of cotton balls for
pinpricking and other violence. Sock Voodoo lives in the back of our closet on top
of the Ouija board. When Lydia-Rose and I are mad about something, we take him out
and stab him with a sewing needle. Sometimes we run him over with Sock Bunny’s Kleenex
car.
I lug the knitting kit around with me for a few weeks, show it to some kids in my
class and to a woman at the bus stop. No one even knows what it is. Lydia-Rose fiddles
with it for an hour one afternoon and then throws it at me, exasperated.
“What’s with the French, anyway?” she asks. We think for a minute. French toast. French
bread. French fry. French vanilla. French braid. French maid. French twist. French
kiss.
We ask Miranda how to do it, and she shrugs.
The next day, I show the kit to my teacher, Mrs. Bell. She’s a small woman with short
dark hair and a face like a fist. I am standing in the low-ceilinged classroom, waiting
for lunch to be over. I have no friends this year; everyone is just a hello in the
hall. Today I am on probation for writing Dick all over the girl’s bathroom (I can’t explain why I did this), and so I have to spend
my lunch hour with Mrs. Bell. Seems like a raw deal for her, too, though we kind of
like each other. I can tell she feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for her face.
“Spool knitting!” Mrs. Bell coos. “We used to do this when we were kids.”
Spool knitting. French knitting. I don’t like it when there are more than two names
for the same thing.
“So what are you going to make?” Mrs. Bell asks. We look at the box. A multicolored
octopus, snake, ladybug, and circus clown stare up at us with little knit eyes.
“The ladybug looks good.” The ladybug kicks ass. Miranda would love it. “Maybe a scarf.”
Mrs. Bell points to the snake. “Oh, you must make that.”
“Wait,” I say, “look at the ladybug.”
“No, make the snake. Little knitted reptile. Ooohhh, it’s so sweet.”
“What do I do?” I put Madame Knitting Guide into Mrs. Bell’s hands and stare at her
expectantly.
“It’s been a long, long time,” she laughs and looks at me. I hate it when adults talk
about how old they are, how much time has gone by in their lives. “If I remember correctly, you first put the yarn through
the middle, letting it hang, then wrap the yarn around the prongs. Then with a needle
go around again to one stitch and put the needle under the first stitch and put it
over the stitch already on and sort of knit it off. I hope that’s right.” She puts
it back into my hands, and the lunch bell rings. I have no idea what the fuck she’s
talking about.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the box.
It’s after midnight and Lydia-Rose is snoring. Thanks to tweezers, spit, and a flashlight
Miranda gave me last Christmas, I’ve finally gottenone piece of yarn through Madame Knitting Guide’s body. Trust me, trying to get something
weightless like yarn to “fall” down a hole in the middle of a thing called Madame
Knitting Guide is about as easy as it sounds. Oh, fuck it. Fuck the ladybug. No one’s
getting a ladybug; no one’s getting a snake.
That same year, Midnight and Flipper get feline leukemia and have to be quarantined
in the laundry room so they don’t give it to Scratchie. They have horrible diarrhea,
and we take turns each day going in there and petting them and cleaning it all up.
Scratchie is so sad without Flipper that he begins sleeping under Lydia-Rose’s bed.
But soon enough he starts showing symptoms, and then it’s into the laundry room with
him, too, the three of them trapped in misery. When Miranda tells us that it’s time
to put them to sleep, I think she means it literally, and so I agree to go with her
to the vet, thinking we’re taking them for some long, extended nap. Lydia-Rose stays
at home, fiddling with Madame Knitting Guide, which she now uses with dexterity. She
says she’s going
pinpricking and other violence. Sock Voodoo lives in the back of our closet on top
of the Ouija board. When Lydia-Rose and I are mad about something, we take him out
and stab him with a sewing needle. Sometimes we run him over with Sock Bunny’s Kleenex
car.
I lug the knitting kit around with me for a few weeks, show it to some kids in my
class and to a woman at the bus stop. No one even knows what it is. Lydia-Rose fiddles
with it for an hour one afternoon and then throws it at me, exasperated.
“What’s with the French, anyway?” she asks. We think for a minute. French toast. French
bread. French fry. French vanilla. French braid. French maid. French twist. French
kiss.
We ask Miranda how to do it, and she shrugs.
The next day, I show the kit to my teacher, Mrs. Bell. She’s a small woman with short
dark hair and a face like a fist. I am standing in the low-ceilinged classroom, waiting
for lunch to be over. I have no friends this year; everyone is just a hello in the
hall. Today I am on probation for writing Dick all over the girl’s bathroom (I can’t explain why I did this), and so I have to spend
my lunch hour with Mrs. Bell. Seems like a raw deal for her, too, though we kind of
like each other. I can tell she feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for her face.
“Spool knitting!” Mrs. Bell coos. “We used to do this when we were kids.”
Spool knitting. French knitting. I don’t like it when there are more than two names
for the same thing.
“So what are you going to make?” Mrs. Bell asks. We look at the box. A multicolored
octopus, snake, ladybug, and circus clown stare up at us with little knit eyes.
“The ladybug looks good.” The ladybug kicks ass. Miranda would love it. “Maybe a scarf.”
Mrs. Bell points to the snake. “Oh, you must make that.”
“Wait,” I say, “look at the ladybug.”
“No, make the snake. Little knitted reptile. Ooohhh, it’s so sweet.”
“What do I do?” I put Madame Knitting Guide into Mrs. Bell’s hands and stare at her
expectantly.
“It’s been a long, long time,” she laughs and looks at me. I hate it when adults talk
about how old they are, how much time has gone by in their lives. “If I remember correctly, you first put the yarn through
the middle, letting it hang, then wrap the yarn around the prongs. Then with a needle
go around again to one stitch and put the needle under the first stitch and put it
over the stitch already on and sort of knit it off. I hope that’s right.” She puts
it back into my hands, and the lunch bell rings. I have no idea what the fuck she’s
talking about.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the box.
It’s after midnight and Lydia-Rose is snoring. Thanks to tweezers, spit, and a flashlight
Miranda gave me last Christmas, I’ve finally gottenone piece of yarn through Madame Knitting Guide’s body. Trust me, trying to get something
weightless like yarn to “fall” down a hole in the middle of a thing called Madame
Knitting Guide is about as easy as it sounds. Oh, fuck it. Fuck the ladybug. No one’s
getting a ladybug; no one’s getting a snake.
That same year, Midnight and Flipper get feline leukemia and have to be quarantined
in the laundry room so they don’t give it to Scratchie. They have horrible diarrhea,
and we take turns each day going in there and petting them and cleaning it all up.
Scratchie is so sad without Flipper that he begins sleeping under Lydia-Rose’s bed.
But soon enough he starts showing symptoms, and then it’s into the laundry room with
him, too, the three of them trapped in misery. When Miranda tells us that it’s time
to put them to sleep, I think she means it literally, and so I agree to go with her
to the vet, thinking we’re taking them for some long, extended nap. Lydia-Rose stays
at home, fiddling with Madame Knitting Guide, which she now uses with dexterity. She
says she’s going
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