The Girls from the Girls

I am sitting, watching from over the top of my book, between notes from a front porch on a quiet, southern street cooling in an afternoon breeze. My legs hang over the edge just brushing the petals of columbines and cornflowers. A clear, clean sound cuts the air, more of a buzz than a bell, distinct, School Is Out. And a swarm, what seems to be hundreds, children fill the space, the street, the silence. Faces and voices, a throng lasting only a moment. When the dust has settled, and the restless offspring gathered by loving arms, five girls linger on a porch across from me. Petite, modest bodies, with faces the color of caramel and river clay. One of them drops her backpack and runs inside, letting the screen door slam her presence. The others stay, gathering in the shade of the awning. The resident runs back out, a huge piece of white chalk in hand. There is mumbling, and a gathering around her. In a moment the circle breaks up and they walk, jump, amble down the steps. The girl with the chalk holds the instrument out, arms length in front of her, the biggest girl, with a black bow in her hair reaches out to take it from her, she pulls back, resisting in jest, only a moment, and then the prompter has it. She kneels down black bow, and all, the others gather close behind. Quickly she works, scything out the secret on the steps. Abruptly she stands, pushing the others back. There is a mumbling, a disordered instruction being smoothed out, then an orderly cue forms… The Scribe at the back, herding, and conducting, and peering over shoulders, this is her show now. One-by-one, these candy and earth colored girls make their way up the stairs to the beat of a hop-scotch pattern. The first declares upon her landing, “Dis our porch. Girls only!” She turns around and extends her hands towards the next girl, who, in turn performs the ritual exactly. Taking the hands of her waiting comrade upon completion, she repeats the exclamation. And again, and again. Now it is the Scribe’s turn. This is her ritual, her incantation. She puts her hands high in the air before she begins and stretches, a neo-classical fourth position to one side, then a plie. She takes the first step in style, then each step punctuating them with a pause, allowing her audience a chance to gasp and applaud. All is going well. Black bow still intact, she makes it to the final step. There she is met by the smallest of the bunch, an open palm to her face. The Scribe pauses, dead center leap, “What chu doin?” The Smallest smiles, “Dis our porch. Girls only!” The Scribe never wavers, and opens her mouth, first in surprise then, with a shake of her hand and a bob of her head, “Shuh, Din I must be da cutest boy ever”.