Well, finally our long wait is over. Stepping out of Ma’s car as we pull up in front of Big Momma’s house, I notice that some of the kids hanging out down the block stop to stare at us. This one boy, with red kinky hair and freckles, starts walking toward us, waving. “Who is that?” Angie asks. “I don’t know,” I respond, watching him and thinking how much faster he could walk if he tied his sneaker laces. “What, y’all moved up to the Big Apple and forgot about us?” the redheaded boy screeches as he approaches. “It’s Beethead!” Angie whispers. It sure is—even though his hair is not as bushy. Major “Beethead” Knowles is the reason why I have seven stitches in my left knee and don’t like wearing skirts. When I was about four years old, I was swinging real high, showing off, of course. Beethead kept throwing rocks at me, to see if he could reach my head. He did, causing me to fall off the swing and bust my knee on a jagged rock edge. Big Momma told Beethead never to come anywhere near us again.
