Icy Sparks Read Free Page B

come?” I snapped, tossing back my head, flicking a Milk Dud into my mouth.
    â€œâ€™Cause he has frog eyes like you.” Joel held on to a Chilly Dilly, a long green dill pickle sold at the candy counter.
    I slammed the Coke and Milk Duds down on the armrests, one on each side, and jumped up. “You polecat of a dog!” I didn’t know if those words meant anything nasty, but I liked the sound of them. “You big fat liar!”
    â€œYour eyes pop out like a frog’s,” Joel said, waving the pickle around like a baton.
    â€œThey don’t,” I said.
    â€œThey do, too,” Joel said, thrusting the Chilly Dilly in my direction.
    â€œLiar, liar, pants on fire!” I screamed, losing all composure, pointing my fist at his pickle.
    â€œShush!” came a voice from a few rows back.
    â€œI seen you, Icy Sparks. I seen you behind Old Man Potter’s barn.”
    â€œYou seen what?” I demanded. “Polecats stink. They ain’t able to see.”
    Joel McRoy rose to his feet, swung his hand upward, and angrily crunched. One-half of the Chilly Dilly disappeared into his mouth. “I…seen you…” he said between bites, chomping down dill pickle like it was an ear of sweet corn, “jer…king, pop…ping them frog…eyes of yours…behind Old Man Pot…ter’s barn.”
    â€œYou slimy ole pickle!” I bellowed. “You ain’t seen nothing.”
    â€œFrog eyes! Frog eyes! Frog eyes!” Joel screamed back.
    â€œBe quiet, you two!” someone warned.
    â€œLiar! Liar! Liar!” I yelled, ignoring the warning, then grabbed my cup of Coke, rocked up on my toes, leaned over, and poured the whole drink, ice and all, over Joel’s head. Stunned, he just stood there, a green chunk of Chilly Dilly inside his mouth, swelling out his cheek, a half-eaten pickle gripped in his hand.
    â€œYou ain’t seen nothing! You just tell lies!” And with these final words, I marched out—knowing full well that Joel McRoy was telling the truth, that the week before when I was out playing tag with him and his cousin, Janie Lou, the urges had gotten really bad, and I had stolen away behind Old Man Potter’s barn and let loose such a string of jerks and eye pops that the ground behind the barn seemed to shake.
    Not only was I a hoarder of secrets, but—in the space of ten minutes—I had also become a full-fledged liar.
    That afternoon, after leaving Darley Theater, I whiled away my nerves and guilt roaming the hilly, winding streets of Ginseng. I passed by the Crockett County Courthouse, the center of town. Farmers in bib overalls were scattered along the brick walkway that led to its four skinny white columns. Red geraniums bloomed on either side of the walkway leading to the entrance graced by a Kentucky flag and a U.S. flag. I continued east on Main Street, walking by the post office only two buildings down, but saw no one sitting out front on its dusty white steps. Adjacent to the post office was the Samson Coal Company—its offices located in a two-story, red brick building. Next came People’s Bank, a gray, quarry-stoned building constructed during the 1920s. Three buildings down from the bank on the other side of the street was the Darley Theater, a crimson brick movie house with a marquee in front, where I had told off Joel McRoy. I definitely didn’t want to go there; so, instead, I abruptly cut across the street and headed down a steep sidewalk toward the Cut’n Curl, which was tucked into a corner of Short Street.
    When I arrived, I said hello to Mrs. Matson, the proprietor—a tall, large-boned woman who wore her orange-red hair in tight, short curls—and helped sweep up strands of hair around the chairs and beside the sinks. After I folded towels, picked up scattered magazines, and cleaned the toilet, she gave me a bottle of Coke, so cold that ice clung to the glass while an