The Sugar Cookie Song by Travis Flatt

“Don’t,” I say.

Little Girl says, “Be quiet,” and there’s another splash in my face. I’m spluttering, on my knees in this hole in the dirt. Why did I let her carry me out here, the way she’s been acting?

Because I love her. 

This was no slumber party; she stomped in, snatched me from my tea party chair, then carried me dangling by one arm into the woods.

The gasoline burns my eyes. Stings my stuffing. Little Girl’s pink princess dress is a dazzling blur.

“Please,” I say. Little Girl’s face finally focuses. There’s an icy look, like whenever Stepsister slips into her room, yanks her arm behind her back, and says, “Never, ever touch my XBOX, you little skank.” 

When that happens, I calm Little Girl down. We talk gently, her squeezing me and whispering, “Mr. Rat, I want to kill her,” and I’ll say, “Hey—don’t say that.”

Then Mr. Crab’ll chime in with: “Yeah, do it!  Blow her up with a rocket,” or some such—the irony. Mr. Crab making nasty jokes; now me at the bottom of a pit, drenched in gas. 

“Don’t, please,” I’m bawling. Bawling like Little Girl when Mom said, “Your father—” (meaning Frank, her stepdad) “—and I are taking you out of ballet and gymnastics. Until your grades improve.” Then come to find out they let Stepsister do horseback riding, even though her grades are abysmal.  

Little Girl says, “Have some dignity, Mr. Rat.” 

From her pink purse, the one that complements her dress so nicely, the one that’s smelled like sour milk since Mom tried to trash the whole ensemble, calling it “unfit for your age,” Little Girl takes a matchbook.

“Wait,” I say. Little Girl tries a match, but singes her finger; she yelps and drops the dead match into the hole. Her lip trembles. “Take it like a man, Mr. Rat. Mr. Crab did.” 

I start singing “The Sugar Cookie Song”—the song me, Little Girl, and Mr. Crab wrote to celebrate our love for cookies.

“Cut it out,” says Little Girl. She tries another match. It strikes. She holds it over the pit, the pit she dug who knows when. It burns out as she listens. She drops the curled stub beside her saddle shoe.  

I sing louder. Little Girl falls on her knees, scoops me up, says, “Mr. Rat, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Mr. Rat—what am I going to do? Oh no—Mr. Crab!” She’s rocking me, crying, and scritching the fur between my ears, squishing the stuffing into my head, making me dizzy. 

She examines me, pats off the dirt, says, “You’re okay; you’re okay.” 

Mom shouts through the woods, “Katie?” 

Little Girl runs home, me hanging limp from her hand. Mom and Stepsister stand on the porch. Mom rushes down.

“Baby—did you start a fire? We found—” Stepsister holds up what’s left of Mr. Crab, who’s awful to see: the worst is the black twist of his right claw. He’s ripped, partially unstuffed. There are muddy footprints on his wool where Little Girl must’ve stamped him out, “—what happened? Why, baby?” 

“She’s nuts,” says Stepsister. 

Mom wheels. “You hush.” She kneels, cups Little Girl’s face. “We were so worried, Katie. Are you okay? Never play with fire.”

“Sorry, Mom.”  

“I’m getting Frank,” Mom says and goes inside. 

Stepsister’s grinning, holds up the fried Mr. Crab. “Gah, Katie. I thought you loved this stupid—” 

Little Girl swings me, whacks Stepsister across the face, shouts, “Be quiet. Don’t talk about him.” 

This hurts. Although I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought about whacking Stepsister. Everyone probably has. 

She drops Mr. Crab. 

Mom and Frank return. He looks confused. “What’s up?”

Little Girl shouts, “I want to go back to ballet!” 

Frank looks at Mom. “Oh. Okay—how was her report card?”

“And gymnastics,” I whisper. 

“And gymnastics!” 

“Frank, she was playing with fire,” says Mom. 

Frank takes a drink of his coffee. “Shit. Did anyone get hurt? Well: don’t. What? What am I supposed to say?” He’s edging toward the porch.

“Frank!”

“What? Everyone’s fine. She said she was sorry.” 

Stepsister storms inside. 

“Don’t forget horseback riding,” says the crispy Mr. Crab. “You’ve got’em where you want’em.” 

At the kitchen table, we negotiate terms. I stick to the facts, remind Little Girl of her 4-H project win, a net rise across STEM grades, that time she offered to rake Mrs. Collins’ leaves. Mr. Crab plays dirty, bringing in Stepsister bombing the ACTs after they paid for a practice test. Then the hickey fiasco. We land on two weeks’ grounding, in exchange for ballet, gymnastics, and, if we pull A’s, horseback riding. Probationary.

“Honestly,” Little Girl says, sitting us down for cookies upstairs. “I’m tired of gymnastics. Ballet’s fine.” She gets that icy look. “It’s about respect.” 

Travis Flatt (he/him) is an epileptic teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear or are forthcoming with Hawkeye, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Bulb Region, Maudlin House, Emerge, Fictive Dream, Claudine, and elsewhere.