My Friend the Enemy

Doing Our Part I didn't mean to do it. I just got carried away. First I found the balloon in the bib pocket of my overalls and thought it would be fun to fill it with water from the faucet by the garage. Then I thought about finding something to throw the balloon at, and that's when my sister put the record on. Dance music blared out of our bedroom window, pulling me closer to the house as the Andrews Sisters sang, Don't sit under the apple tree With anyone else but me, Anyone else but me, Anyone else but me--No! No! No! Sneaking around the corner of the house between the forsythia bushes, I became patrol leader H. N. Anderson. My men crept behind me so silently I couldn't even hear them until we all crouched together under the window, hugging our grenades and listening to high heels click on the wood floor. Nice trick, I thought--the enemy's using an all-American band as cover for sabotage. But it won't work. Steady, men . . . steady . . . NOW! I leapt up and hurled my grenade through the open window. There wasn't any time to aim; all I hoped to hit was the floor. But the balloon struck the edge of the vanity mirror and exploded all over ribbons, lipstick, powder boxes, and Estelle. I stared at her for a second, seeing mainly a mouth as wide as a bathtub. Mission accomplished--now scram! I dashed toward the front porch as my sister's scream sounded--low at first but zooming up like an air-raid siren. Enemy plane! Take cover! Straight ahead was the old henhouse. Follow me, men! The natives might give us shelter! I didn't see the attack squad until they were right on top of us--trapped! I dodged to the left, but a long arm reached out and yanked me up so fast my feet swung out from under me. That made me really mad. "Lemme go, you lousy Jap!" "Hey, soldier. Hey. I'm on your side. Private J. J. Lanski, U.S. Marines." As my heart slowed down, I got an eyeful of starchy khakis and the gleam of an anchor-and-globe pin on a collar. He stuck out his hand. "Shake." From the porch Estelle hollered, "Jed! Don't let her get away!" I remembered the mission and made a bolt for the woods, but Jed caught me around the middle and tucked me under his arm like a bag of flour. Then he started for the house. "Looks like you've seen some action, soldier. You'll have to tell me about it at the picnic." But Estelle was already telling him, fast and loud. "You'll never guess what she did! I was standing in front of the mirror when she hauls off and throws a water balloon through the window. Now look at me--she's ruined my dress, my hair--" Which was baloney. The ruffle on one sleeve hung limp, but a little water couldn't wash the curl out of her hair or the sparkle from her eyes. "Oh, dry up," I muttered once my feet were on the ground. "If only I could--" "I think you look fine," Jed offered. "Better than fine." They were starting to go all moony-eyed when Mom stalked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "What's going on?" Estelle started off making it sound like she was Poland and I was Hitler, but Mom cut it short. "All right, all right. For heaven's sake, Hazel, you're almost twelve. Aren't you a little old for silly practical jokes?" Questions like this don't usually expect an answer. "Don't let her ride to the picnic with us," Estelle said quickly. "Put her to work washing dishes." "If I need suggestions, I'll ask for them, dear." "But Mother. It's our last chance to be together before Jed--" "Um . . . we won't exactly be alone, doll." Jed's fingers twitched on my shoulder, but I wasn't the doll he meant. "My mom decided to come." We all stared at the Lanskis' Ford. Jed's mother got out of her house so seldom, it was as if a big mushroom had suddenly sprungCheaney, J. B. is the author of 'My Friend the Enemy ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780440421023 and ISBN 0440421020.