High Horse

It all happened without any warning. Like a sun shower. One moment, my big brother and I were perched on the edge of our narrow, wooden veranda, our mosquito-bitten legs dangling, spitting watermelon seeds at our dog, Shiba-maru. 

“Look at him. Thinks those seeds are flies,” I sneered at Shiba-maru, going every which way, dodging the seeds that fell on the goosegrass. 

“Asshole. Fuckup. Son of a bitch,” my brother shot out words Mama would’ve made him wash out his mouth with a bar soap. But with Mama gone to visit Aunt Nana, God knows how many times over the past few weeks, he squirted four-letter words like a machine gun. 

“BBs,” I whooped and reached for another watermelon slice.

Then a slap—not hard, but a half-hearted fly-swatter kind. The slice was the last piece, standing like a mainsail among the debris of rinds on our blue plastic tray. 

“Rock, paper, scissors.” My brother jiggled his fist three times.  

But before he could stop me, I licked my finger and poked the watermelon. 

“You still want it?” I grinned, expecting him to tickle me until I surrendered and gave him the last piece. A ritual. I knew he’d give me a bite anyway. It was Papa’s commandment—thou shall look after thy little brother.

“What’s so funny?” His face flushed, and the dark circles under his eyes twitched, uncontrollably. “You want me to show you what funny is?” Grabbing my arm, my brother hoisted me up and shoved me to the tatami room, pressing me against the plaster wall. He thrust his knee into my belly, and chunks of watermelon crept up my throat, filled my mouth with acid sweetness.  

“You crazy? I was kidding. Go ahead and eat it.”  

I tried to break away, but his hands coated with sticky juice nailed my shoulders down. 

“Cut it out! I’m gonna tell…” I stopped. 

He froze. “Tell who? You sissy. Who?” 

His voice flipped, cracked, and trailed off. I pursed my lips. 

“Say it,” my brother demanded, yanking the neck of my T-shirt.  

“You’re gonna tear it.” It was the Luffy T-shirt Papa had bought me when we saw the movie One Piece not long ago. My brother got one, too, but he had stopped wearing it. As he glared at my Luffy, sitting cross-legged in his ratty pirate outfit on my chest, a goofy ear-to-ear smile on his face, my brother’s grip loosened. Not missing the chance, I quickly slipped away under his arm, but then he jumped on me, and we rolled on the tatami mat. I bit his arm and crawled on all fours, but he seized my legs and dragged me back to the veranda. 

When I twisted my body to escape, he straddled me. I clenched my teeth, expecting a blow. His face was so close to mine that I saw my terrified look in his bloodshot eyes.  

“Tell who? You moron. Don’t you realize Papa’s not coming back? You can’t snitch on me anymore. He’s not gonna listen to you whine about me doing this or that to you. So there.” 

He rubbed his eyes with his arm and slumped beside me, his chest heaving under his watermelon-stained white tank top. I wanted to punch him. Stuff the last piece of watermelon into his face and shut him up. But all I could do was mumble, “Mama said Papa’s coming back.” 

“Then why do you think Mama visits Aunt Nana so often? You think they’re talking about weather all this time, you idiot?”  

As I stared at the swirling grain on the ceiling board, racking my brain for words to get back at him, Shiba-maru yapped, pulling at his long leash. I stomped to the veranda’s edge and flung a watermelon rind at the dog. It fell short and splattered on the ground.  

“You shut up,” I hollered at Shiba-maru. I brought my elbow back full force and slung another rind, almost losing my balance. It smashed against the persimmon tree behind the doghouse. When the next one hit Shiba-maru’s head, he yelped and jumped into his doghouse, curling his tail. I turned toward my brother, but he was gone. Upstairs, I heard him slam the door and pound the wall. 

I hopped off the veranda in bare feet and strode to the doghouse.  

“Shiba-maru?” I crouched and coaxed him to come out. 

He didn’t.  

“Come on. You know I didn’t  mean to hurt you.” 

I waited, watching an army of ants march toward the rind in a straight line, then scatter and suck the remaining thin layer of pale pink flesh. But one ant trailed behind. Instead of heading straight toward the rind, it moved in a circle. Using the blade of a goosegrass, I tried to guide the ant back to its trail, but it kept crawling round and round. 

“You stupid?” I picked up the ant. Close-up, its antennas were broken from the stems. The ant thrashed its legs, trying to escape.

“Shithead,” I parroted the word blasting from upstairs. Holding my breath, I squeezed my fingers, millimeter by millimeter, the ant’s opaque eyes locked with mine. One, two, three… I counted in my head until I could no longer hold my breath. 

“Get lost.” I released the ant, squashing the rind with my bare foot.

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Norie Suzuki (she/her) was born and educated bilingually in Tokyo, Japan, where she writes and works as a simultaneous interpreter. She received an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College in New York. Her work has appeared in Baltimore Review, Cutleaf Journal, The
Offing, and elsewhere.