Sukie studiously squinted sounding out largish letters in the children’s Bible, gifted by the chapel mother thought photographed nicely, and father thought respectable men should bring family. Sukie held the book outward, arms-length, stiff pages spread wide, and stutter-read “How…to…PaRtTy.”
“Pray. It says pray,” said Prue, with an eyeroll and juicy smack of strawberry Bubble Yum—the big sister duh-effect.
And God smiled. For the innately rooted mustard seed of faith inside Sukie glowed. It shine-sprouted its first bud filled message and the divine dispatch was received with childlike ease. Sukie must learn to party.
Tricky thing is Sukie danced as she prayed, never quite right, fraudulent, tolerantly waiting to do investigative things: like finding what lives in mud or examining the family dog, and precisely how many bites of kibble equates to zoomies.
At the party, God continued to speak crooked. Sukie must have courage.
She would not fight the dress with gruesome pink sleeve puffs, but would sneak banned worn sneakers and pullout bows, releasing choppy hair that buoyed outward like an electrically charged goose-feathered crown.
When the dull-beat thumped, Sukie sweated until courage kicked in. Energized, she launched the Twist, enjoying the easy feeling of hips swaying right to left. She hypothesized more arm movement was needed, transitioned into the Robot, then the Sprinkler, not noticing snickered stares.
At celebrations end, mother insisted on group photo memorabilia. She focused the camera lens and gasped, horrified by Sukie’s wild smile—teeth caked with brown foaming dog kibble.
