Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter by Barbara Robinette Moss

Author:Barbara Robinette Moss [Moss, Barbara Robinette]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Literary, General
ISBN: 9780743219501
Google: at6xKf8PaN4C
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2002-01-27T21:06:42+00:00

The winter before, the Bells had gone to stay with their aunt. Their mother had cut their father with a knife, actually drawing blood this time. With the absence of the Bells, we didn’t have enough players for volleyball. We asked Fuzz’s brothers, Frank and Cory, to play. They didn’t talk, but they were good volleyball players; especially Frank. I played right beside him, as close as I could get without causing him to move away. I wanted to see him smile. When he slammed the ball to a place impossible for the other team to return, he smiled, twisting his mouth into a barbwire bow that transformed not just his somber face, but his entire being into crackling electricity. He ran his hands through his straight black hair and dusted the bottoms of his cold bare feet before every play. I wanted him to talk. I wanted to know more about his older brother, Fuzz, and his mother. I wanted to ask him why he didn’t wear shoes and why he didn’t talk or go to school. I plotted ways to make him talk instead of paying attention to the game and missed easy setups. David accused me of being for the other team. I tried to focus on the game, but kept slipping back into fantasies of heroism. I would make him talk; and he would be smart, even though he had never attended school.

After the game we stood on the front steps, panting. The team I was on had not won a single game. I was confronted by my teammates, pushed and threatened.

“Benedict Arnold,” David spat.

“Yeah, Benedict Arnold,” Doris Ann said.

“Doris Ann, you’re on the winning team!” I whined defensively. Eventually they settled down and we sat on the front steps. We were hot and thirsty and took off our coats and hats, letting the winter breeze chill our bodies. Willie brought the water bucket down the long flight of stairs; we passed it around and sucked the water into our dry mouths straight from the ladle. Frank took the ladle and drank, wincing as he swallowed. He patted his throat and opened his mouth for us to take a look. We stared into his throat and made sympathetic cries at the sight of his raw, red throat and white-spotted tonsils. He took another drink of water from the ladle and flinched with pain. He died ten days later. The Red Cross volunteer who came to inform the family said he died of strep throat that had developed into rheumatic fever.

Within a few days of Frank’s death, I was sick. Very sick. High fever. Thick, spotted, purple tonsils. The thought of food nauseated me, and everything I attempted to eat came back up. I lay for days, half-conscious. My knees and elbows became inflamed and my heart pounded in my chest as if it would burst—especially when I tried to sleep. When I was awake, it skipped beats or beat so slowly it seemed as if it was struggling to beat at all.

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