The Socks, or Where You Meet My Charming Sister

Sometimes I don't know why I even bother. It's like talking to a wall. My sister, Jessie, is the most impossible person that ever was. This argument had gone on for days, and we weren't any closer to ending it--and it's all over socks.

"Lauren! I'm telling you, I want those socks back," she yelled when I came into our room. You can only avoid your bedroom for so long, especially when your brothers bring their dumb friends over and take over downstairs. It was nothing but football, hoots of laughter, video games, and bags of snacks down there.

"I told you--I don't have them!" I mean, really. It's a pair of socks! Are they so important that you're willing to be horrible to your little sister 24/7? I mean, why am I even asking this? Of course she's willing to be horrible to me. I'm 13, and she's 15, and she thinks she is the adult in this arrangement. But, I mean. The proof is in the pudding, as Gran always says.

"You were the last one to wear them--even though I told you I didn't want your repulsive feet anywhere near them! As usual, ignoring anything you don't want to hear, and being selfish, and only thinking about what you want..."

I'd like to point out that this is rich, coming from someone like Jessie. She thinks that we all live to serve her. She has more than half of our room, too. I've tried taping the floor to show her what half actually means, but she ignores me, needless to say. She has a bookshelf that comes into my part of the room, but I'm not allowed to put anything on it or even to read any of the books. Her clothes hog over onto my side of the closet, her makeup table takes up most of the room at the window--because she has to have natural light--and she has this gigantic stuffed dog that Michael Benner won for her at the carnival in July that she just plonked into the middle of the floor, regardless of who trips over it in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom. Sometimes, when she isn't in the room, I jump onto that dog's head and sit there for a while, hoping to squish it out of shape. It's the ugliest thing ever--pink and yellow, with gigantic, plastic moony eyes--kind of like the ones Jessie gets when she talks about Michael. which is every other minute of the day.

I'm being honest when I say I don't have her socks. You'll find out that I'm a very honest person. I did wear them, and I did do it after Jessie had gone out because she'd told me not to wear them. The thing is, I'd run out of socks and Mom hadn't done the wash yet. And these were really nice socks. They were aqua blue with white bands around the ankle and toes and were just so soft. They didn't have that old, dirty, sort of limp feel that socks get after you've worn them fifty times, and they matched my shirt perfectly. Jessie has a job this summer, working at the Gap in the mall, and she's brought home all sorts of stuff she buys with her pay. Her dumb friends, Lucy and Allison, also work there, and they egg each other on when it comes to buying stuff. Personally, I would save some of that money. But Jessie always does what she likes best at the time, not what she should do for the future.

I wore them, and I know I still had them on when I got home. I remember because it was really hot that day and my friend Kimmie and I were down at the creek. I took my shoes and Jessie's socks off--how dumb do you think I am, anyway?--before we started wading around in the water. We like to catch frogs and minnows, and we keep an old sand bucket down there for that reason. Kimmie had the idea to dig a hole the bucket could sit in, and then we filled in the hole so it looked like a tiny pond. The grass grows up around it and hides the plastic pretty well, and the bucket won't blow away or get lost in the creek when we aren't there. Kimmie's smart--it's one of the reasons we get along together, because we're always frustrated by being around dumb people like my sister. She thought of it when I said that maybe we were too old to be walking to the creek carrying a bucket like a couple of kids. She agreed that we were too old, and you never knew who you might meet along the way. That maybe if we saw boys, we'd want to look mature. I couldn't argue with that. It's the best of both worlds, though, because when we're alone down there we can still catch frogs like we always have. Before you ask--we always let everyone out of the bucket before we leave. We just like to watch them in there for a while.

Anyway, I took the socks and my sneakers off, and I put the socks into the place where my feet go in the shoes so they wouldn't get lost. And they didn't get lost--what they got was wet and then muddy and bloody. I was in the creek, after a particularly fat and wily old frog....maybe you don't know this, but frogs can be smart when they get old. This one had led me on a chase and I was determined to catch him. But he was so slippery that I ended up slipping myself, and I sort of slid on some moss that was on a rock, and as my foot slid down, it scraped along and just like that, blood was everywhere. My foot was sliced, only about an inch-long cut, but it bled a lot. Kimmie was no help; she hates gore in real life, though she likes to watch horror movies. She got kind of hysterical while giving me advice.

"Do we have anything we can wrap it up in? You need to wrap it up to make it stop bleeding!" She squeezed her eyes shut and spoke to me, but refused to look at the blood.

We had nothing other than our clothes, and neither one of us was going to walk home without a shirt or something. I decided to wash it off and press leaves against it for a while. The cold water made it feel a little better after stinging like crazy when I first put it in there. I sat on a boulder with some maple leaves (Kimmie reminded me I'd better make sure to recognize the leaves I used or I might end up with poison ivy or something. I told you--smart) Anyway, leaves aren't really the most absorbent on blood, which is probably why someone invented bandages, right? I started to limp back to the shoes, thinking I'd put on Jessie's sock which would at least sop up the blood, and worry about it later. My mom said there were things to soak laundry in that would take just about anything out, and I knew Jessie and Michael had a date that night. I'd have plenty of time to work on that.

Unfortunately, I was concentrating so hard on mincing along with my hurt foot on tiptoes that I didn't see a patch where there was no grass or anything to cover the dirt. We'd been splashing around after the frogs and having fun, and it was just a good old patch of muddy dirt by now. My tiptoes squished in so that they were absolutely coated. My other foot that was walking normally got dirty on the bottom, but nothing like the other one. I was able to wipe probably 90% onto the grass with the not-hurt foot. And yes, I could have taken the shoes back over to the creek and washed my toes properly, but honestly, by that time I wasn't interested in the sting of the water on my cut, and I certainly wasn't going to rub the dirt off. The slice was nearish to my toes and just walking on tiptoes was sending agony through me. I didn't have any interest in moving my toes any more than I had to.

"What happened?" Kimmie wanted to know. Her eyes were still shut, but she'd heard the grunt I'd made when my toes squished into the mud. "Did the leaves work?"

"Not really, " I said grimly, "and now I'm covered in mud. Let's just go home, OK?" I gingerly slid my foot into Jessie's sock, silently offering up a wish that I'd be able to get the stains out before she caught me. I tied on my sneakers, leaving the laces way looser on the hurt foot, and we walked home, slower than we usually did. Kimmie let me lean on her whenever I needed to, because that's what best friends do.

When I made it up to our room, I breathed a sigh of relief, because Jessie was obviously still out. If she'd gotten home from the Gap, her purse would be on her bed, along with probably a few new bags from stores at the mall. I still had time.

I went into the bathroom and got supplies from the medicine cabinet: hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and Band-Aids, plus a towel to dry my foot off. I sat on the edge of the tub and turned the water on, a little warmer than warm, but not hot. I gingerly peeled the sock back, wincing because of course it had started to scab up on the walk home and was a little stuck. Finally, it came off and I rinsed my foot, washing the mud away and also some blood that had smeared into it. Yuck.

When it was clean, I steeled myself and poured peroxide over the cut--my mom swears by that any time there's broken skin. She says it cleans it all out and prevents infection, probably a good idea, because really who knows what might be in the creek water? As always, thinking about doing it was worse than it actually felt. Then I cautiously dabbed antibiotic ointment on (my dad's obsession for cuts) and quickly wrapped Band-Aids across the cut and the surrounding skin. That felt better.

My attention turned to Jessie's socks. I really hadn't intended to ruin them, and now that my foot was taken care of, the urgency of the situation presented itself to me. Suddenly I remembered Mom's shelf of back issues of Good Housekeeping. She said you never knew what tips would come in handy later and that it was a waste to throw magazines in the trash. I even remembered her looking at some article about stains recently. I ran downstairs to the rec room, where she kept them on a bookshelf in the corner. Dad hated that bookshelf because he said magazines looked like trash sitting there. But really, it was so far back in the room you barely noticed it.

After riffling through a few issues, I found the one I wanted. The stain tips headline was on the cover, so it wasn't even very hard to find. I looked at the index and found the article, sighing with relief. Also, mud and blood were both covered in the tips--how lucky could I get?

It's a good thing I pay attention and read directions all the way through because the blood tip was to soak the socks in a solution of cold water, dish soap, and ammonia--but the mud tip warned me that I'd better let the mud dry completely before doing anything else, or I'd just have one giant muddy sock to deal with. Which makes sense when you think about it. It said to let the mud dry completely, then take it outside and beat it against something to get as much off as I could. Then I could use an old toothbrush to get more of it off before pre-treating. I decided I'd do all that, then pre-treat with the blood solution idea, then put them in the laundry and Mom would do the rest.

I took the socks out to the back of the yard and found a nice sunny spot. I thought it wouldn't take too long for the mud to dry, and sure enough, when I checked them after eating a bologna sandwich and reading for a while, I was able to whack most of the mud right off. Jessie still wasn't home, Mom had gone out for groceries and my brothers weren't around, either--Jeremy was a lifeguard at the community pool and Sam was probably off with his friends on bikes someplace.

I knew Mom had ammonia because she mopped the floors with it, even though that was so outdated. Jessie said it smelled like cat pee and she should use Mr. Clean or Mop N Glo, or at the very least, lemon Pine-Sol. Mom said that she used what worked and if Jessie felt so strongly about it, she could spend money on cleaning supplies and pick up a mop. That shut Jessie up. Cleaning is not on her top ten list.

I put some water in a plastic tub Mom had under the sink, then plopped in ammonia and a good squirt of dish soap. The recipe said just a tablespoon of ammonia and half a teaspoon of dish soap, but I really needed this to work fast. I swished the socks around, then washed my hands to get the stink off, put the tub outside on the back step (we all used the front door when we came home, so I didn't worry about Mom or Jessie finding it--the boys would never notice, anyway) and then went to watch Scooby-Doo on channel 11. Yes, it is a baby show. But I still like it, and there was nobody around to call me an infant.

When I went back to the socks, they actually looked pretty good. I was sure that once they went through the regular wash, Jessie wouldn't even realize I wore them. And I knew Mom was going to do laundry because she was putting detergent on her shopping list, and she hadn't made anyone help her sort socks or yelled at us to get our piles off our beds since last Sunday. I wrung the socks out and buried them in the middle of the clothes in the bathroom hamper.

Unfortunately for me, Jessie noticed the socks were gone. I already said they were aqua, and of course, she wanted to wear her white shorts and this tank top she has that's aqua with tiny white stars sprinkled all over it the very next afternoon. Because she and Michael Benner were going hiking (I personally believe they were just walking in the woods so they could find somewhere quiet and private to suck face, but when you say hiking Mom thinks you're getting exercise and being wholesome) she was looking to wear her Keds with those socks.

I was in the room when she was deciding what to wear. I'd really gotten into Dicey's Song, a book Kimmie's mom had gotten her. Mrs. Coyle was always bringing books home to Kimmie, some of them better than others. She worked part-time as a receptionist at an art gallery, which happened to be on the same street as the bookstore. She wanted to foster a love of literature in Kimmie, and when Kimmie finished anything really good, she always let me borrow it. We still go to the library, but ever since Mrs. Coyle got that job, we go less than we used to. Anyway, the book was really good, because Dicey's life was tough. Any time you think you're having problems, it's great to read a book about somebody who really is, I always say. So I'd been reading since before Jessie came in to get ready for her date with Michael Benner.

"I see you're continuing on your glamorous life," Jessie said when she came in. "I mean, the way you read is kind of ridiculous." As if I might not realize she was making fun of me. Hint: her lips were moving.

"I like to read," I said. It wasn't worth swiping back at her. I was still treading cautiously because the laundry piles still weren't on our beds. And anyway, like I said, I was involved in this book and I wanted to see how it all came out. But, of course, my sister couldn't resist.

"Michael says we're going to have the most romantic date ever," she said airily.

If by romantic, she meant that Michael was going to try and take her clothes completely off, I didn't doubt it. I continued reading.

"What should I wear?" Jessie mused, opening our closet.

I wanted to ask her why she was asking me. I mean, she often compared my fashion sense to a chimp's, so why would she care? But then I thought better of it. I didn't want her discovering I'd worn her socks, so it made sense to steer her away from there altogether.

"What about that pink sundress you just got? Michael hasn't even seen it, has he?" I suggested. Michael probably couldn't care less what Jessie wore, but I knew she agonized over every outfit.

"I'd say that's a good idea," she said slowly as if she couldn't even believe that a good idea could come out of my mouth, "but Michael wants to climb the peak of North Glen, and I have to wear sneakers." She opened her dresser drawer and pulled out her favorite shorts, white denim with frayed hems. I'll admit she looks great in them.

She looked through her shirt drawer for a while, trying on and discarding tops. I tried complimenting her on several that were not in the blue family because sneakers meant Keds and Keds meant ankle socks and ankle socks meant she might choose aqua. But of course, she rejected pink and red and yellow and purple; something was "wrong" with each one. This one made her look fat, that one made her boobs look small, the yellow was such a gross color she couldn't believe she'd ever put it on at all.

"I guess I'll go with this one," she said, holding up the dreaded aqua tank with tiny white stars, I knew she was going to pick that! "It makes my eyes look bluer, and really enhances my boobs," she said, turning this way and that in a show of vanity that she was totally unashamed of.

And with that, my doom was sealed. She went over to look for the aqua socks, and of course, they weren't there. She searched and searched before exploding at me, I'll give her that.

"Lauren! You have my socks, don't you?" It was useless to try and lie about it, so I told her the whole story.

"Why hasn't Mom done laundry?" I whined. The woman could usually be counted on to do laundry about 40 times a week, and here she was, letting me down.

"Do you really think that's the point?" Jessie screeched. She has a loud screech, my sister. "What about the fact that I'm always telling you to stay out of my stuff? This just proves my point, you can't be trusted not to mess everything up because you're a baby!" She was in a full-on rant and there was nothing to do but sit there and attempt to look sorry, even though I really wasn't. It's hard to be sorry for something when a dumb pair of socks is more important to you than your own flesh and blood.

Mom eventually came up to see what Jessie was yelling about. She heard the story and of course lit into me for taking Jessie's stuff without asking.

"Not only without asking, Mom--she took them after I specifically said I didn't want her wearing any of my clothes!" Because she always has to be right.

Mom waved her away. Sometimes adults get tired of Jessie, too. "Lauren, it was wrong for you to wear your sister's socks, wrong for you to try and cover up that you ruined them, wrong of you to hide them in the laundry for me to get involved without even knowing--"

"And speaking of that, why hasn't the laundry gotten done, anyway?" It's usually a good idea to deflect blame when you can. But maybe not such a great idea to interrupt your mom when you're already in trouble. I got the Death Glare--and if you don't know what that is, you must be an orphan.

"Don't try that on, young lady!" Mom interrupted her own rant to yell at me about something else; I just couldn't win. "Now, the two of you are going to have to work this out. And since you're so concerned about when the laundry is getting done, maybe you ought to learn how to do it yourselves."

Now Jessie was shooting me the Death Glare. I couldn't exactly blame her; now that Mom had warmed to the subject of how we didn't do any chores around here, she decided things were going to change. We had to endure a lecture on how to go around the house collecting laundry from various hampers, then how to sort colors, how to choose the water temperature, how to measure detergent, bleach, and fabric softener (I'll give you a hint: carefully, without wasting it!) We also had to learn how much laundry was too much for one load, how to distribute it evenly around the agitator, how to set a timer so we wouldn't forget to get it into the dryer when it finished, how to set another timer so we would get down before the dryer stopped, ensuring that nothing would get wrinkled, and how we should fold things promptly and get piles to everyone's rooms so they could put it away.

Then she assigned us all chores that we needed to do daily, telling us we were all old enough to do more around the house, and after all, she wasn't our slave. Sam and Jeremy looked bewildered; I guess they hadn't heard Jessie's screaming and didn't understand why Mom was on a chore rampage. Finally, she was finished. Assignments had been made and if we didn't do all our chores, we could forget about allowances.

"You can just go ahead and do the laundry today," Jessie hissed at me when we were back in our room. "Mom spent so much time on that, I hardly have any time to finish getting ready before Michael gets here."

I sighed. I wanted to retort that maybe if she wasn't such a harpy, Mom wouldn't have heard us and the entire chore thing could have been avoided....but I'll bet you've noticed I keep saying what's the point? when it comes to my sister. I also wanted to tell her that she'd still be ugly inside, no matter how much time she took with her hair, clothes, and makeup, but I decided to listen to my own inner voice and be the bigger person. I gathered up the laundry from everybody's hampers and made my way down to the basement.

The socks turned up almost two weeks later. To this day, I have no idea what happened. I sheepishly presented them to Jessie, who turned up her nose when she saw them, still slightly stained from mud and blood, and kind of with that old, crumply look my socks always get.

"Keep them," she said, "they suit you better than they do me, anyway."