The Battle of the Dawn

A new Saturday dawned as the sun rose over the Tennessee farmland until it reached Scattersville road and crept into the windows of our new townhome. I was fifteen going on grown, and waking up under the same roof as my two best friends, Brandy and Stephen, was the epitome of joy. Added to the absence of my younger brother, and this made for an ideal way to start the weekend. I loosened my waist-length, Pentecostal hair from its messy bun atop my head and swirled my locks into a fresh messy bun as I made my way down the stairs.

I turned down the short hallway toward the kitchen and sat in the dining room chair across from Stephen. Mama and Stephen were already up and at ‘em in the kitchen when I walked in. I left Brandy struggling to start her day in our room, but she would find the energy to descend the stairs soon, since Mama (or Big Mama, the affectionate nick-name Brandy and Stephen had for her) was in the conception stages of a Southern, Saturday breakfast.

The order in which we descended to the kitchen that and almost every Saturday morning, reflected each of our personalities. Big Mama up first, already dressed for work, and busy doing for everyone except herself. Stephen, the oldest by a month and first among the friends to descend with his teeth already brushed and the energy and enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever. Me next, chasing Mama and Stephen’s voices straight downstairs the moment I opened my eyes, adjusting my mess on the way down, and already discontented that I was not the first one up. Brandy, operating on her own time table entirely.

“Looks like Brandy gets the sleepy head award.” was the first thing Mama said when she heard me fall into the chair. “She’s awake I think, just still gettin’ up-” “Brittany.” Stephen interrupted with the technicalities of the sleepy head award, “She’s still the last one to get up.” “But it’s possible she’s not the last one awake! She could have been awake before all of us, just not up yet.” I responded with drawn battle lines. Both Stephen and I would argue with a wall but preferably with each other. Not because of a lack of love! Indeed not. We simply both have an uncontrollable need to be right, and in control. Brandy arrived with a soft “Good morning,” and her cherub smile just in time for breakfast. The mood remained light as we feasted. We laughed about something someone said or wore at the most recent church service. Talked about the previous week at school and grumbling about Mrs. Gregory, our English teacher. The lighthearted energy and sensory dullness brought on by overeating caused us to forget that battle lines had been drawn. Guns had not been fired but were loaded and the distraction of laughter, breakfast, and Big Mama would not last forever.

After second helpings of biscuits and gossip it was time for Mama to leave for her part time job at Bath and Body Works where she probably spent most of what she earned. We didn't have much, but dammit we smelled good. She set her plate, fork and glass in the sink and ordered the three of us to clean up the breakfast mess while she was gone and to call her if we needed anything. I started toward the sink with my dishes and turned the water on to begin our orders as Mama walked out the door. Stephen was right behind me and crossed into my territory with a quickness that ignited my readiness for battle. He put his hand under the faucet for a temperature check and fired, “You’re supposed to wash dishes in hot water.”

Blind hot rage filled my chest and fired all the way to my frontal cortex a warning, “We’re being attacked! Someone has criticized you! You’ve been seen as less than perfection and we must prepare for battle!” I stared at him and fired back, “I’m letting the water get hot, Stephen.” He blocked my attack and defended himself with, “Whatever. You’ve been standing here forever.” I loathe being criticized. Nothing triggers my rage like someone pointing out my shortcomings. Stephen knows this. Shots had been fired. The rage burned so hot this time I felt it through my extremities. It moved down from my heart to my arms then to my hands when I grabbed the plastic bowl that had just served scrambled eggs and launched a naval attack emptying all the cold water in the bowl right into Stephen’s face.

At approximately the tenth hour of the day with the sun shining through the windows and smell of sausage lingering in the air, The Battle of the Dawn had begun. Stephen retaliated with a blitz, and used the detachable sprayer to soak my messy bun and oversized church camp tee shirt. This may have been the first time in my life I truly understood the meaning of the words, this can not stand. A full frontal attack was launched with my arms straight out, elbows locked, head turned and eyes closed. As you can imagine by the attack position, I was wildly unsuccessful. Stephen easily blocked my attempt and held me across the shoulders. The more I resisted, the more he attacked, the more our rage was replaced with laughter. It was at that moment we both turned to look at sweet Brandy, still sitting at the table, aghast at the reckless exchange she had just witnessed and laughing at the absurdity. That was the moment the three of us knew what had to be done. Brandy squealed, “No!” as Stephen launched the sprayer attack in her direction. She tried but failed to keep her curly when wet hair out of the cross fire, unable to maneuver her way to the sink for artillery of her own. We found ourselves fighting over this indoor sprinkler until we realized the amount of water we were standing in. The laughter was so strong we were crying and our cheeks were sore, but the waterlog on our toes brought us back to the sobering reality of what had just happened and how much trouble would surely follow. In the mind of a fifteen year old, however, the fear of impending trouble was not enough to stop our good time from escalating.

The decision was made to move the table and chairs against the wall to give us more room for what would come next. Not wanting to waste the rare opportunity of a soaked linoleum floor with no supervision, we decided to pour the bottle of Dawn dish soap onto the floor to slip and slide around on our hands and feet like three ridiculous crabs, obviously.

The soapy mess that was made that day spilled out of the kitchen onto the adjacent carpets and took hours along with every towel in the house to clean up. We soaked towel after towel hour after hour until the white linoleum kitchen floor sparkled and the carpet smelled fresh. The table and chairs were put back in their place and with the breakfast dishes finally clean and put away, Big Mama arrived from work to find us lounging on the hand-me-down couch with bated breath, about to burst with our secret. Would we get away with it? Should we just tell her? I mean, the townhouse is clean! Would she think it was funny? I mean it’s not like we were doing drugs; just good clean fun! The suspense was thick. She went to her bedroom to change. We continued to hold our breath as she went to the laundry room to put her work clothes into the hamper. We finally exploded into laughter when she called out, “Why are all the towels wet?!”