"Boys don’t wear barrettes," Cyndi says, glancing anxiously at the clock and then wiping oatmeal out of Brianna’s hair.

"I wanna wear them!" Devon whines. He throws his jacket on the floor.

Cyndi sighs. "You can wear your Superman shirt today, okay?"

But Devon will not bargain this morning. "I wanna!" he shouts. He stomps his sneakered foot, and for a moment Cyndi knows just how his father looked at age seven.

Brianna swipes her spoon off of the cracked plastic tray in front of her. When Cyndi bends over to retrieve it she notices a run in her stockings. She swears quietly to herself, but knows there’s no time to change now. Well, she supposes she looks presentable enough for Stop-n-Save, anyway.

"Devon, you can’t wear them to school. The other kids’ll make fun of you."

"I don’t care." Already Devon has begun to cry. She wants to go to him, to wipe the tears from his cheeks and the snot from his upper lip, but instead she unties Brianna’s bib and lifts her out of the high chair. Brianna begins to wail in sympathy with her older brother’s distress.

Cyndi almost wishes she could cry, too. "Dammit!" she snaps. "Get those things out of your hair right now!" Devon responds only with shrieks, Brianna’s cries providing a shriller counterpoint.

Cyndi looks at the clock again, and then back at her son. The truth is, the barrettes look good on him. He has chosen the ones Brianna wears most often; they are green plastic ovals with tiny white daisies. His hair has grown too long, and they hold it out of his face, revealing his high forehead and delicate features. They bring out the hazel of his eyes. She thinks that if he stopped crying, he would look like a very pretty little girl.

She gazes at her son and considers letting him wear the barrettes. Just this once.

But today is Friday, and Devon’s father will be picking him up from school. She pictures her ex-husband waiting in his Jeep outside Greenview Elementary, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. A clot of children comes bursting out the door, scattering like multi-colored buckshot, and Devon emerges from them with his G.I. Joe backpack, his black Raiders jacket, and his green barrettes. By the time he opens the passenger door, his father is already red-faced and shouting.

Cyndi turns her back to her son, and goes to search for Brianna’s coat and shoes. If they leave right away, she might still be able to clock in on time. She says, without looking back at him, "Take them off. Now. And get your jacket on." She hears her own mother’s voice, the one that meant no nonsense.

She finds the right shoe under the crib and the left one in the bathtub. She is relieved that the coat is hanging in the closet where it belongs. By the time Brianna is dressed she has stopped crying and is sucking contentedly on a pacifier.

Cyndi holds her breath as she reenters the kitchen, but lets it out when she spies two small pieces of green plastic on the table, almost hidden among the breakfast dishes. Devon slouches by the door, still sniffling, his eyes now hidden behind the dark curtain of his hair.

She spares him a quick smile. "Go get a Kleenex and wipe your nose," she tells him softly.

They don’t speak in the car. Devon is twisted in his seat, staring out the window at the puddles of gray slush. Cyndi can’t think of what to say to him. In her carseat in the back, Brianna is quietly babbling to herself.

Devon throws the car door open almost before she has stopped the car. He doesn’t turn to say goodbye or give her a kiss. In a moment, he has disappeared in a sea of older children. Cyndi glances at her watch and she pulls away from the curb, knowing she is already late.

© 1998 by Phyllis B. Gerstenfeld
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