My straw-colored hair was long and shaggy, and was bushed out like a corn tassle that had been hit by a wind.
I tried to smooth it down with my hands. This helped some but not much. What it needed was a good combing and I had no comb.
My overalls were patched and faded but they were clean.
My shirt had pulled out. I tucked it back in. I took one look at my bare feet and winced.
They were as brown as dead sycamore leaves. The spider-web pattern of raw, red scratches looked odd in the saddle-brown skin.
I thought, “Well, I won’t have to pick any more blackberries and the scratches will soon go away.”
I pumped up one of my arms and thought surely the muscle was going to pop right through my thin blue shirt.
I stuck out my tongue. It was as red as pokeberry juice and anything that color was supposed to be healthy.
After making a few faces at myself, I put my thumbs in my ears and was making mule ears when two old women came by.
They stopped and stared at me. I stared back. As they turned to go on their way, I heard one of them say something to the other.
The words were hard to catch, but I did hear one word: “Wild.”
As I said before, they couldn’t help it, they were womenfolks.
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