Below I’m posting the first short story I wrote for the ARIA Anthology. But first before you read it, there are a few things you should know.
ARIA, the Association of Rhode Island Authors, produces an anthology every year. A theme is chosen by the managing editor of anthologies and authors have to come up with a story using their own personal concept of what the theme means to them. It can be fact or fiction or poetry. It is then submitted to the deciding panel. It is a double blind. the judges don’t know who the authors are, and the authors don’t know who is judging their work. Only those who best represent the theme and the quality of their submission is accepted.
Green was the theme for the anthology for 2021 and No Green-Eyed Monster was my story and I’m proud to say it was accepted. I also want to add that it is my story. I wrote it, but I still cannot read it without crying.
No Green-Eyed Monster
I don’t remember my first home. I’ve heard a lot about it. A big apartment with a pretty good-sized yard. My mother didn’t like it because it was mostly driveway. I only remember leaving it behind. My sister was getting ready for first grade and my parents wanted us to go to a good school.
We moved to Cumberland. This home I remember well. Both my parents had dropped out of school. They married young. Mom was just sixteen, father only three years older. They saved every penny they could and bought a converted hunting shack. In my memory it was beautiful. There were four of us. My sister and I shared a bedroom. My parents had the only other one. The bathroom was an add on. Unfortunately, this meant the pipes were outside and froze when the weather got cold enough. It wasn’t often, but I can still see my mother emptying out the chamber pot. No matter how miserable the job she always came in smiling. For her children she would do whatever it took. We didn’t have a bathtub or shower. The farmers sink in the kitchen worked well enough. My sister outgrew it first. I remember the first day she went to school, leaving me behind. I wanted to go and didn’t understand when my sister came home crying.
I watched the glass cookie jar. I didn’t understand why Mom was putting her every spare dollar in the jar. When it went from clear to green, we went shopping. It was my turn to go to school. It didn’t take me long to find out why my sister cried. Poor is not something to brag about.
I didn’t understand why the girls laughed at me. My clothes were beautiful even if someone had worn them before. I was so unhappy, when it was my turn to read to the class, I couldn’t. I knew how to read. I didn’t know how not to listen. The first day of second grade I heard the girls bragging about their new clothes. I had new clothes too, well new for me.
“Can you believe she came back.” Diane was speaking loud enough for me to hear it.
I knew she wanted me to strike back. I’d already learned the very important lesson of knowing ones place. You didn’t fight the rich. Even when you were right, you were going to lose. I hated losing, so I gave up. That decision would affect the rest of my life. I think I should have fought more often.
“Wait till she sees what I’m wearing.” Diane was still speaking, her groupies surrounding her. “I can’t wait to rub it in her face. She’ll be so jealous.”
I ignored her, heading for recess with my Barbie doll and her box house. My sister and I both got brand new dolls. I’m pretty sure my parents spent too much on them. I had the second generation, my sister had the first. I wish we still had them. A lot of Barbie’s accessories were expensive. I called my Barbie, Betty after the Archie comic books. Betty had the nicest cloths. My mother made them. I know what the green eyes monster looks like. Every girl who came over to see my set up, wanted those beautiful crocheted dresses, the ball gowns made from whatever cloth my mother could get.
Being jealous only made my classmates meaner, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have a lot of friends so I listened. I learned a lot about the world. I heard girls bragging about how they could do whatever they wanted, watch whatever they chose. Boys bragging about the trouble they got into, the things their parents didn’t know about. To me it sounded like they were too often alone. Sometimes the truth would come out and I would hear how just once they’d like to have their parents attention.
Dad worked hard. He came home every day tired, but never too tired to pick up his guitar and play what to this day, I still think is the most beautiful music. Mom, whether she was in the kitchen cooking dinner or doing other chores, always sang along. Mom had a beautiful voice and when dad joined her, the harmony was something to hear. Harmonies still make me smile, sometimes they make me cry. My sister and I would dance, twirling our skirts around our legs, smiling when our parents applauded our awkward movements.
Once again, my parents wanted us to have what they didn’t. When my sister and I were old enough to be home alone, mom got a full-time job. By saving every penny, with the sale of the extra lot of land that came with the house, they were able to build a new home. A four-bedroom cape with a big living room and kitchen. The bathroom never froze. We had a tub and a shower. Nobody teased me about my hair needing to be washed. I hate that house. It stole my parents. Dad got a second job. He was only home between jobs, just enough time to eat, clean up and head back out. He never picked up the guitar. It sat collecting dust just like my memories. Mom stopped singing. My sister and I still didn’t have many friends. When you start out with nothing you can never catch up, at least in the minds of those who remember.
I am no green-eyed monster. I’ve never been jealous of those who have more, but I’ve frequently been jealous of those with less things and more of each other. I would trade all the green in my wallet for what I lost.
Debra Zannelli Author 