CHERRY ON TOP

by

Katherine Grosjean

There are loads of kids tonight. We're in my yard, damp evening grass cool on our bare feet, mosquitoes just starting to nibble.

Tonight the games are fast and furious and the neighborhood boys are calling the shots. We've about gone through them all. The Jimmo brothers swept us in Red Rover and are now commandeering Freeze Tag. Someone finally barks "Pile On", and we all inwardly quicken, waiting for a volunteer to take that first dive onto the grass. It's usually Gary Mullen, the big hulking seventh grader who really should be a niner. He likes to lie on his belly, never even takes off his black horn-rimmed glasses, and he eggs on any kid within view; "Come on, ya fruit. Come on! Jump on the pile. Wimp like you? I'd never even feel ya." All the kids back up as far as the hedges allow, and one by one they let out a primal shriek, and run full tilt toward the prone Gary. With a leap into faith they land, hoping their sixty pounds will somehow transform into ninety, and shut him up for good. But Gary just shakes his head and taunts "Come on, Feeb, we can't wait here all night. Pile on, why don't ya?" And his donkey laugh trickles a heehaw through the pile until the whole hill shakes with laughter. He stays like that, with the weight of the neighborhood on his back, for what seems like hours. And he never even blinks.

So here we are, running in tight little adrenaline circles, waiting for Gary to take the dive. I trot slowly, knowing that I'll be the last on. The cherry on top. Sometimes I have to climb bodies to get to the top of the pile; there are that many kids. And I am that small. Tonight is one of those nights.

I'm barely noticed in the moving mayhem. Until I trip on the garden hose, that is. I go down with a thwack, face first, and before I can lift my face from the grass, I hear one of the Jimmos shriek "Pile On", and he lands full length on my back. The wind goes out of me with a low whoosh. To the rest of the gang, it looks like he has taken the dive. Holy cow, Jimmo is down! One by one, they back up to the hedge, release the obligatory war cry, and fling themselves onto the pile. Onto me. The other Jimmo brothers, the Mullens, the Dawsons, all the neighborhood hunks. And their kid brothers and sisters too. It is quite a game.

grass in my mouth, my nose, my eyes. can't turn my head. can't move at all. every part of my body is clamped tight to the earth. fingers, arms, legs, toes, all pinned. pressure builds in jerks from above and below. I can't breathe. god, I can't breathe! I try to yell, squeal, cry through sealed mouth, clogged nose, but only air escapes. my lungs in a vice, I can't replace the air. precious air. sounds are muted, compressed, pillowed. are they laughing? is that the ripple I feel? how many left? I see green, in swirls. is it grass? no, my eyes are closed. I feel heavy so heavy. am I the earth? I taste something, dark and salty. blood. it seeps into my mouth, making me retch in vain. only my tongue and heart in motion. my heart pounds in fury. they must feel it, they must hear it. everything's fading. laughter, voices, heartbeat. someone's turning down the volume. green swirls slow and stop.

Even now, years later, I still sometimes squirm in vain under that hill of flesh.

When pregnant, I used to visualize my baby floating in her dark and pulsing world, sounds muted. I'd picture her cramped, suffocating, unable to see, squeal or cry. I had to stop imagining her.

Caves, crowds, bearhugs, sleeping bags. Now impossible, all.

Sometimes sex gets almost unbearable. Racing heart, senses heightened and distorted, out of control. All quite delicious. Until the weight of him intrudes, until breath becomes jagged, until pressure builds from above and below and within.

I must be on top. The cherry on the cake. Always.

§ § §

Katherine Grosjean lives and writes in rural Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in mélange and Snow Monkey.<.I> She hangs out at Painted Moon Review where she is an Assistant Fiction Editor.

She can be reached via email at:weemuse@hotmail.com.

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