9. Will and Me (cont.)

We played marbles in the red-slag road in the summer, on the living room rug in the winter, drawing our oval with a stick on the road, chalk on the rug. We kept our marbles in cast-off cigar boxes. But what I most liked to do with my box of marbles was to make up stories. My shooters were adults; my regular sized marbles, children. That game I played alone because Will had no use for it.

Sometimes we fought. Will was always at a disadvantage in fights, because he was not allowed to hit me. That was because I was younger and smaller and not as strong...and, of course, a girl. When I was really angry, I kicked him. That was something ballet lessons had done for me. I had a good strong kick. When Will complained to Mother she finally said that if I kicked he could hit me back as hard as he liked. My sense of self preservation was well enough intact that I never kicked him again after that.

We did a lot together, living in relative isolation as we were, yet we were never quite friends. I admired his many skills. He, as far as I could tell, found nothing about me worthy of admiration. Walking home from a movie with him one evening, I complained because I couldn’t keep up with his long stride. “Well,” he replied, “if you’d move as far forward with each step as you do side to side, you might get somewhere.”