In the Back Seat

In the back seat, a lot can happen. I can take crackers from the baby and no one can stop me. I can touch my little sister last and taunt her as I squish my body against the car door. And because her arms are short and her hands are small, she can't reach me over the baby seat and I win. I only have to brush a touch on her shirt sleeve or the hem of her jumper. She doesn't even have to feel it, but if she sees me do it and I stake claim to the touch, I prevail.

It all happens in the backseat. Buckled in. Car seat between us. Baby crying because I stole his box of animal crackers. Everything's going my way. I've won the touch game. I've been fed. And then, suddenly, the car screeches to a stop because my mother has had enough. Enough of the baby crying, my sister whining and me snickering. So she stops. I hear metal twist as her door flies open. She charges to my side of the car and whips open the door. She grabs my right arm and yanks. My neck catches in the shoulder strap and I begin to choke. I spit out monkey and elephant parts, the evidence.

My mother yells. My sister laughs. The baby tips his head. Cracker crumbs shoot out my nose and still, my mother's trying to drag me out of the car. Finally, horns honk - the grip eases. The light turns green. I begin to regain consciousness and cough up an unchewed donkey head. My mother slams my door and I barely escape an amputation.

I wipe my face and try to regain some of my birth order dignity. I turn to my siblings expecting some kind of triumphant gloat but they are still. My sister faces forward, hands folded in her lap. The baby reaches out and pats my shoulder. And for the rest of the ride home from the grocery store, there's only silence from the back seat.