An Unruly Girl
And what her parents went through
There were over sixty reporters and cameramen standing on the front lawn of the house where Heather lived with her parents. There were another hundred or so spectators standing on the sidewalk and in the street behind the reporters.
The spectators were chanting, “Heather! Heather! Heather!”
Some spectators were holding signs with words such as, “We Love You Heather!” and “The World Needs Heather,” and “Girl Power Rocks!” And there was one sign which read, “Go Away Little Girl.” (It is unclear if Carole King got any royalties from that sign since that is the title of a song she wrote for Donnie Osmond back in the Seventies.)
Meanwhile inside the house Heather put on her backpack and a floppy hat with the brim pulled down over her face. After kissing her parents she left through the back door. Getting on her bicycle, she went to school.
Heather’s mother opened the front door and gingerly stepped outside. She was met by a barrage of questions from the reporters. She put up her hands to silence them. Clearing her throat, she spoke, “Our Heather is only eleven years old. She deserves some privacy. Would you all please, please just leave her alone!”
From the corner of her eye Heather’s mother saw a red projectile shooting through the air directly at her. She managed to duck just in the nick of time and the tomato hit Heather’s father square in the face as he was coming out of the door. It knocked the glasses off his face.
“That does it!” yelled Heather’s father. “I want everyone off my lawn NOW! Heather is not even here so go away and leave us alone!”
The reporters and spectators fell silent and slowly began heading back to their vehicles. Picking up his glasses Heather’s father pulled his wife back inside the house then he locked and dead-bolted the front door.
In the kitchen Heather’s father washed his face in the kitchen sink. After drying his face with a towel he began cleaning his glasses. While wiping the glasses he looked over at his wife slumped at the kitchen table, “You remember the day we brought our chunky little baby Heather home from the hospital? You remember how she wouldn’t stop crying and I was holding her and soothing her and she vomited all over me? Do you remember what I said?”
“Yes, sweetie, I remember that day like it was yesterday and I remember what you said. You said, ‘This little girl is gonna be a handful.’”
“Was I right or was I right?”
Heather’s mother got up from the kitchen table, “Yes, sweetie, you were right. Now take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“You’ve got tomato on your shirt. I’ve got to get that pre-soaking if I’m gonna get that out.”
Heather’s father began unbuttoning his shirt, “You know, we’ve still got seven more years before she goes off to college. I have a feeling things are only gonna get worse.”
“Honey, don’t worry. We’ll make it. We’ll survive. It will only make us stronger.”
Heather’s father handed the shirt to his wife, “Yeah. I gotta say, though, that I pity the poor fool who ends up marrying her.”
His wife stepped closer to him and put her fingertips on his lips, “Sweetie, whoever he is I’m sure he will love her as much as we do.”
Heather’s father smiled, “Yeah. You’re right. How could he not?”
Copyright by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction.
Speaking of front lawns…
