Summer Apprentice

I wrote this story many years ago--even before I was a Mom--and entered it into a writing contest in Atlanta for The Oxford Review. I was tickled when it was listed with the "honorable mentions." Here it is for you, dearest blog readers, presented with a few minor modifications. This is a little glimpse into my childhood. While the story IS fiction, the setting is very much like the home where I grew up, and almost all of the activities in the story portray the ways my creativity and imagination were exercised as a child. I do hope you enjoy the story.

Summer Apprentice (Or How Mario Finally Got His)

by

Marjorie Hall

“Find me the wrench.”

“The…?”

“Wrench. The one I showed you yesterday, you know…”

“Oh…” Bare feet on cool concrete. The tools are heavy, fascinating and mysterious. The wrench. Her smile shows satisfaction.

“Good. I told you you’d learn them.”

* * *

Summer was better with Mario. Sliding down dirt hills. The thrill of rolling over and over through bee-covered clover. Running through murky streams, the cold splash of water up to her knees.

Mario could turn a small clearing in the woods into a time portal, sending them to the age of the dinosaurs or propelling them into the future, or even to another planet. He was especially good at making up games, but Clara sometimes suspected him of making up the rules too as he went along, suddenly declaring that his horse could fly or that her sorcery was powerless on Venus.

No matter, the adventures were much too delightful for her to risk spoiling them by a fight. She knew she was no match for Mario’s wits—he’d outsmart her every time. Or nearly so—she would get him if she could just plan it right. Oh, how she wanted to best Mario just once before the brilliance of autumn colors whisked them into school again! She must act soon. Hints of yellow-gold and dots of orange-red already threatened summer’s end.

* * *

“Now the Phillips.”

Clara sighs. She knows this one all too well, no challenge. She moves the tools around in the box, barely catching the shiny glint of the ONE. She ignores it, searching for the screwdriver with the long yellow handle. She squats down; her thighs are strong and brown from the summer’s fun. She spots the faded yellow of the Phillips handle beneath some huge, beat-up wire cutters and yanks. The Phillips is in her hands but the momentum of claiming it lands her hard on her bottom. She wants to cry, but doesn’t. Mario doesn’t like sissies. Besides, she’s really seen it this time. She does not tell Mario.

“Well, are you going to sit there all day?”

“No,” she whispers and rolls to her feet.

* * *

            She raises it carefully toward the window. The ONE glistens in the moon’s glow, looking as promising as a tinsel-covered tree on Christmas Eve. How did it get here? Could it have been brought back from one of Mario’s expeditions to alien worlds unknown to her? Then he knew it was in the box! Bur surely it was forgotten now. He couldn’t risk her finding it there.

            She tiptoes out of the workshop to test her weapon. The grass is moist with dew. Her sneakers are soon soaked through as she searches for…ah—this old antenna should do nicely. The aged metal rests atop a small compost heap in the back of the workshop. It has begun to rust—no one will notice if parts of it are, well, disintegrated come the morning’s light. Yes! She almost shrieks as the ONE emits a thin, blue ray. The antenna is now cleanly dissected in two. Clara grins. She will easily catch Mario off guard this time! The ONE goes back into the tool chest, hidden to all until Clara calls it once again into her service.

* * *

            “What’s with you?” Mario asks.

            She smiles weakly.

            “You don’t look too good, Clara. Maybe you were up when you weren’t supposed to be last night?”

            She nearly falls off the wooden sawhorse upon which she is perching. Does he know? She holds herself, waits.

            “Course, it could be that wicked meat loaf we had last night. Ugh!” Mario grabs his throat and leans over, fakes a retching noise.

            Clara laughs…and lets her smile stay wide. That’s what she is supposed to do. He does not know.

            Mario begins to hammer again on the two-person spacecraft he is repairing. In a moment he says, “Get the other hammer, the one with the larger end…”

            Clara’s heart is pumping so fast and hard she fears she cannot walk. Her balance is off and she stumbles a little as she tries not to run to the tool box. She glances back at Mario—he is intent on wiping a smudge from the nose cone. A little shifting and the ONE is in her hands. Its silvery handle is an icy burn into her right palm.

            “Mario!” she shouts. She does not know if she does this to save him or to make sure he knows it is she firing the blue ray machine.

            Mario’s eyes are huge—his arms thrown back, he falls over.

            Clara runs to him and kneels to touch his forehead. An odd smell, maybe burned hair, fills the workshop. He is motionless; she sees no wound. She rests her weight on the back of her legs. Her eyes close—she has done it.

            “Force shield,” he says.

            “What?”

            “Force shield. You cannot penetrate my reinforced force shield even with the blue ray.”

            She argues this time—this was the ONE, “Mario! You know good and well I can! Besides, you didn’t even have the force shield activated when I fired!”

            “Did so!”

            “Did not!”

            “Did so!”

            DID NOT…DID SO…NOT…SO…NOT…

            Clara stops and laughs. Mario can argue all day if he wants, but Clara knows that he knows…he has finally got his.

END