Ericka and the Urn
Okay, this story just popped into my head. Hope you enjoy.
On to Part 2!
"Ericka Susette Slate!" My mom's voice sounded like I was in
I clenched my jaw and headed into the living room, where Mom's
shout had come from. She was standing, balled fists on her hips, and
staring at a vase. A vase that was now in a million pieces scattered
all over the floor.
My eyes widened as I registered the gravity of the situation.
That was no ordinary vase, that was my great grandfather's cremated
remains. I hadn't done it.
"Mom," I said, "I didn't do it."
My mother, a tall woman with soft brown hair and a beautiful
face, gave me her 'you better not be lying to me' look. Her eyebrows
furrowed as her eyes narrowed at the same time. "Go find your brothers,
I was relieved to be excused. Between my brothers and I, we
often managed to get into trouble. My little sister, however, was
the baby of the family, and never got blamed for anything. Although
being two, she really couldn't be blamed for doing much intentionally.
I placed my bets on Rick, my oldest brother. Probably Grandpa had
suffered from Rick's attempts to be the next Nolan Ryan.
I raced upstairs, skipping a stair each time in an attempt to
find my brothers a soon as possible. My face was gleeful as I
pictured Ricky being chewed out for destroying a family heirloom. It
was payback time.
Last week, Ricky had blamed me for dumping green dye in the
swimming pool. He had done it, and Mom had believed him, since he
had a convincing enough story.
I found Rick in his room, cleaning his trophy collection.
"You are in deep trouble," I said in a singsong voice. "Grandpa is
all over the floor." I gave him a smile that had revenge written all
Rick, a tall 16-year-old with dark hair just like mine,
glared at me. "What?! I didn't break Grandpa."
I gave him my best smirk. "Liar." I raced out of the room
before he could grab me and headed for Jimmy's room. "Jimmy," I said
to my second oldest brother.
I poked my head in his room as he put down the model paints
he had been working on. "I'm busy, dweeb." Jimmy was 12, and had
dusty blonde hair that was turning light brown.
"Mom says to come downstairs to find out how Grandpa got all
over the floor." I didn't heckle Jimmy so much. I was only one year
behind him, and often we were partners in crime. He called me Dweeb,
and I called him Dork. Together we were Dwork, as my Dad called us.
When I got downstairs again, Ricky was already talking to Mom,
trying to get out of punishment. "Mom, I didn't do it. I was upstairs
cleaning my room all morning."
"Oh, please," I said as I mimicked my mother's imposing posture.
Mom turned and pointed a finger in my direction. "I didn't ask
for your input."
I looked down at my shoes as I lost some of my earlier spunk.
I wished Ricky would just come clean and get his just deserts. I knew
it had to be him, or at least I hoped it was.
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