Sunday

It was a Sunday.
Can you describe what happened?
Sundays are always slow, boring, uneventful. Nothing ever happens on Sundays.

"Don't look at me."
"I wasn't."
"I saw you!"
"Then you stop looking at me!"
"I wasn't looking at you!"
"Then if you weren't looking at me how would you know I was looking at you which by the way I wasn't looking!"
"I looked out of the corner of my eye and I saw you staring."

I pushed his frustrated face away. Strange how when you're little kids the stupid things that make you angry are as simple as a fleeting glance. We left it at that, both indignant, both red faced and fuming. Still, as soon as our feet touched the hot sand, our little tussle had been forgotten by both of us and we were running full speed towards the relief of the receding tides. Jake bounded in, huge waves of sparkling water spraying up into his face and falling back into the ocean. I was right behind him, going as fast as my legs could carry me. It was always something I resented; how Jake could run faster than I could even though his legs were smaller and he was younger than me by about two years. At the age of nine, I always thought that age meant better. The higher the age, the better you get at things. Mom and dad had told me in a way it's correct, because with the years comes experience, but just because someone is older than another doesn't mean they're better at everything.

Jake swam in circles, doggy paddling his way around me, trying to imitate a shark as best he could, but he wasn't that great of a swimmer at the age of seven and he could only keep his top fin up for a few moments before he had to bring it back down to paddle. I laughed at him, pretending to be one of those crazy ladies we saw on the television who just stands there and screams. Jake started choking on water as he laughed and stood up in the shallow water so he could breathe. Despite our differences and the major efforts I put towards shrugging him off sometimes, when we were alone together, Jake and I were the best of friends. I think mom and dad were proud of me because of it.

"Krissa! Krissa look at me! I'm Mrs. Shafers doggy!" and he went back to swimming, barking when he could, shaking his behind like he had a tail and panting. It only lasted about three minutes. Eventually, the stresses of being a 'doggy' got to be too much and he had to take a break. I giggled while he did it, clapping my hands in applause as he bowed into the water. Jake was a natural born actor I thought. He didn't always have to tell me what he was for me to know. It seemed every day was a game of Charades for him. Sometimes he was a mime and felt his way along the walls to get to his room. Other times he was a cowboy and he'd wear daddy's big hiking boots and mom's sun hat and walk around with his knees bent out and say, "howdy doody ma'am," to mom when she was in the kitchen making pancakes for breakfast. Sometimes I'd dress up with him, but most of the fun was watching him to the dressing and the acting.

"Jake you're so funny. Hee hee. Jake, let's play a game." I wasn't sure which game it was we were going to be playing, but I figured Jake would come up with something if I didn't. It was another one of his talents. His imagination went through the roof when he wanted it to. He had this character he made up, a crazy old cat lady from Idaho who talked in a high pitched voice and carried out her O's foooooooooorever. He called her Patsy and whenever he went to mom and said, "Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo mum. What are you coooooooooooooooooooking?" she would laugh herself silly and say "Oooooooooooooooooooooh, I dun knoooooooooooooooow. Just soooooooooooooooooooome pancakes," and then he would laugh.

But after a while it started getting dark and mom and dad told us to come up out of the water and eat with them. They had brought along a picnic for us: watermelons, strawberries, sandwiches with turkey and ham, and some orange juice for us to drink. Jake sat munching his food slow. Mom and Dad said it wasn't good for him to take big bites because he might not chew it small enough to swallow. We showed each other our food to see who could gross the other out more and I won, chewing up my sandwich and a strawberry at the same time. Mom told us to stop, but Dad hid behind his sandwich and laughed quietly to himself.

It was on the car ride back that Jake finally showed how tired he was. I guess playing that much had finally gotten to him. He dozed off, head on the safety belt strap that went across his body, hands folded up in his lap, mouth parted to let the air through. I smiled out the window, feeling happy with the day. When we pulled up into our driveway I turned in my seat and started shaking Jake's knee to wake him, but he was really out. I started pushing on his shoulder, but he didn't wake up, his head just fell down to his chest.

"Jakey? Jakey you gotta wake up. We're back home. You can go to sleep when we get back inside." I shook his shoulder harder, using both hands. "Jakey, stop foolin’. I know you aren't sleeping." But Jake didn't wake up. Mom was looking back at him, eyes wide. I didn't realize then, but she was afraid, scared to death. I shook Jake so hard that his head hit the window, but his eyes didn't open. Mom was out of the car before Dad even stopped it, swinging open the door and unbuckling me, pushing me out of the car so hard I fell on my backside on the cement of the drive. I started crying, wiping my tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. Mom and Dad didn't seem to notice, they were too wrapped up in Jake, trying to get him to wake up and then carrying him inside, running to the door. "Stupid Jake," I said quietly. "Why doesn't he stop foolin' already?"

It was a Sunday.
Can you describe what happened?
Sundays are always slow, boring, uneventful. Nothing ever happens on Sundays.