Lemons
To begin, we mix frozen lemonade concentrate with a wooden spoon. We set up with a sign, Solo cups, and a plastic pitcher at the end of the driveway.
There isn’t much traffic. We still secure attention.
The mailman overpays, and so does Ben’s mother. She hands us a crisp twenty.
In the air-conditioned kitchen, we drink milkshakes as we count our bills. We divide by two. I’ll use what I’ve earned to buy a chapter book from B. Dalton at the mall.
The next summer, we pour artificial lemon juice into a spray bottle, cutting it with a splash of water. We spritz each other’s hair. After a few comb-throughs, we pull on our two pieces and grab hot pink towels to head to the backyard.
We are only watching ourselves.
We choose an unshaded portion of land and spread out on the itchy grass. I position the book over my eyes to shade my pupils from the sun’s harsh rays. We place heart-shaped stickers above our bare navels to better evaluate our progress.
Our mothers warn us: your hair will fry, your skin will singe. But we are willing to pay the price.
Eventually, we retreat to the kitchen to compare the shades of our forearms. We rummage through the freezer for a pint of sugar-free. We make our calculations, measure our portions. We believe this is our new currency. We dream at night of what we can buy with it.
There isn’t much traffic. We still secure attention.
The mailman overpays, and so does Ben’s mother. She hands us a crisp twenty.
In the air-conditioned kitchen, we drink milkshakes as we count our bills. We divide by two. I’ll use what I’ve earned to buy a chapter book from B. Dalton at the mall.
The next summer, we pour artificial lemon juice into a spray bottle, cutting it with a splash of water. We spritz each other’s hair. After a few comb-throughs, we pull on our two pieces and grab hot pink towels to head to the backyard.
We are only watching ourselves.
We choose an unshaded portion of land and spread out on the itchy grass. I position the book over my eyes to shade my pupils from the sun’s harsh rays. We place heart-shaped stickers above our bare navels to better evaluate our progress.
Our mothers warn us: your hair will fry, your skin will singe. But we are willing to pay the price.
Eventually, we retreat to the kitchen to compare the shades of our forearms. We rummage through the freezer for a pint of sugar-free. We make our calculations, measure our portions. We believe this is our new currency. We dream at night of what we can buy with it.
