Bees

”Come here! “ A gaggle of children surrounds the bush that grows out of the chain link fence. A few of them wave at me, urging me closer. I look up from my book, surprised to see that they want me to join them.

I close the Nancy Drew novel that I’m re-reading for the umpteenth time and saunter over. The sun beats hot today, and the polyester shirt and matching shorts my mother forced me to wear this morning chafe against my skin.

Sophie, the only child I’d call a friend, beams when I reach the group. “She’ll know what it is! She’s really smart!”

“What do you think it is?” One of the older kids asks. Even with Sophie’s endorsement, I don’t think he’s asking me in particular: he’s at least two years older than I am, and there are several others who are also 8 to 10 years old. Closer to the bush stand the younger kids, including my brother who’s four. He’s the youngest of the lot, but he’s always in the thick of things.

“What is what?” I ask.

It’s then that I realize that a buzzing sound emanates from the far end of the branch, behind the chain link fence. I take a cautious step back. “That’s a bee’s nest.”

“Whaaat?” The older boy laughs. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard! Everyone knows bees build their nest up in the trees! You’re so dumb. You’re a liar.”

This last one catches and soon, everyone, including my brother, repeats the mantra. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not a liar,” I cry. “And I can prove it.”

“How?” Taunts the boy. “How are you going to prove it?”

I eye the bush and how it connects to the beige, paper-mâché like nest. I pick up a stick and use it to point to a branch. “All you have to do is pull that and all the little bees will come out.”

“This one?” Asks Sophie.

“I don’t believe you,” the older boy steps between Sophie and the bush.

I shrug.

“You’re a liar,” he leans toward me, his brows drawn together. “And I’ll show you.” he reaches back for the branch and shakes it violently.

My eyes widen and I run, but I am alone in making my escape. For a moment, it feels as though everything is suspended in time. Then chaos ensues. I peer over my shoulder. A cloud of bees hovers around the children whose screams echo throughout the neighbourhood.

When I head into the building, once all the cries have subsided, the quiet darkness of the stairs that lead down to our family’s one-bedroom apartment finally cools me down.

“There you are,” growls my mother, her eyes bulging with fury. She follows this greeting with a slap across my face.

Tears fall fast and I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “What?” I mumble, but not very loudly. I know better.

“Did you get those kids to antagonize bees?” She demands.

I stutter, unsure. She must see the guilt on my face, because her palm strikes the left side of my face again, slipping a little on my wet cheek.

“Your brother was stung twelve times!” She snarls, wiping her right hand on her shirt. “Twelve! And a bunch of children were stung as well, including Sophie. Sophie might lose her eye because of you. All the children said the same thing: you made them do it. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“They called me a liar!” I protest. Another slap sends my head toward my right shoulder.

“They’re right. You are a liar. You won’t take responsibility for something you clearly did,” my mother declares. “And you are going to apologize to Sophie and her mother right now.”

I nod and trudge up two flights of stairs to Sophie’s apartment. “I’m really sorry,” I blurt, when her mother swings the door open.

“Okay,” she allows. “But Sophie can’t be your friend anymore.”

And she closes the door with infinite, almost tender slowness.