Age is just a number

  After everyone quieted down, Marbles smiled and introduced herself next.

  The old woman spoke very slowly.

  “I’m Marbles. I’m eighty-one today. But tomorrow I will be seventy-three.”

  Marco gave her a strange, surprised look.

  Okay. She’s nuts.

  Marbles made a funny face back at him, like she’d just won something.

  “All right, the jig is up,” Sheila said with a laugh.

  Marbles’ voice shifted. It was lighter, younger.

  “People call me Marbles, but I’m not an old lady. I just like to pretend.”

  She pulled off her gray wig, revealing super short hair.

  “I’m only sixteen.” Her tone softened.

  “I’m a foster kid. Sheila’s been taking care of me. I had cancer too but I’m okay. It’s been in remission a long time.”

  Marco’s mouth opened, then closed.

  He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed, betrayed, or just stupid.

  I missed the joke again. Why am I always such a chump?

  Lemon shouted, “I’m Lemon! I’m seven! I love unicorns! Can I have this?”

  She put on one of Ginger’s crocheted hats and a cluster of giant pompoms with ruffles flopped down over her eyes.

  “Hey! I can’t see!” she yelled.

  Marbles adjusted the hat for her, though it still appeared rather lopsided.

  Then Lemon announced, “I’m hungry!”

  She looked around the table.

  “Where are the kittens?”

  Pretending to be horrified, Marco declared,

  “She’s evil! She eats kittens!”

  “Marco!” snapped Andrea, unamused.

  Lemon gasped. “I don’t eat kittens! I pet them!”

  His mother offered Lemon a plate of sliced fruit. “Here, sweetie.”

  Sheila clapped her hands. “Okay, brigade. Grab a basket and start decorating! Let’s finish a dozen before dinner.”

  On a piece of paper inside Marco’s basket was a horrible instructional “poem”.

  “A Basket for Kittens”

  by Sheila Martini

  A basket for kittens is a joy to behold.

  A basket for kittens should glitter like gold.

  A nice deep basket, clean, sturdy and strong,

  Will protect little kittens from evil and wrong.

  A clean bowl for water and a fresh bag of food

  Keep fuzzy kittens in a purr?purr mood.

  Now don’t forget kitty litter, a box and a scoop,

  Because all little kittens will eventually poop.

  Tie a bow on the basket and know that you’re done.

  The Kitten Brigade is lots o’ fun!

  Marco thought, “So which am I? ‘Evil’ or ‘Wrong’?”

  He looked up at the clock on the wall.

  It read 3:15.

  Time crawled by.

  After thirty slow minutes, he reassessed his situation.

  There was a strong aroma of glue in the air. Someone spilled a jar of glitter.

  Sheila and his mother were hot-gluing decorations onto several baskets at once.

  He wondered if his mother’s Kitten Brigade hat was falling apart, or if the wires poking out the sides were intentional.

  Resigned to his fate, he sighed.

  “I like your basket,” Marbles said softly.

  “You do? Oh…uh, thanks.” He took a deep breath.

  She smiled and pointed at the kitten basket in front of him. “I like the pattern you made.”

  Marco was still getting used to this new, younger version of Marbles. Was she really only sixteen? What else was she hiding?

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Do you like mine?” she asked, holding it up for him.

  He smiled back, unsure what she wanted him to see. “Sure.”

  His hat itched. Everything itched. His scalp, his brain, the whole stupid day.

  Marbles explained her basket’s decorations. “That’s a green-blue palm tree against a blue-yellow ocean. Those are purple-black mountains on the horizon. And that’s the sun going down behind the mountains—orange sliding into pink. This piece is going to be a seagull flying past the sunset.”

  She danced the felt through the air, crying out: “Eah! Eah! Eu! Eu! Eu! Eu!”

  Marco scratched the back of his neck. “Technically it’s not a seagull,” he muttered.

  “It’s Larus occidentalis. Gulls aren’t just at the beach. They’ll eat fries off your dashboard in Fresno.”

  He set the basket down gently. “May as well call it a trash gull.”

  Marbles didn’t look up. She was already adding another scrap to the horizon.

  Marco stared at her gull and wondered if he should’ve put the hawk on his basket. At least it would’ve listened.

  I wonder if the hawk likes kittens.

  He imagined training the hawk to chase Angel the cat.

  Then chasing Lemon.

  He smiled, satisfied.

  It was a good fantasy, though he knew he’d never really do it.

  Probably.

  Lemon piped up, “I made a unicorn with a rainbow!”

  “Very nice, Lemon. I’m sure the kittens will appreciate it,” said Sheila with a nod and a smile.

  Lemon grinned, then blushed so hard her ears turned pink.

  “Hey, look! Pink Lemon-aide!” Marco taunted, pointing at Lemon’s blushing face.

  Lemon shot back, “Well, your basket looks like crap!”

  “Lemon!” Andrea looked at her sternly, surprised. “You need to apologize for what you just said.”

  Lemon leaned forward, her smile syrupy and aimed straight at him.

  “I’m sorry I said your basket looks like crap. You did your best.”

  Andrea turned to Marco, her voice firm. “Now you apologize to Lemon.”

  “But Mom!” Marco pleaded.

  He recognized the foreboding look on his mother’s face. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Sorry.”

  Lemon giggled and announced to the room, “It’s okay! I’m pink! I’m pink lemon-aide!”

  She leaned across the table, reaching for Marco’s basket. “What did you put on yours? I want to see!”

  Marco breathed in deeply, then out.

  Gritting his teeth, he handed it to her reluctantly.

  “It’s a forest of trees,” he said. “You can only see the trunks.”

  Lemon asked, “So the kittens are in the forest?”

  Marco nodded. “Yes. They’re lost, but the basket keeps them safe.”

  “Then what’s that?” Lemon asked, pointing at the large figure glued to the side.

  “It’s the ghost of Great Geraldine,” he said solemnly. “She’s an Ursus arctos californicus.”

  “Huh?” Lemon looked at him, confused.

  “Very good, Marco!” Ginger called from across the table, clearly impressed.

  Lemon tilted her head back and looked up at Sheila. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a bear, honey,” Sheila replied.

  “Why is she a ghost?” Lemon asked.

  “She’s over there,” Marco said, pointing at the real Great Geraldine in the other room.

  “She’s dead. That’s why she’s a ghost.”

  “Oh.” Lemon blinked. Then louder: “OH! Is she a real ghost?” Her eyes grew wide and watery with fear.

  Marco watched, delighted, as her pleasantly calm expression collapsed into full-on crybaby panic.

  Sensing an emotional meltdown brewing, Sheila jumped in. “She’s a good ghost, Lemon. A very good ghost.”

  “Is she a good ghost?” Lemon asked Marco, frantically.

  The room fell silent. The snipping of scissors and kitten-related chitter-chatter faded as everyone waited.

  “Well?” Lemon’s eyes pleaded.

  Marco suppressed a smile and paused, gleefully cycling through the most painful results of each possible answer.

  He nodded slowly. “She’s a good ghost,” he announced at last. “She protects any kittens put in the basket.”

  He looked over at Geraldine and felt pretty good about his design choice.

  The big bear was awesome and he loved her and it was the one thing he had that nobody could ever fully understand or take away from him.

  “Yay! I knew she was a good ghost!” In an instant, Lemon’s terror dissolved, and she was once again the bold, impulsive seven-year-old she’d been just moments before.

  “I’m going to put the ghost on my basket too!”

  Marco froze.

  No. No no no. Not the ghost.

  Marco shuddered. “Wait, what! No! Mom, tell her she can’t copy me!”

  Anton spoke up from across the table. “Hey Marco, can I use her for mine? I’ve been a little stumped.”

  He held up his basket. It just said Kittens across the front in crooked felt letters.

  Sheila chimed in. “Maybe we could all put Geraldine on our baskets. A mama bear… she could be the symbol for the Kitten Brigade!”

  What have I done?

  He stared at his basket stunned.

  Ginger clapped her hands. “The mama bear ferociously protects her cubs!”

  “I’m making her pink lemon-aide too!” Lemon declared, grabbing a sheet of pink felt with dramatic flair.

  “Hold on, Lemon. Let’s make sure Marco’s okay with it first.” Sheila smiled, fluttering her long black eyelashes at him. “Pretty please?”

  Marco hesitated. They were all staring at him like he was the keeper of some ancient bear lore.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay,” he said. “If you really want to.”

  He didn’t like these people invading his private world. But Sheila had asked nicely. And she always meant what she said.

  And maybe—just maybe—he was a little flattered they liked his bear as much as he did.

  Ginger spoke up from the other end of the table, her tone warm but inquisitive.

  “Tell me, Marco, where’d you learn the scientific name for a bear? That’s not something most thirteen-year-olds just know. Did you learn that in school?”

  “School?” Marco bristled.

  It was bad enough being drafted into the ridiculous Kitten Brigade, stuck making a dorky craft project.

  Now he had to talk about school too?

  He could feel their eyes probing him from every direction.

  Stop looking at me!

  “I know lots of names. So what? My mom knows names too.”

  He turned sharply to Ginger. “Ask her why she knows names. Go on. Ask her.”

  Why do adults always do this?

  Leave me alone!

  The pressure behind his eyes built like a horny toad, locked and loaded.

  He blinked once slowly then squinted hard.

  In his mind, it was happening:

  two precise jets of blood shooting from the corners of his eyes across the table.

  No one flinched.

  They never see it coming.