Fiction

Momma's Lesson
by Tanya Twombly

Momma taught me about those nasty boys and she done taught me good. I was thirteen when Johnny Cassock come to the lot. You might not know him in the flesh. I ‘spect you don’t. But you know his type. Sure you do. He’s the one who don’t got no pimples cause his daddy buys him that expensive cream. The one with the perfect teeth and fancy clothes. The one all the girls wants to date, but no one
does and the teachers all thinks is the best thing since thick-sliced bacon.

I was alone in the lot when he showed up. The grown-ups called it The Park, but you can’t just stick a swing set in the neighborhood dump and call it a park. A park’s a pretty place with trees and benches and fountains. A place where moms push babies on swings and old folks walk dogs in the evenings. Like the one across the street from Johnny Cassock’s house. That’s a park. All the lot’s got is a coupla dumpsters and the prettiest thing in it’s the way the sun lights off broken bottles around lunchtime.

All the other kids was at school that day, but Momma kept me home to watch the babies while she was at work cause Ginny told Momma she had taken ill and couldn’t do it. If you ask me, I think Ginny was just too busy letting her jailbird boyfriend slip it to her. I seen them later that morning—her standing in the doorway of her apartment in
just a skimpy shirt and him running his filthy hands all over her.

But Momma told me it ain’t my place to question a grown-up, so I just done what I was told and stayed home.

Momma came home early that day as mad as a baboon flinging shit. She said she got into a fight with her boss and got sent home. That meant it was time to make myself scarce. So when little Benji woke from his nap crying and Momma was busy screaming, I slipped out and headed to the lot.

I wasn’t doing much—just sitting on the swing with the crooked seat, pushing a broken bottle with my toe and wondering how long till it’d be safe to go home. Not sure why Johnny Cassock was there. Maybe he was playing hookey and figured our neighborhood was one place he wouldn’t get caught. Or maybe he was looking for trouble. The lot’s never short on that. Either way, he looked surprised when he come around the corner and seen me. His eyebrows jumped up his forehead and made his eyes go wide.

“What’re you doing here?” he said. Like I was the one out of place.

“What’s it to you?” Guys like Johnny Cassock with their lick-my-ass
attitude piss me off. They think they own the world. Momma always said we might not have much, but we got to defend what we got. I was goddamned if I was going to let him take over my rusted swing set.

Oh he was smooth. Making it sound like he was there all the time. Acting like it didn’t matter none if I was there or not. But Momma didn’t raise me to be stupid. I could see the way he was looking at me, noticing my too-tight shirt and how the hem of my skirt would lift, showing off the crotch of my panties if I was forgetful and didn’t keep my legs together.

I stood and pushed the hem as far down as I could. Johnny Cassock’s gaze drifted back up my body, but never quite made it to my face, where a decent boy woulda looked. Momma always said boys was bound to try to get a little from me. As I stood there watching that boy play with my titties in his mind, I knew just what she meant.

He took a step closer and I knew why. Sure I did. Momma said boys like him was “fucking pigs” and wanted to touch me where I ain’t supposed to be touched. The way Momma’s last boyfriend would when he snuck into my room after Momma fell asleep.

“Fucking pigs,” Momma had said. “You don’t worry if you hurt them, cause they just out to hurt you. Do whatever it takes to stop them. Whatever it takes. You hear?”

I sure did. I always listened to Momma.

Johnny Cassock reached for the swing, making like he was going to sit on that rusted ole thing. I knew different though. I knew he was just trying to get close enough to shove me down and poke his prick up under my skirt.

I knew.

But I remembered Momma.

I swooped down and snatched the broken bottle at my feet. I brought that bottle up and rammed it right into Johnny Cassock’s throat. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes went wide just like they done when he first seen me. He gurgled and sputtered. Blood shot into the bottle and poured out the neck, like some strangecolored
beer.

Johnny Cassock dropped to the ground—eyes still wide, probably surprised he hadn’t gotten a little.

No one knows what happened that day.

No one but Momma...

When the police came later asking questions, Momma—just as cool as you please—said we all been in the apartment with her.

Even me.

After closing the door, she raised an eyebrow.

“Fucking pig?” she asked.

I nodded.

She winked at me and smiled.

October/November 2004

	Taken from Bare Bone #6 PRE-ORDER available at ProjectPulp.com
Momma's Lesson by Tanya Twombly Momma taught me about those nasty boys and she done taught me good. I was thirteen when Johnny Cassock come to the lot. You might not know him in the flesh. I ‘spect you don’t. But you know his type. Sure you do. He’s the one who don’t got no pimples cause his daddy buys him that expensive cream. The one with the perfect teeth and fancy clothes. The one all the girls wants to date, but no one does and the teachers all thinks is the best thing since thick-sliced bacon. Every town’s got one of them boys. In mine it was Johnny Cassock. I was alone in the lot when he showed up. The grown-ups called it The Park, but you can’t just stick a swing set in the neighborhood dump and call it a park. A park’s a pretty place with trees and benches and fountains. A place where moms push babies on swings and old folks walk dogs in the evenings. Like the one across the street from Johnny Cassock’s house. That’s a park. All the lot’s got is a coupla dumpsters and the prettiest thing in it’s the way the sun lights off broken bottles around lunchtime. All the other kids was at school that day, but Momma kept me home to watch the babies while she was at work cause Ginny told Momma she had taken ill and couldn’t do it. If you ask me, I think Ginny was just too busy letting her jailbird boyfriend slip it to her. I seen them later that morning—her standing in the doorway of her apartment in just a skimpy shirt and him running his filthy hands all over her. But Momma told me it ain’t my place to question a grown-up, so I just done what I was told and stayed home. Momma came home early that day as mad as a baboon flinging shit. She said she got into a fight with her boss and got sent home. That meant it was time to make myself scarce. So when little Benji woke from his nap crying and Momma was busy screaming, I slipped out and headed to the lot. I wasn’t doing much—just sitting on the swing with the crooked seat, pushing a broken bottle with my toe and wondering how long till it’d be safe to go home. Not sure why Johnny Cassock was there. Maybe he was playing hookey and figured our neighborhood was one place he wouldn’t get caught. Or maybe he was looking for trouble. The lot’s never short on that. Either way, he looked surprised when he come around the corner and seen me. His eyebrows jumped up his forehead and made his eyes go wide. “What’re you doing here?” he said. Like I was the one out of place. “What’s it to you?” Guys like Johnny Cassock with their lick-my-ass attitude piss me off. They think they own the world. Momma always said we might not have much, but we got to defend what we got. I was goddamned if I was going to let him take over my rusted swing set. He shrugged. “Never seen you here before.” Oh he was smooth. Making it sound like he was there all the time. Acting like it didn’t matter none if I was there or not. But Momma didn’t raise me to be stupid. I could see the way he was looking at me, noticing my too-tight shirt and how the hem of my skirt would lift, showing off the crotch of my panties if I was forgetful and didn’t keep my legs together. I stood and pushed the hem as far down as I could. Johnny Cassock’s gaze drifted back up my body, but never quite made it to my face, where a decent boy woulda looked. Momma always said boys was bound to try to get a little from me. As I stood there watching that boy play with my titties in his mind, I knew just what she meant. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why don’t you go home?” Johnny Cassock smiled. “I like it here.” He took a step closer and I knew why. Sure I did. Momma said boys like him was “fucking pigs” and wanted to touch me where I ain’t supposed to be touched. The way Momma’s last boyfriend would when he snuck into my room after Momma fell asleep. “Fucking pigs,” Momma had said. “You don’t worry if you hurt them, cause they just out to hurt you. Do whatever it takes to stop them. Whatever it takes. You hear?” I sure did. I always listened to Momma. Johnny Cassock reached for the swing, making like he was going to sit on that rusted ole thing. I knew different though. I knew he was just trying to get close enough to shove me down and poke his prick up under my skirt. I knew. But I remembered Momma. I swooped down and snatched the broken bottle at my feet. I brought that bottle up and rammed it right into Johnny Cassock’s throat. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes went wide just like they done when he first seen me. He gurgled and sputtered. Blood shot into the bottle and poured out the neck, like some strangecolored beer. Johnny Cassock dropped to the ground—eyes still wide, probably surprised he hadn’t gotten a little. * * * * No one knows what happened that day. No one but Momma... When the police came later asking questions, Momma—just as cool as you please—said we all been in the apartment with her. Even me. After closing the door, she raised an eyebrow. “Fucking pig?” she asked. I nodded. She winked at me and smiled. Find out your Psychological Horror profile: Take the Bare Bone quiz.