Nothing Ever Happens

Alessandra crouches low, so her ruffle-pantied bottom hangs over her lace-cuffed ankles. She holds her dimpled hands on her pudgy bare knees and looks at the glistening line curl and swirl across the patio. The morning sun has caught the snail trails just so, and they have captured Alessandra's attention; she traces the slimy lines with her eyes until they stop at her patent-leather Mary Janes. Hands still on her knees, Alessandra stands up part way, just enough so that now her back side pokes out behind her as she peers between her alabaster sausage legs to see how far the snail trail goes. Finding the end will take some exploring, so she turns herself around in one spritely hop.

"JAMISON!" she hears her mother shriek from inside the house. She freezes and waits to hear her
name, too.

"Jamison, we were supposed to leave five minutes ago. Put your pants on, NOW." Alessandra's mother appears at the screen door and sees the girl standing perfectly still, looking at the house with big brown eyes.

"Alessandra, you look lovely, sweetheart. Your brother is almost ready; don't leave the yard. We'll be on our way shortly." Her mother's face dissolves into the darkness behind the screen door before Alessandra can say, "Yes, Mommie." Her hands are clenched together in front of her at her waist, and she drops them to her sides, then grabs her green dress, begins to lift the skirt to her face, but  thinks better of it. Instead, Alessandra tips herself up on her toes, then seesaws back onto her heels, swings her arms front to back, making her skirt sway forward and backward. The sun comes from behind a cloud and a fine line shimmers in the light, catches her eye, and she remembers her mission.

Alessandra starts to walk toward the edge of the patio, away from the house, but ever so slowly. She straddles the trail, walks with a lumbering gait, like a monster would: She moves her entire lower body with each step, without bending her knees or ankles. Then she moves to one side of the trail and walks  as if she is walking on a rope, like in the circus. She holds her hands out at her sides, walks carefully. When she arrives at the edge of the patio she jumps to the first of several flagstones that make a path to the driveway and are big enough to sit on. She leaps to the nearest one by throwing out her right leg and letting her left one trail behind her. She stumbles a little when she reaches the stone, but regains her balance without stepping into the moist lawn. She crouches low then springs to the next stone with both feet together. She walks normally across the rest of the stones, but looks left and right, because there are tigers in the yard waiting to eat her if she touches the grass.

The trail she was following on the patio has disappeared, but Alessandra sees three new tracks looping down the long, smooth driveway. She steps over one path, and once between two silvery streaks, she hunches over, holds her chubby arms in toward her chest and walks down the driveway in baby steps: She moves each foot just a smidgen at a time, walking the way snails would if they had feet.

When Alessandra reaches the sidewalk a tall woman walks by. She is wrapped in a cloud of perfume that follows her down the block. Alessandra closes her eyes and imagines a place where so many flowers grow, a field that smells like the lady who smells like her mother.

"Alessandra! What did I tell you?" Alessandra's mother yanks the first arm she sees, whips the girl around and drags her back up the driveway to the garage. On the way Alessandra spies a little snail that has nearly reached the edge of the driveway. She lifts a leg just in time to stomp on it as she stumbles by.