by Brenda K
On the morning of Dee's turn for show-and-tell, she finds herself walking to school with a turtle held against her thumping heart. The turtle's head and legs are retracted into its shell and she insists it's because he's resting up for the big day ahead. Her siblings scold her—he's scared, he's not yours, Mom and Dad will be angry, you're stealing, what if you lose him, what if you drop him, you're gonna get the belt from Dad!
"I'm only borrowing himmmmm! I'll put him back when I get home!" she says.
Dee is embarrassed she owns nothing fun to share. No Mr. Potato Head, no Bugs Bunny talking alarm clock, no Barbie in a pink designer gown, no Lite Brite, no Battleship. Nothing like what the other kids have brought. The most interesting thing Dee owns are day-of-the-week underwear.
Up in front of her kindergarten class, Dee's hands tremble against the turtle's shell. What's his name, they ask. What does he eat, they ask. Does he sleep with you, they ask. Does he bite, they ask, then ooooooo when she tells them he bit her finger once and she's pretty sure it's because he thought it was a french fry.
Dee's cheeks burn with joy as she rocks side to side, each foot taking its turn to tap the inside of the opposite foot. The turtle is even more popular than Bert and Ernie dolls!
At snack time, the kids gather in the sandbox with apples, grapes, and carrots. Dee is royalty at this feast, and her turtle is the guest of honor—a guest she leaves behind at pick-up time because she cannot return it to its home. Daddy will know. He will be mad.
Dee runs to the car and jumps in, out of breath like an alternate-fable hare who's finally won the race. Except. She hasn't.
Mrs. Scott dashes out to their car, waving wildly with one hand, the turtle in the other.
"Dee, wait!! You forgot your turtle!" She reaches through the car window and sets the turtle on Dee's lap.
Daddy's voice is cold thunder. "That's not ours."
Mrs. Scott's smile becomes the letter O.
Dee fixates on the side-view mirror as Daddy drives away and Mrs. Scott, hands on hips, gets tinier and tinier. The turtle's claws scratch against Dee's thighs—she does not dare say "ouch" out loud. Daddy's teeth throttle a toothpick. He says nothing.
At home, Daddy stands at the edge of the neighbor's driveway, scowling, while Dee slinks up to the garden by the porch. She kneels and cradles the turtle, envying its hard, protective shell. Her siblings' voices sneak into her head on sing-songy repeat…dum dee dum dee dum dee dum, told ya you'd get the belt on your bum.
She puts the turtle back into the bushes where she'd found him that morning, wishing she could crawl in next to him and play hide-and-seek without being found; wishing she'd brought her day-of-the-week underwear for show-and-tell instead.
As a child, Brenda used photos/keywords in TV Guide and her mom’s magazines to write micro-stories in the margins of those publications. She'd then bestow her masterpieces to her family. She now seeks a larger audience than that of her childhood. Brenda lives in SoCal with her husband and teenage daughter.
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