THE GOLD FISH: Paybacks (3.7)

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Barbie’s mind was made up. She was done with Pickles. And done with her embroidery business, for that matter. She was sick to death of all of it. The sore fingers. Working every night and every weekend. Missing all the new TV shows, including The Waltons, a show about a poor family of redheads! A show everyone at the lunch table talked about and she’d never seen.

But that was the least of it. The fact was that any creative joy Barbie had ever found in her embroidery business was gone. It had disappeared the minute Bridge had flashed a middle finger and walked away from her.

Besides, after this last set of projects, the total in her jewelry box would be $46.50. And that was close enough. It would probably only take another week or two on a Sprite and peanut butter cracker diet to reach her $50 goal, and then she could finally move on to the next stage in the operation: finding a taxidermist.

Well, that and figuring out how to make up with Bridge. And boy oh boy, how she would do just about anything to have her friend back. Even if it took being tackled in a parking lot, spit on, and called a bitch. In fact, she would happily let Bridge show her who was boss everyday for a week if that meant she could get her friend back. It might be the only way she’d ever feel better. Because she deserved any punishment Bridge could dish out.

So it was with this resolve that Barbie stomped across the cafeteria floor and threw the snakes and smiley face pieces onto Donna’s lunch table.

Donna picked up her jeans, oblivious to Barbie’s emotional state, and ran a finger over the snake embroidery. “Far out,” she said, nodding. “Looks good.” She pulled two crumpled dollar bills out of her pocket and without so much as a glance, held them out in Barbie’s direction.

Barbie snatched the bills from Pickles’ hand, as well as the three dollars held aloft by the smiling, smiley-face pants customer.

“I think I’ll have a bag too,” said Donna, still admiring the snakes.

“No,” said Barbie firmly, and shook her head. “I’m done.”

Donna head snapped up at Barbie’s uncharacteristic boldness. “You’re done when I say you’re done. And I’m saying, you’re not done.”

Barbie knew she couldn’t hold a candle to Bridge’s fighting skills and Pickles could easily beat the crap out of her, but she didn’t care. She crossed her arms in defiance. “Let’s see you make me.”

Donna appraised Barbie, measuring her up. Barbie didn’t look particular threatening, but after her ass kicking by Bridge, Donna knew small girls could be deceptively strong. Besides, the cafeteria had suddenly gone quiet. Barbie’s threat had sent a crackle of danger into the air, and everyone in the vicinity had felt it. They were all staring now, their jaws slack.

“Okay, okay,” she said with studied nonchalance. She had absolutely no interest in a repeat of the scene in the Perring Parkway Mall parking lot. “Don’t have a cow. You can make the bag later.”

“I’m not making a bag for you. Ever. Got it?” said Barbie with more bravado than she felt. And before Donna could answer, or she lost her courage, Barbie turned on her heel and headed back to her table.

“We’ll see about that,” Donna called after her.

Barbie didn’t turn. Just held up her middle finger for all to see, before sliding onto the table’s bench between Erin and Bev.

“And scene,” Erin giggled, bringing both thumbs and index fingers together with a sweeping, outward motion. “What a performance! A complete and total spectacle!”

But Barbie barely registered Erin’s comment. Her heart was beating so loudly in her chest she could barely breathe, let alone process a theatre actor’s reference.

She grabbed her Sprite and chugged it down like a parched man in a desert who was finally given a cup of water and was grateful to be alive.

:::

Don was doing a decent job ignoring the jackhammering in his head, but shutting out the incessant stream of Uncle Henry’s imaginary criticism was another thing altogether. And honestly, maybe he didn’t really want to. He deserved it. He was a stupid man. Not just a stupid man. A horrible man. Because here he was, standing in front of Barbie’s ballerina jewelry box counting the stack of bills she had neatly assembled there.

But even amid this self-criticism, this self-hatred (because let’s face it, it wasn’t just Uncle Henry who knew he was a loser, was it?), Don couldn’t help but stop and marvel at the size of his middle daughter’s stash. She had over forty dollars! How on earth had she amassed such a sum?! That represented half his mortgage payment!

He counted again, just to be sure. Which had taken some time. Not just because his brain was its usual morning, alcohol-addled self, but because Barbie had way too many one-dollar bills and had stacked them all wrong. She had wrapped them around a few fives, rather than the other way around. He would have to teach the girl to trade those ones for bigger bills and stack them properly. How on earth did she play Monopoly?! Had she never heard of using the bank? In any case, he would enlighten her at some point, but at this particular moment, he had bigger fish to fry.

Because on Sunday afternoon, the goddamned Philadelphia Eagles had somehow beaten the favored Kansas City Chiefs. 21 to 20. Fair and square! WITHOUT THE POINT SPREAD! It had been inconceivable. His winning streak was over, his winnings wiped out, and now, the aforementioned mortgage was due. Don was what you might call desperate. Because if Joan was apoplectic over his failure to pick Barbie up at the library, not having enough money to pay the mortgage would really push her over the edge. Especially after he’d gone and spent all that money on gold earrings and a fancy night out on the town.

Stupid Pete Liske, thought Don. This was all his fault. He wished the fool would go straight back to Canada.

But now, with Barbie’s miraculous sum, he was half way there! And that had gone a fair way towards shutting up those pesky voices in his head.

As usual, he had panicked for no reason, and everything was going to be fine, just fine, thanks to this… this loan. And it was a loan, Don told himself, as he stuffed Barbie’s cash into his pocket. Nothing more and nothing less. He may occasionally take a wrong turn, but for godssake, he wasn’t a thief. And it wasn’t like he was taking -- sorry, borrowing -- the money for gambling or anything. It was for paying the mortgage, making sure they had a place to live. In other words, it was important.

Besides, it would only take a week or two to pay her back. Tops. He’d leave her a note saying so, and might even surprise her with a little something extra -- interest, you could call it -- to sweeten the deal. As a businesswoman, she’d appreciate that.

And surely she wouldn’t need the money before then. From the careless way she had stacked it, it was clear she didn’t even know how much she had. He’d have it back before she even noticed it was gone.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

:::

Barbie was home from school for maybe two minutes before she noticed her cash was gone.

She had raced up the stairs to stash the $5 she’d made from Pickles and the smiling, smiley-face girl and as soon as she was through the bedroom door, she’d known something was wrong. All it took was one look at her dresser.

Her jewelry box, which was usually kept squared up with the back left-hand corner of her dresser, was now on the right side and tilted at a funny angle.

With a sinking heart, she approached the box carefully. Like you might a dangerous snake. Light on her feet, eyes fixed and wide, hand outstretched. Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, she reached towards the box and flung open the top.

It was just as she feared. Amongst the bouncey ball, the purple-haired troll, and her stash of barrettes was… well, nothing.

Her cash was gone. In its place, a small white piece of paper, folded over once. She opened the paper and read, in Don’s crisp, all-caps, architectural printing:

BOO-BOO, WAS A BIT SHORT THIS WEEK. PAY YOU BACK SOON. XO, DAD

The sound that erupted from Barbie’s throat was inhuman. It was a screeching guttural scream that held inside it a twelve-year accumulation of rage, sorrow, and frustration.

Barbie picked up the box, and with the strength and speed of the Baltimore Orioles pitcher Jim Palmer, hurled it at the wall. It exploded with a BANG, sending its contents flying.

And then Barbie too was flying. Out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. Sending another BANG through the house.

Such a shame.

Because upon impact, that annoying ballerina in Barbie’s jewelry box finally broke free from its spring and went pirouetting through the air, only to land underneath Karen’s dresser where it lived out the remainder of its pitiful existence.

Next → The Runaway (3.8)