Son of Dolls

Caroline’s hair is banana-yellow and it curves around her perfect head like the top of a mushroom I’d find on a Cub Scouts trip. When the sun lights it up, her hair is a halo, but they never said anything about angels being this pretty in the fat book Mom reads to me every night. I’m all the way on the other end of the playground, alone on the squeaky swings, but I can smell her coconut shampoo from here, all pure and creamy sweetness.

I kick a rock around between my muddy sneakers and check my Spider-Man watch; it’s almost time for Ryan and Bobby to call Caroline the bad words I’m not supposed to repeat. One time, Ryan called Caroline the B-word without knowing Miss Lynn was right behind him. She told us then – very seriously and without her usual shiny teeth showing – to picture a ginormous pink eraser, then take that eraser and rub it really hard on the inside of our brains to forget all the dirty things Ryan said. I might have rubbed a little too hard, though, because it took some of my good thoughts too.

Ryan and Bobby walk up to Caroline, as they do every day, and laugh their ugly laughs as they spit globs at her pink boots. I’m dying to stop them, as I am every day, but Ryan and Bobby have longer legs and deeper voices, which makes my butt stick right onto the swing like it would with Elmer’s glue. When Ryan puts his gross ice-cream hand in Caroline’s hair and tosses it around until it looks like spaghetti, I have to turn away and squeeze my eyes shut.

If I can’t see it, it must not be real.

I like it inside my head because I can make believe I’m God. Apparently, he can do anything he wants, like tell frog friends to fall out of the sky or make water look cool by turning it red. If I had the chance, I’d make Ryan really sick and put bugs in Bobby’s hair, but save most of my magic to make Caroline smile.

I reopen my eyes to reality and a nearby movement catches my attention. A bush to my left is shaking slightly, making a weird crinkly sound. There are only two minutes left of recess, but my curiosity will not let this go. Mom usually tells me I’m a little too curious, like that time she caught me clawing through the mud for worms to play with, but she must not understand that pets are kinder than any person could be. I take a look around to make sure Miss Lynn isn’t watching, then make my way over to the mysterious bush.

Getting closer, I notice something brown and hairy stuck between the pointy branches, just twitching there. It’s a bundle of fur, but different from the fur on my dog or on the coat Mom took from the store for free. I lean down to pick up the soft thing and realize happily that it’s just a little bunny rabbit, no bigger than Dad’s hand that he uses on me when I forget to say “God bless you”.

It has red markings across its back, vibrant like the acrylic we use for arts and crafts. The way the color scratches back and forth reminds me of my paintings, which I heard make Mom feel afraid for me. I’d bet this bunny is artistic, too.

I decide that I will love this bunny, and that she will be a girl because she is pretty like Caroline. I will keep her, and she will become My Bunny. My Bunny may not be breathing, but that’s okay with me; the priest always drones on about how Jesus woke up from being dead – and not to mention, I was Frankenstein for Halloween – so I know exactly what it means to bring something back.

After recess, I sneak My Bunny into the classroom through my backpack, but I do wish she didn’t make the bottom so wet and red.

I hate this room— I always have. It hurts my head with its bright rainbow walls and there are too many posters around of cartoon characters telling me what to do, which makes my brain itch and try to punch its way out of me. Dull pencils and crayons are spilled out across the hopscotch carpet and I wonder how much I’d have to sharpen them to scratch the tingling out through my ears.

There are plenty of dusty board games and squishy stuffed animals that we’re only allowed to touch during playtime, but my favorite toy of all is the dollhouse. It’s huge, with golden chandeliers and marble floors that my parents would call “too showy”. They always say that like it’s a bad thing, which I don’t understand. I love a good show— especially NCIS. Dad will leave it on when he drinks too much of his clear stuff and falls asleep before dinner, always drooling and making monster growls.

The dollhouse towers over me, almost bigger than my mobile home, and its stained-glass windows made of colored plastic are even more stunning than the real ones at church. Luckily, it’s all just the right size for My Bunny to squeeze in.

I plop her down on the big bed meant for Mommy and Daddy dolls, which is where they touch mouths and make babies appear. I grab My Bunny by her arms and legs, which are thin like sticks, and twist her mushy belly around as I help her hop on the bed. She doesn’t need another bunny to touch whiskers with— she doesn’t seem to need anyone, and that’s what I love most about her.

Jiggling her limp body around, I try to keep up with the quick and noisy rhythm of classmate conversations. No one has noticed My Bunny yet; they’re all too busy with their sing-song hand games or building blocks that couldn’t make a house half as perfect as My Bunny’s. She seems to like moving this way, dancing from room to room and painting the floorboards behind her like a long red carpet. When I pull her lip flaps back, her yellow teeth make a grin. I do my best to keep My Bunny as happy as possible by twirling her round and round, her claws clattering cutely on the kitchen tile.

Miss Lynn is across the room telling a student not to steal someone else’s toys, and My Bunny is so bored of hearing it that she helps me turn all the talking into music. It’s like Sunday mass, with twinkling bells and an organ that shakes my bones, but more glorious than that; it’s like Heaven, and My Bunny loves it here. She spins around in the waterless shower, does a leap over the dining room table, and from the corner of my eye, I see a blurry yellow blob approaching.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice begins, and I know exactly who it belongs to. “May I please get a turn with the dollhouse?”

Caroline’s request comes out sad and a little bit lonely, and My Bunny can’t have anything weighing her down— not at a time like this.

“In a bit, Caroline,” I reply, hyper-focused. “This is her grand finale.”

It has all been leading up to this. This is my chance to get them to look and to leave the audience amazed. With all the strength in my little arms, I chuck My Bunny right into the air and watch her fly. Even though she’s dead, she does a double-backflip that ends with a loud smack into the ceiling, leaving a red splotch on the plaster to mark her pure talent.

Then, I hear someone scream— or was it a cheer?

"Jesse!" It’s Caroline. "What did you do?!”

I look down at My Bunny sprawled out between C and D on the alphabet mat, and I smile proudly as my peers gather around. Then, a sort of screeched singing graces my ears. Who would have thought— it’s Miss Lynn! She waves her hands around in strange, frantic motions – maybe a dance I’ve never learned – and chants her song’s chorus: “Don’t touch that! Don’t touch that! It’s not clean! It’s not clean!”

It’s a catchy tune, so I sway with both arms up, bouncing along to the melody.

“Jesse! Jesse! Jesse! Jesse!” my classmates add like backing vocals.

Then I’m beaming, and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest. My Bunny and I are superstars the crowd can never forget— not even with the biggest pink eraser in the whole wide world.