Yellow Mama Archives

M. A. De Neve
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
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Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Bailey, Ashley
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Berriozabal, Luis
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Danoski, Joseph V.
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de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
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De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
De Neve, M. A.
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
Dick, Earl
Dick, Paul "Deadeye"
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Duy, Michelle
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England, Kristina
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Esterholm, Jeff
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Filas, Cameron
Flanagan, Daniel N.
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Francisco, Edward
Funk, Matthew C.
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Genz, Brian
Giersbach, Walter
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Glass, Donald
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Greenberg, Paul
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Howells, Ann
Hoy, J. L.
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Irascible, Dr. I. M.
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Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
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Jones, Mark
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Moss, David Harry
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Muslim, Kristine Ong
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Prusky, Steve
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Purkis, Gordon
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Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
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Robinson, Kent
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Rutherford, Scotch
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Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
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Shirey, D. L.
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Simmler, T. Maxim
Simpson, Henry
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Slaviero, Susan
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Snethen, Daniel G.
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Thompson, Phillip
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Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Tu, Andy
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
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Walters, Luke
Ward, Emma
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Woodland, Francis
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zimmerman, Thomas

Art by K. J. Hannah Greenberg 2018



By M.A. De Neve


       “I've figured out a way out of this job,” Ron told me.

       “You're quitting.”

       “I didn't say that.”  

       “Ron, get over here. I thought I told you to...” Jack, our boss shouted above the noise of the presses and the huge guillotine paper cutters. 

       As I watched Ron hurry over to where Jack stood, I wondered what he had in mind. He could pretend he hurt his back and collect disability.  Here in rural Michigan, tree cutting and paper-mill factory jobs offered opportunities for disabling injuries, real or imagined.  Ron wouldn't be the first person I knew who took the easy way out of a boring, low-paying job.

       If Ron got fired, he'd get unemployment checks for 26 weeks. Jack often threatened to fire Rowan, but despite Jack's gripes, Ron was a good worker. Jack was NOT going to make good on the threat, and Ron needed this job. 

       I went back to work. Jack didn't pick on me as much as he picked on Ron, but that didn't mean he wouldn't call me on the carpet or dock my pay or give me the worst job in the plant. The worst job usually belonged to Ron.  Sometimes he had to run the fearsome gigantic electronic guillotine paper cutters. These machines are as big as a small  bathroom. The wicked blades come down with the power of thousands of pounds.

       Later that day at the punch-clock, I asked Ron, “What did you mean when you said you found a way out of this job?  Are you quitting?”

       “I don't know.  I didn't say that. Did I?”

       “You need a ride home?” I asked. Waiting for the bus could take up to half an hour, and Ron took the bus.  On our wages, I was lucky I could afford a car, but then my wife works. Ron is a bachelor.

       He shook his head. He was upset. Jack had been extra mean that day, and as usual Ron got the worst of Jack's ugly moods.

       I drove to the bar down the road and ordered a beer. I wished Ron had come with me. I was worried about him. All that abuse he'd been taking from Jack was bound to hurt.  I was finishing my second beer when I heard the sirens. Looking put the window, I watched police cars and fire engines head toward the plant.

       I followed.

       Rowan stood in the parking lot. “Was the bus late?”

       “I went for a walk. There'll be another bus.”

       “What happened?” I nodded toward the plant. An ambulance had followed the police cars and emergency workers hurried inside.

       Rowan shrugged. I noticed some red stains on his shirt. Ketchup? Red ink that might have leaked from one of the presses?

       Other workers crowded around us. The parking lot was blocked off, but they found parking spaces on side streets.

       “What happened?” we asked each other.

       “We didn't have a night shift.”

       “Who's in the plant?”

       “Didn't everybody check out?

       “Jack stays late.”

       Kyle, Jack's assistant foreman, approached the building and talked to an officer. I walked up closer, so I could hear what they were saying.

       “Got us a messy accident. The guy somehow got caught in the guillotine cutter. It cut his upper body in two.”

       Other workers heard the news the same time, I did.  I heard their nervous murmurs. Our guillotine cutters used to have dozens of safeguards. Since Jack became foreman, he cared more for production than safety. Many of those safeguards had been discarded.

       “Who was it?” I asked loud enough for the officer to hear.

       “Name's Jack...” the officer took a stab at pronouncing Jack's long foreign name.

       Murmurs ran through the crowd. None of us liked Jack very much, but no one deserved to be cut in half in a guillotine paper cutter. When I turned to look at Ron, he grimaced. Was that a grimace? It looked more like a smile.


       The crime lab cleaned up, and all of us workers got a week of unemployment insurance while they cleaned. Back at the plant, on our next workday, Kyle called us all together.

       “First, the machine that killed Jack is gone,”  he told us.  “All the other guillotines have been serviced and they've now got safeguards on top of safeguards. If you think there's anything to be concerned about, call me over. I'll make sure the machine is closely checked out.”

       He paused and let us murmur about machine problems. “I've put in for five percent raises for everyone,” he said.

       We hurrayed and applauded and a few of us patted Kyle on the back. We'd missed chances at raises over the years because Jack didn't think we were worth squat.

       “And I want everyone to say 'hello' to the new assistant foreman. Ron.”

       Ron nodded at all of us.  He'd get an even bigger raise than the rest of us because he had the new job. And Jack was gone. He wouldn't be harassed anymore. As the others made their way to their work stations. I watched Kyle and Ron. I hadn't realized they were such good friends before.

       I remembered the day of the accident. Ron had been in the parking lot waiting for the bus, and Kyle had been in the plant with Jack. What if Ron had gone back in. What if Ron and Kyle held Jack down and...

       “How are the police handling Jack's... How are they handling what happened?” I asked.

       “They don't know how it happened. Machine probably malfunctioned,” Kyle told me.

       “Jack never ran that machine. What was he doing stretched inside it when the blade came down?”

       Kyle turned away. He didn't want to answer the question.

       “Let's get back to work,” Ron told me. “And, Buddy, forget what I said about finding a way out of the old job.  I didn't mean anything.”


The End


Art by K.J. Hannah Greenberg 2019


BY M.A. De Neve


       School isn't a good place for me. I don't like it. I don't even like recess.

       I see Trudie and Jeff talking. He's given her a ring. This seems to add to the popularity of both, though we are sixth graders and most likely their parents and our teachers don't know about the budding romance.

       Trudie likes to have things other girls don't have, like a boyfriend. She's a bit of a show-off, wearing pretty dresses and practicing to be a cheer leader. The boys notice her. I've seen Jeff take this snakelike thing out of his pants and show it to her in class. Being half hidden behind the desk, he thinks no one else noticed.

       Jeff walks away from her, and joins a group of boys. They playfully punch at each other and laugh. Trudie watches the boys.

       Jeff eats peanuts like he always does. He stuffs his pockets with them. He leaves trails of peanut shells.

       Back in the schoolroom, I glance at the calendar. There're pictures of all the presidents right up to President Eisenhower. I do like Ike. I wouldn't mind if he could run again in 1960. Some of the boys make fun of the old-time presidents' hair styles.  I Wonder if someone will one day look at our hairstyles and giggle. I've read books about some of those presidents, and they had lots of smarts under all that long hair.

       I live 1.5 miles from the school, so I have to walk home after school. I can take a short cut through the woods, but I've been bushwhacked. Jeff and his older brother have knocked me down, kicked me. This happened a few times. I've learned to avoid the paths and found my own openings in the pines. It's hard to get lost in the trees. They're bordered by a busy highway on the east and a railroad track on the west.

       Few of the other kids live down this way, but they do come into the woods. They smoke in here. Boys and girls come here. They lay down together, and I don't want to describe what they do. Maybe I'm lucky I don't have friends.


       Mama's still hung over from last night. The guy she's living with now is even meaner than Jeff. Mama says I gotta stay out of his way. He doesn't hang around too much, anyway.

       I make myself a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich. I open my math book and try to concentrate. It's too boring. I open a Zane Grey book instead. I got this one from the library. I love Zane Grey. He writes westerns.

       At 6 p.m. Bronco comes on and then Wyatt Earp. Tomorrow it's my favorite, “Wagon Train.” I daydream about my favorite cowboy heroes showing up at school and making the other kids stop bullying me. Boy, would the other kids be jealous if Hugh O'Brien, the actor who plays Wyatt Earp, was my friend.


       When I walk to school, I stay close enough to the path to notice a trail of peanuts. Jeff's been here. I move further away from the path. I don't want to run into him.


       The trees are my friends. I spend some time with them each morning before I go to school. I stand in a clump of trees and take deep breaths. I imagine them as giant protectors, warriors who will save me from the bullies.

       I’m real still. I don’t want anyone thinking I am weird. I hug a giant pine, but what’s weird about that?

       Someone’s coming. It’s Trudie. I don’t want her to see me. Trudie thinks she's better than everyone else, but especially better than me. When she talks to me, she looks at my shoes like that's where I am.

        I crawl deeper into the trees. I don’t make a sound. It’s Jeff. She smiles at him. Then their voices get loud. They are having an argument, but I can’t make out the words. They rush over me like violent ocean currents. Then they stop talking. I look up. He’s tightening her scarf. She’s leaning against him and starting to fall. He’s still tightening the scarf. I see all this, and it's like I'm watching an old silent movie.


       Jeff stands over Trudie. She's on the ground. He's breathing really hard. He takes a handful of peanuts from his bag and eats them. Then he turns away.

        I am too scared to move. I silently recite the names of songs in my record collection in alphabetical order. I have lots of records. I am as far as “Don't Forbid Me” by Pat Boone.

       Linda, Cheryl and Terry Johnson walk into the woods. They stop, take out cigarettes, light them up and smoke.

       “Where's Trudie?”

       “Haven't seen her.”

       After awhile, they put out their cigarettes. Linda trips over Trudie's body and screams. Soon the woods are filled with people running here and there. They haven't noticed me yet.

       “What happened to her?”

       “God, I don't know.”

       “Is she dead?”

        Other people come running. I crawl through the bushes.

       “There,” someone yells. I've been spotted. I get up and run. Someone grabs me by the ankles and tackles me the way Green Bay Packers tackle the other team's players on television. I go down like a cow roped and wrestled. Someone is pounding me. I smell hair grease and peanuts. Shells cascade around me. Jeff pins me down and pummels my shoulders and head. He's holding a rock or something hard.

       When I wake up, I’m in a jail cell. There’s a girl there with me. She’s older, but not very old.

       “Your old man beat the crap out of you?”

       I think I have a black eye. I can open the eye, but it feels like there’s a big sack of pus covering it.

       “I don’t have an old man.”

       “You’re a skinny one.” she observes. “What’s your name?”


       “What did they catch you doin’?”

       “I was hiding in the bushes, and I saw Trudie Miller getting choked.”

       “You choke her?”


       A police officer opens the cell and motions for me to come out. He waits for me to stand outside, and then locks the cell door. I expect to be handcuffed. But he just nods toward a door to my right. 

       “Am I being arrested?”

       He doesn’t answer. I walk like a condemned convict toward the door that leads away from the cells. Beyond that, there’s a hallway with office doors, all of them closed. The officer points the way. I imagine an electric chair waiting. That’s the kind of imagination I have.

       He gently takes my arm to stop me and to settle me. He opens one of the doors. I walk inside a room. I keep my eyes on the floor. I don’t make eye contact.

       “Can you tell us what happened?” the man behind the desk asks. I look up at him or rather I look as far as a uniform and a badge. I think he’s the sheriff.

       I shake my head.

       “Do you know what happened?”  

       I know I should tell him. Maybe I have to tell him. I don’t know what to do. It's like a dust storm rages in my head. I get confused like this sometimes. I get angry and frustrated.

       He’s talking, but I am not paying much attention. I am too scared. “I want you to think about this,” he says.

       I nod. Think about what? I missed some of what he said.

       My mother comes in then. She isn’t calm like the jailer and the sheriff. “What have you done?” she demands of me.

       “Nothing, Mama.”

       “Don’t you lie to me. How did you get beat up like that?”

       “I fell down.”

       I guess the sheriff knows I’m a liar now.

       “You look like shit,” Mama says.

       “Looks like she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time,” the sheriff says.

       “Story of her life,” Mama smells like the inside of one of those bottles she drinks from. “Is she under arrest?”

       “No, but I want to talk to her again. I’m pretty sure she saw the girl's murder.”

        “Can’t stay out of trouble,” she says looking at me like I'm a useless knick-knack she meant to toss out, but that instead got busted into a mess that's too much work to clean up. 

       There’s a mob outside the jail house. They aren’t yelling, just murmuring. I hear some if their words. “Crazy girl,” and “It was only a matter of time before she did something like this.”

       The deputy says they’ll have a police car stationed outside our house. He says the sheriff already issued a statement saying I couldn’t have killed the girl. 

       “You sure of that?” Mama asks the officer.

       “Yes, ma-am. A puny thing like that couldn’t strangle a kitten.”   

       “She’s stronger than she looks, and she ain’t all there. Anyone can see that.”

       The deputy turns to me. “You all right with going home with your Mama?” I have nowhere else to go.


       The next day Mama's sleeping and not feeling well. I hear a knock on the door. I'm afraid to answer it. Some people still think I killed Trudie, but I look out the window. There’s a pretty lady there. She’s wearing a nice dress and pearls. She has a patent leather purse. She is tall and pretty like a Sears Catalog model. I answer the door.

       “Mama’s sick,” I tell the lady.

       “The neighbors tell me your Mama gets sick a lot.”

       I don’t see how that’s any of her business, so I don’t say anything. I just hope she doesn't notice the empty whiskey bottle on the counter.

       “You wanna take a walk?”

       “Mama won’t like it,” I say, “And I have chores to do.”

       “I’ll buy you lunch. How’s that? You can have anything you like. Cheeseburger. Fries. Ice cream. All of the above.”

       “I’m not hungry,” I lie. There isn’t any food in the house, and I was wondering how I could get some money so I could buy some, but I don’t like strangers, and I don’t know this lady.

       “I'm the sheriff’s sister,” she tells me.

       “Is he going to arrest me?”

       “No. He’s issued a statement that you definitely did not kill that girl, and he’s got a cruiser right down there, to make sure no one hurts you.” She pauses. “You’ve been hurt enough.”

       Is she talking about the swollen eye and the bruises from when Jeff tackled me?

       “You look like someone carrying lots of pain,” she says.

       I touch my eye. “It don't hurt much,” I lie.

       “The teachers call you Little Professor. They say you read books all the time, and you know about the lives of historical characters like General Lafayette and Wild Bill Hickok and lots of other people.”

       “I don’t do well in school,” I admit.

       “Why is that?”

       “It’s boring.”

       “I was the same way when I was in school. I devoured information. I learned conversational French and German before I was ten years old.”

       “You must be a genius.”

       “No,” she tells me. “I was too just bored by school to get good grades. You remind me of me.”


       “Let’s have that cheeseburger.” Her smile is real nice.


       Large fires. Double burger. Chocolate malt. She orders for me.

       “So tell me about your classmates,” she says.

       “What do you want to know? I can tell you all their names.”

       “What else do you know about your classmates?”

       Not much, but I don't want to admit it.

       “Would you describe any of them as bullies?”

       “What do you mean?”

       “You know what a bully is,” she tells me.


       “Every school has its share of bullies. Who are the bullies in your school?”

       The food arrives, and I take a big bite of the burger. I’m real hungry. She eats her salad slowly and watches me.

       Finally she says, “I used to get bullied when I was in school. Thank heavens I had a big brother. He saved me from more than one beating.”

       Her brother is the sheriff, so I guessed that bullies had to leave her alone.

       “But you do get bullied. Don't you?”

       “I don’t want to talk about it.”

       “That because you’re hurt. You don’t have many friends and you think that’s your fault.”

       “Who says I don't have any friends?”

        “You don’t know much about your classmates, so I guess you can't be good friends.”

       “They're just kids, that's all.”

       “What was Trudie Miller like? Did she have lots of friends?”

       She dressed better than the other girls,” I say. “She had a boyfriend.”

       “Who would that have been?”

       It wouldn't be tattling if I told her Trudie liked Jeff, would it? I keep eating for a while. I know she wants me to say something. She's waiting for me to say something.

       “Mandy, I'm autistic and I think you are too. Like I told you, I was just like you when I was a kid. We’re not weird. Or maybe we are. We're different. We’re people who don’t make eye contact naturally. Is that so bad? If we find something boring, we find a way not to do it. But we’re smart and very focused. Sometimes we get blamed for things other people do. We’re often loners, so that makes us easy targets of bullies. You and me, Mandy, we’re both autistic. You’d have to be evaluated, and I can arrange that, but the sheriff noticed it right away. You reminded him of me, his autistic baby sister.”

       “Aren’t autistic people unable to function?”

        Some of us are high-functioning.”

       “You said we were weird. I thought maybe I could grow up to be rich and famous, but if I'm always going to be weird.... I don't know. How do we get people to like us?”

       “We start by you telling me who killed that girl.”

       “He’s popular. The kids don’t like me. They'll believe him, and they'll hate me for accusing him.”

       “Do you think he should get away with murder?”


       “He probably knows you saw him. He could come after you and Bobby, that's my brother, can't justify having a cruiser follow you around forever.”

       “He won't do anything. It'll be my word against his. He'll say I'm lying.”

       “And probably increase the bullying. Or arrange for you to have a bad accident. He already killed one girl.”

       “He doesn't think enough of me to kill me.” I finish my chocolate malt and thank her.

       I don't want Jeff to get away with this, but what can I do? The other kids hate me enough as it is. No one will believe me. They never believe me.

       I think all that food upset my stomach and then I realize, it isn't the food. I'm scared.


        The cruiser has left. Mama says it scares her friends away. Her friends are guys she picks up in bars. The latest boyfriend moved out. I think all that attention scared him. He might be wanted by the cops. Mama said he had a police record.

       People watch me now. They think I am even more of a freak, than they thought I was before. Someone spray painted “FREAK” across the front of our house. They spray painted KILLER on the sidewalk.

       “You can't stay out of trouble, can you, girl?” Mama said when she noticed the writings. She's pretty upset about the boyfriend moving out.

       I think about skipping school and going to the library to read, but someone will tattle on me. I walk around the woods. The trees and the paths scare me after what happened to Trudie. Suddenly Jeff is walking beside me. He gives me a shove that almost knocks me down. “Hey Fleabag,” he says.

       “My name is Mandy,”

       “Your name is dirtbag.” He shoves me again. “Don't talk back to me. You're a dirtbag. You got that? Say it. I'm a dirtbag.”

       “I'm a dirtbag.”

       “And a snoop. What were you doing watching Trudie and me? You some kind of a pervert stalker?”


       “I catch you snooping again, I'll ring that ugly neck of yours. You understand?”

       “Yes.” I tell him. He gives me a good shove and walks away.

       I don't think he'll kill me. I'm not worth the bother. But if I'm not worth the bother of killing, then why am I worth the bother of bullying? He knows no one will believe me. But if I do tell, he'll at least be suspected. I am a danger to him.

       The nice lady, the sheriff's sister, said Jeff might arrange for me to have a bad accident.

       I think about television. What would Wyatt Earp or Cheyenne do? Wyatt Earp locks up bullies and Cheyenne punches them until they stay down. I don't have those options.

       I think about last week's Sugarfoot episode. Sugarfoot hid in a tree and jumped on top of the bad guy.

       I'm not good at climbing. But I could do it. At least I'll be safe up in the tree tops. No, I won't be safe there either. Jeff can climb better than I can.

       I think about running fast behind him, and knocking him down.

       What good would any of that do?

       He'd just beat me up. I can't think of any way to stop Jeff or other bullies.

       I'm real scared. When I go to bed, I don't sleep. I think every noise is Jeff coming to get me.

       I have to stand up to him. I must do it where there are witnesses. I can't let him kill me or anyone else. He killed Trudie. She was mean to me. They all are, but I can't let him kill anyone else.

       In class, I'm really scared. I hate to speak up because the other kids make fun of me if I have the wrong answer. Even if I have the right answer, they make fun of me. They don't like me.

       Mrs. Stallmaster is talking about the Revolutionary War. Those Boston Sons of Liberty had little chance of winning a war against Britain, the most powerful nation on earth. I wonder if Paul Revere and Dr. Warren were scared.

       I know I have to speak up. I swallow and feel the lump in my throat. I have to go to the bathroom. It's almost recess time.

       I stand up. “If you have something to say Mandy, raise your hand,” Mrs. Stallmaster tells me.

       I stare at her. I am not sure my voice will come out.

       Jeff stands up. “Tell her to sit down, Mrs. Stallmaster,” he tells the teacher. She likes him. She'll listen to him, but not to me.

       “He…he, he,” I begin.

       “What are you a donkey or something?” Jeff asks me. The other kids giggle. 

       “He killed her,” I say. “Jeff killed Trudie.”

       “She's lying,” Jeff says.

       “I think you should sit down, Mandy.” Mrs. Stallmaster says.

       “I'll bet they found peanut shells under the body,” I say. “He's always eating peanuts. He was eating peanuts when he killed her.”

        Jeff gives me a hard push. I fall right over my desk and I hit the floor hard. He runs out the door.

       The kids are saying. “She's lying.” and “She's making it up.”

       Mrs. Stallman sends the others out to recess. “Are you making up stories, Mandy?”


       “Jeff is such a good boy.”

       “No. he isn't.”

       “I'll call your mother, and have her take you home.”

       “I can get home on my own,” I say.

       “You'll apologize to Jeff tomorrow in class.”

       “No,” I say. I say it louder than I intended. I walk out the door.

       Going home, I move slowly, Jeff could be hiding in trees. He could come out of nowhere and kill me. There's no one else around. I'm still scared. Just as scared as I was in the classroom.

       I think, he could be waiting for me. He could be in my house.

       I check each room. Mama's asleep in her room, but no one else is in the house. Then I call the sheriff's office. I tell the sheriff what happened. Then I sit on the couch and cry.


       Jeff has been arrested for Trudie's murder, and he's headed for reform school and maybe prison after that. The nice lady, the sheriff's sister, says he'll discover a whole new level of bullying there. The coroner had wondered about peanut shells on and around the body. Mystery solved. The other kids still don't like me much, but they know I told the truth. And sometimes I see expressions of respect on their faces. 

The End

M. A. De Neve holds a master’s degree in English and taught college-level writing for over twenty years. M. A. wrote two novels, both available on Amazon, and has published articles in many newspapers and magazines, including Over My Dead Body and Mysterical-E.  M. A. volunteers with an animal rescue group in Michigan.

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