Battle Royale (With Cheese)
I think it was Socrates who once said:
“Teenage girls are a nightmare. Fucking psychos, man.”
So poignant. I myself was no exception to the teenage nightmare scenario. Anyone who recalls their young adult years with anything but horror is in complete denial. As an adult, the thought of making one of those things on purpose is terrifying. Sure, babies are cute, and they can’t fight back…but a teenager is probably plotting ways to kill you right now. Or embarrass you. Or leave an emotional scar that only heavy binge drinking and/or a brief hospital stay can possibly lessen.
My sister and I (unfortunately for our dear parents) went through the worst of our teenage emotional rages at the same time, being only 2 years apart in age. Probably the most difficult aspect of this awkward period was the copious amount of time we were forced to spend together. Our parents have owned a business since we were very small, and every weekend for almost 10 years was spent, rain or shine, “helping” our parents out (we were useless). My sister and I were relegated to Snack Bar duty, which I can safely say was mainly us eating all the snacks and fighting like wolverines.
One fight in particular stands out in my mind as utterly ridiculous. Even now, it doesn’t make the least bit of sense. I will tell you exactly as I remember.
I am pressed up against the corner of a very small shed, from which we peddled our snack-related wares. I am probably about 13 at this time, making my sister, Alexa, 11. My sneakers are squeaking against the dirty wood floor, my hands at my sides, and this eleven year old terror, probably a full 6 inches shorter than me at the time, has me pinned, with her little white hands gripped firmly around my throat. Full on strangulation.
When Alexa is mad, her green eyes turn jet black, much like a shark. Her upper lip tightens her mouth into a cruel, thin line, and I SWEAR smoke curls out of her ears. Even at the age of 11, she was quite scary when angered. And here we are, two small girls, locked in a battle of stamina and what-the-fuckery, all the while a business is carrying on just outside the door. An actual, legitimate, adult-run business. As her paws tightened around my throat, I did the only thing my weakening brain could think to do…I raised my right arm up into a sort of “Z”, the way a 1930’s boxer named Micky might have posed, cocked my wrist, and punched her square in her left eye.
She relinquished her grip immediately, and crumpled to the floor like a scarecrow relieved of his stuffing. She curled herself into the fetal position and began weeping profusely almost at once (we Haynes women have command over our tears), her blonde hair in torrents around her round little face. She was INCREDULOUS that I hit her. She kept screaming, through her tears,
“YOU PUNCHED ME! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU PUNCHED ME!”.
And she sobbed, and wept, and sobbed, and rolled around on the floor. Really selling it.
Through my laughter I think I managed to squeak out
“Well you were choking me, idiot!”
Judging by our track records of good child-bad child, I’m sure I was blamed for this choking incident, and probably punished. I still claim self defense, because when an eleven year old shark baby has decided to kill you, you have no choice but to punch her in her stupid head.
