Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio Page A

late,” I apologized, whisking into the room. “Time got away from me.”
    Matanni didn’t say a word. With pins between her lips, she continued to sew. Patanni moaned and opened one eye, then closed it again.
    â€œI said I’m sorry.”
    â€œSometimes saying it isn’t enough,” Patanni said, his eyes still shut.
    Matanni took the pins out of her mouth, cocked her tiny head to one side, and said, “We waited for you. Must have waited an hour. The fried chicken got cold.”
    â€œYour grandma works hard,” said my grandfather wearily. “By six o’clock, she’d like to be finished with everything.”
    â€œI know,” I muttered, my anxiety increasing. “I’m sorry, really sorry.”
    â€œWe raised you to be considerate,” Patanni said. “To think about other people’s feelings.”
    â€œBut lately you’ve been thinking only about yourself,” Matanni added, nodding in the kitchen’s direction. “Your supper’s in the warming oven,” she said. “I saved a drumstick for you.”
    â€œI wanted two,” Patanni said, “but some of us ain’t as selfish as others.”
    â€œThat’s right, Icy,” Matanni threw in. “Some folk put others before themselves.”
    I turned my hand into a fist and popped it against my palm. “I said I was sorry,” I shot back. “What do you want me to do? Go to prison? Hang myself from the big oak out back? Scrub the floors with a toothbrush? Lordy sakes, it ain’t like I killed somebody!”
    Matanni readjusted her glasses. “It’s okay, Icy,” she said, returning to my dress. “Now go on. Eat your supper before it gets too late.”
    Patanni stretched out his long legs. “Ain’t you got homework to do?” he asked as I walked by.
    Immediately I came to a halt at the kitchen doorway.
    â€œHomework?” he repeated, emphasizing both syllables.
    I gritted my teeth, heard the sound of them grinding into calcium, digging deep, down toward the nerves. Groaning, I bit the inside of my cheek. “Lordy mercy!” I exclaimed, tasting a drop of blood. “Dag nab!” I said, at that moment remembering. “I left my assignment back at school.”
    Patanni shifted in his chair, his boots scraping against the floor. “Icy,” he said, in a voice filled with judgment. “What will your teacher think?”
    Quickly I turned around, and in a desperate effort to channel all of my anger into one movement, I extended my arms, pressing my hands on each side of the doorframe, and shouted, “I don’t give a dang what she thinks!” Then, unable to tolerate the tension a moment longer, I pivoted back around, dashed through the kitchen, out the back door, and headed for the root cellar.
    Inside its dank walls, I lit the candle that I kept on an empty shelf, hurled the door shut and latched it, and was about to inflict my fury against the block wall when my shadow suddenly caught my eye. Strangely, it had changed. I had grown taller, my body curving upward, the top of my head sliding down the ceiling. I touched my nose. The daintiness and smallness were gone. Like Pinocchio’s, it was longer. Its tip end pointed, almost sharp. When I opened my mouth, it seemed as though all the darkness of the root cellar was being drawn into it. I grimaced, and my lips knifed downward, like a scythe harvesting harsh words. Frantic, I felt my eyes. Once immense, they had shrunk to slits. Two tiny cuts in my face. No longer were they the windows to my soul; they were not wide enough for light to shine through, not generous enough to emit it. I shook my head. “Oh, no!” I said, my curls, corkscrewing furiously. Moaning, I lifted my hands to cover my face and watched, horrified, as they expanded, inch by inch, turning into large, round shapes—durable and thick as my grandmother’s iron