I met him in the sandbox.

It sits just past the streetlight mamma tells me is old fashioned because it looks more like candy than a stoplight. I don't agree, but I'd never tell her. (she only insults it in this manner after she forgets to look for it and runs a red light)

I was not building sandcastles, or playing house, or pretending to be princess of anything. I was building roadways and mountains and intersections for my little yellow jeep to purr its way over; ignorant of all traffic laws. (Did you know that if you purse your lips and blow, you can grrr just like one?)

He had green eyes to match his green tractor, and we built farms and dug trenches until our little arms were sore and then we planted pebbles while we chanted grow corn grow.


.


I think I remember her skirts, and the red of her hair, and the twisted rouge of her lips as she yanked him stumbling to his feet and sneered.

_{She had his green eyes.}

I do remember what she said, Don’t play with her Michael. She’s dirty. I didn't know then, that the word dirty had nothing to do with hygiene.

He looked at me wide-eyed and uncomprehending, his little fingers wrapped around my jeep as I protested, But I’m not! Mamma makes me take a bath every night! And I scrub! I do!  

Her eyes hardened, And stupid. She scooped Michael up and stalked away, heals clicking on concrete; carrying my little jeep with them.

I started crying.

I didn’t hear him say into her shoulder, But mum, look, she can’t be dirty; she’s crying. Wouldn’t the dirt wash off mum? Wouldn’t it, Mum?


.



I went home and looked at the chocolate back of my hand, and the pale palm, over
and over again.

_{once, twice, three times, four.}

My palm looked like his.

Maybe the back would just peel off. Maybe if I used enough soap, or scrubbed really really hard he could still play with me. Maybe I wasn’t cleaning well enough. Maybe.

My nails bit into the line between the skin tones and scratched, but it just turned them red.

Hun, what are you doing? She stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe, her red high heels shiny and new.

Mamma. Am I dirty?

I should have known when she knew what I meant that –  

I should have known when she bent down and wrapped her arms around me that something was different, that –

No hun. You aren’t dirty. You’re beautiful.

Then why can’t Michael play with me?

It was the first time my mother didn’t know what to say.


.


I was building farms and digging trenches when he found me. I was covered in sand. I looked at him defiantly, without knowing why, and stated in my best iamnothurt voice,

I’m not dirty.

He smiled and said,

I know.
Want some gummy worms?

and offered me my jeep.