Sugar Sour Baby Girl
Anna, the girl across the street, set up shop with her instant lemonade pitchers and single wrapped Oreos, prepared specially by her, sealed safely with saran. Her prices were reasonable. Quarter a cup, fifty cents an Oreo. Or they seemed reasonable. Sweets seemed more valuable than gold at this age, and her mother's willingness to purchase the packets of lemonade mix led her to think that maybe it wasn't too expensive. So came along the poster board sign, bought with last year's profits, slathered with yellow and pink glitter pens and oblong doodles of citrus and cookies. Her entrepreneurial spirit was acknowledged by old Mrs. Crocker across the street, who graciously braved the road, looking no less than five times before crossing. Anna greeted her with a toothless grin and a cup already poured, as she had ample time to pour into a red Solo after noticing she was moseying over. The clatter of quarters in the bottom of the glass jar sounded like collectible plushies and in-game purchases on online games to Anna. The chime of luxury, independence, and about ten dollars by the end of a busy day. She manned that sidewalk with the persistence of a Wall Street tycoon, eyeing passing cars with a small scowl when she didn't hear their brakes grind to a halt to come see her wares. The July sun baked her pale skin and freckled her shoulders. Still she sat, wiping the sweat from her lip and swinging her feet back and forth impatiently on her fold-out chair. With the sun sitting squarely in an empty sky and quarters littering the bottom of her jar, Anna watched greedily as a rusty Corolla pittered to a stop across from her. A tall girl, several years older than her, and therefore more intimidating, sprang out and hurried across the street. In the unforgiving heat of the afternoon no car had driven by for quite some time and Anna had almost neared the end of her stamina. Suddenly reinvigorated by the idea of a sale, she beamed at the tall girl. "Hey," the girl said, instinctively kneeling in front of the table, crouching to Anna's level so she didn't have to stare into the brightness of looking up. "What's your name?" The warnings her mother had smoothed over her regarding talking to strangers were nonsensical precautions that she threw away when it came to business. "I'm Anna." The girl smiled back, amused at the spunkiness of the young lemonade salesman. "Nice to meet you, Anna. I'm Goldie." Anna looked at Goldie, from her bare feet, which were planted in the dry grass to avoid the smoking asphalt, to the top of her brunette head that was streaked with summer sun. She was tanned from the brutally bright months, with the same freckles that Anna bore with pride scattered on her own shoulders, which had a hot pink halter top tied over them. The bottom of her midriff was exposed and met with the denim from a worn pair of shorts. Anna thought she was incredibly cool and old and pretty. But she was not gold. "You don't have blonde hair," Anna observed, hoping she seemed cooler and older and smarter as she commented on the obvious.
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