deemed her territory.
“Stop it,” Susan would say, putting down her magazine, and physically lifting Tina’s leg and attempting to throw it. Tina would double her efforts. “Manifest destiny,” she grinned, and locked her muscles into place, her rigid leg now more difficult to maneuver. This would escalate the land war further, and Susan would resort to illegal warfare. She’d ball up her fist, with her middle knuckle protruding like a knot on a hardwood tree, and plunge it into the tender muscle of Tina’s right thigh. It hurt—it always hurt—but it was a point of pride that Tina didn’t cry out or make a sound. If it wasn’t agony, Tina would even try to laugh, and when she succeeded, it would enrage Susan. Susan would put her whole weight on her fist, pushing and digging until Tina had to concede. When she did so, she’d grab Susan’s wrist with both of her hands, twisting vigorously in opposite directions, hoping she had improved her “snake bite” technique. Susan didn’t have the same dedication to nonchalance as Tina, and would yell far more than was necessary. This would wake the always-dozing Amy, and finally earn a notice from their mother.
“Girls, this is a small car,” she’d say, not even turning around completely. “Knock it off.”
“Knock it off,” their dad would echo in a more stern voice, but it was clear he had no idea what was going on. His eyes were focused on the long, shimmering road ahead, and he was chewing on his own gum, but his was Juicy Fruit-flavored.
Clamhead 