Scottie King Quotes

Reina sounds awesome,” Sid says. “I’m digging her more and more.”“Were you there?” I ask. “Have you seen one of these movies?”“No,” Scottie says.“Scottie,” Alex says, kicking Sid in the ribs. “Reina is a fuckedup ho bag, and you need to stay away from her. I’ve already told you that. Do you want to end up like me?”“Yes,” Scottie says.“I mean the earlier me, when I was yelling at Mom.”“No,” Scottie says.“Well, Reina is going to be a crackhead, and she’s going to get used. She’s a twat. Say it.”“Twat,” Scottie says. She gets up and runs across the room, saying, “Twat twat twat twat twat.”“Holy shit,” Sid says. “This is some messed-up parenting. Isn’t it?”Alex shrugs. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”“I don’t get it,” I say. “I don’t know what to do. These things she does, they keep happening.”“It will go away,” Alex says.“Will it? I mean, look at how you kids talk. In front of me, especially. It’s like you don’t respect authority.”The kids stare at the television. I tell them to get out. I’m going to bed.

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There’s something different about her. I realize it’s her breasts—they’re huge. I see that she’s stuffed her bikini top with wet balls of sand.“What is that?” I say. “Scottie. Your suit.”She shields her eyes with her hand and looks down at her chest. “Beach boobs,” she says.“Take that out of there,” I say. “Alex. Why’d you let her do that?”Alex is on her stomach, with the straps of her top untied. She lifts her head toward Scottie. “I didn’t know. Take them out, stupid.”Sid lifts his head. “Honestly,” he says, “big boobs look kind of fatty.”“As Bebe says, boobs suck,” Alex says, “and Sid’s full of shit. He loves big boobs.”“Who’s Bebe?” Scottie lets the sand fall out of her top.“Character from South Park,” Sid says. “And I love small boobs, too, Alex. I’m an equal-opportunity employer.

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I hope she can’t tell that I’m appraising her and that I’m completely worried by what I see. She’s excitable and strange. She’s ten. What do people do during the day when they’re ten? She runs her fingers along the window and mumbles, “This could give me bird flu,” and then she forms a circle around her mouth with her hand and makes trumpet noises. She’s nuts. Who knows what’s going on in that head of hers, and speaking of her head, she most definitely could use a haircut or a brushing. There are small tumbleweeds of hair resting on the top of her head. Where does she get haircuts? I wonder. Has she ever had one before? She scratches her scalp, then looks at her nails. She wears a shirt that says I’M NOT THAT KIND OF GIRL. BUT I CAN BE! I’m grateful that she isn’t too pretty, but I realize this could change.

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We need to get home and put some ointments and ice on the stings. Vinegar will make it worse, so if you thought Giraffe Boy could pee on you, you’re shit out of luck.”She agrees as if prepared for this—the punishment, the medication, the swelling, the pain that hurts her now and the pain that will hurt her later. She seems okay with my disapproval. She’s gotten her story, after all, and she’s beginning to see how much easier physical pain is to tolerate than emotional pain. I’m unhappy that she’s learning this at such a young age.“The hospital will have ointments and ice,” she says.

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TIA OR TARA has stopped applying makeup to my wife’s face and is looking at Scottie with disapproval. The light is hitting this woman’s face, giving me an opportunity to see that she should perhaps be working on her own makeup. Her coloring is similar to a manila envelope. There are specks of white in her eyebrows, and her concealer is not concealing. I can tell my daughter doesn’t know what to do with this woman’s critical look.“What?” Scottie asks. “I don’t want any makeup.” She looks at me for protection, and it’s heartbreaking. All the women who model with Joanie have this inane urge to make over my daughter with the notion that they’re helping her somehow. She’s not as pretty as her older sister or her mother, and these other models think that slapping on some rouge will somehow make her feel better about her facial fate. They’re like missionaries. Mascara thumpers.“I was just going to say that I think your mother was enjoying the view,” Tia or Tara says. “It’s so pretty outside. You should let the light in.”My daughter looks at the curtain. Her little mouth is open. Her hand reaches for a tumbleweed of hair.“Listen here, T. Her mother was not enjoying the view. Her mother is in a coma. And she’s not supposed to be in bright light.”“My name is not T,” she says. “My name is Allison.”“Okay, then, Ali. Don’t confuse my daughter, please.”“I’m turning into a remarkable young lady,” Scottie says.“Damn straight.” My heart feels like one of Scottie’s clogs clomping down the hall. I don’t know why I became so angry.

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Say goodbye to your mom.”Scottie pauses, then keeps going.“Scottie.”“Bye!” she yells.I grab her arm. I could yell at her for wanting to leave, but I don’t. She pulls her arm out of my grasp. I look up to see if anyone is watching us, because I don’t think you’re supposed to aggressively hold children these days. Gone are the days of spanking, threats, and sugar. Now there are therapy, antidepressants, and Splenda.

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Do you guys have sunscreen?” I ask.“No,” Scottie says. “Do we have water?”“Did you bring any?” Alex asks.“No,” I say.Alex pops her head up. “Did you bring snacks for us?”“We can walk to town.”How do mothers manage to bring everything a child could need?

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I had to ask Scottie what TYVM meant, because now that I’ve narrowed into her activities, I notice she is constantly text-messaging her friends, or at least I hope it’s her friends and not some perv in a bathrobe.“Thank you very much,” Scottie said, and for some reason, the fact that I didn’t get this made me feel completely besieged. It’s crazy how much fathers are supposed to know these days. I come from the school of thought where a dad’s absence is something to be counted on. Now I see all the men with camouflage diaper bags and babies hanging from their chests like little ship figureheads. When I was a young dad, I remember the girls sort of bothered me as babies, the way everyone raced around to accommodate them. The sight of Alex in her stroller would irritate me at times—she’d hang one of her toddler legs over the rim of the safety bar and slouch down in the seat. Joanie would bring her something and she’d shake her head, then Joanie would try again and again until an offering happened to work and Alex would snatch it from her hands. I’d look at Alex, finally complacent with her snack, convinced there was a grown person in there, fooling us all. Scottie would just point to things and grunt or scream. It felt like I was living with royalty. I told Joanie I’d wait until they were older to really get into them, and they grew and grew behind my back.

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My God,” she says. “I feel like I’ve gone through a car wash.”I laugh, or force myself to, because it’s not something I’d normally laugh at.“What about you?” she says to Scottie. “How did you make out?”“I’m a boy,” Scottie says. “Look at me.”Sand has gotten into the bottom of her suit, creating a huge bulge. She scratches at the bulge. “I’m going to go to work now,” she says. I think she’s impersonating me and that Mrs. Speer is getting an unrealistic, humiliating glimpse.“Scottie,” I say. “Take that out.”“It must be fun to have girls,” Mrs. Speer says.She looks at the ocean, and I see that she’s looking at Alex sunbathing on the floating raft. Sid leans over Alex and puts his mouth to hers. She raises a hand to his head, and for a moment I forget it’s my daughter out there and think of how long it has been since I’ve been kissed or kissed like that.“Or maybe you have your hands full,” Mrs. Speer says.“No, no,” I say. “It’s great,” and it is, I suppose, though I feel like I’ve just acquired them and don’t know yet. “They’ve been together for ages.” I gesture to Alex and Sid. I don’t understand if they’re a couple or if this is how all kids in high school act these days.Mrs. Speer looks at me curiously, as if she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.“And boys.” I gesture to her little dorks. “They must keep you busy.”“They’re a handful. But they’re at such a fun age. It’s such a joy.”She gazes out at her boys. Her expression does little to convince me that they’re such a joy. I wonder how many times parents have these dull conversations with one another and how much they must hide. They’re so goddamn hyper, I’d do anything to inject them with a horse tranquilizer. They keep insisting that I watch what they can do, but I truly don’t give a fuck. How hard is it to jump off a diving board?My girls are messed up, I want to say. One talks dirty to her own reflection. Did you do that when you were growing up?“Your girls seem great, too,” she says. “How old are they?”“Ten and eighteen. And yours?”“Ten and twelve.”“Oh,” I say. “Great.”“Your younger one sure is funny,” she says. “I mean, not funny. I meant entertaining.”“Oh, yeah. That’s Scottie. She’s a riot.

Kaui Hart Hemmings

Scottie King Quotes

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