Student Work: "Cute to Some, But Not to All"

 Cute to Some, But Not to All

by

Alex Elliott, age 9

            Jamaica was desperately trying to get her hair done in curly braids all by herself because Sammy, her mom, had gone out to get a taco. She was getting her hair done in preparation for her concert because she was a famous child country singer.

            Meanwhile, Cop Ralph, her bodyguard, tapped on the door. “Jamaica, how are the curly braids coming?” Cop Ralph knew it wasn’t possible for Jamaica to do her curly braids by herself, so he used a little exaggeration.

            “Cop Ralph,” Jamaica groaned.

            “Uh, yes, Jamaica.”

            “My curly braids aren’t working!” Jamaica yelled as she stomped her foot. “I want my mama!”

            Now, Jamaica was five years old, so her fame wasn’t going to last long. It was mostly due to her cuteness. Jamaica had a whiny voice, but also little green eyes, an everlasting smile, and long wavy hair. Her mama was very careless and left her child alone with Cop Ralph for long periods of time. Once, she even left her because she needed a pack of gum and to catch up on the latest magazines.

            Cop Ralph was desperate. “Where’s your mom?” he asked as he paced Jamaica’s dressing room floor.

            “Out getting a taco,” Jamaica answered.

            “Should’ve guessed,” Cop Ralph muttered, shaking his head.

            “Hey,” Jamaica snapped. “Back to my hair! Fix it, Cop Ralph,” she moaned.

            “I am a man,” he yelled. “I don’t have little girls. I’m just plain old Cop Ralph. I don’t know how to curl hair.”

            Tears filled Jamaica’s eyes. “Oh. I guess, I’ll just put on a hat,” she whispered, shuffling her feet around the room with her head lowered.

            “No, no, no, I’m sorry. I’m only frustrated,” Cop Ralph said as he rubbed his bald head.

            “Cop Ralph,” Jamaica said, “speaking of hair, you could use some of your own.”

            “Oh, for crying out loud,” Cop Ralph said.
            “Sorry, Cop Ralph,” she giggled.

            “Oh, just give me that head of yours and I’ll make these braids curly.” Cop Ralph stood over her and shoved his fingers into her thick head of hair. “Hmm, let me get the curling iron. Where is it?” Cop Ralph started searching, lifting seat cushions and opening drawers.

            “I’m hungry,” Jamaica whined.

            “Get it yourself,” Cop Ralph said. “I’m busy.”

            She walked over to a cabinet and pulled down a bowl, a spoon, and some corn flakes. When she dumped the cereal in the bowl, out fell a curling iron. “Cop Ralph, look,” Jamaica cried.

            “Really?” Cop Ralph muttered as he turned his head. “What in the world is it doing in the cereal box?”

            “Hey,” Jamaica said, “now you can curl my hair while I eat!”

            “This world is full of surprises,” Cop Ralph said, rolling his eyes. Jamaica sat down and Cop Ralph stood behind her with the curling iron. He rolled it up and down her hair, unsure of how to work it.

            As Jamaica dipped her spoon into her corn flakes, applause and the sounds of a cheering crowd rose from outside the dressing room.

            “Oh, I give up,” Cop Ralph said, dropping his arms. He fumbled through a drawer and pulled out a big, floppy tan hat with a bow on the front. He put it on her head with a satisfying plop and pulled her up. “Come on, Jamaica. Show time!” Cop Ralph tugged Jamaica by the hand and led her backstage.

            “Wait, woah, woah. What if my hat falls off and I get embarrassed, or what if it falls in my eyes and I can’t see where I’m going, and I trip? Or, someone might even pull it off my head to keep, since it is, after all, something I’ve touched and I’m the great Jamaica, a living legend.”

            “Uh-huh, come on, get over here.” Cop Ralph tugged her to the edge of the stage. Lights shone brightly from the stage, where an announcer stood with a microphone.

            “Wait, wait,” Jamaica said.

            “And now,” the announcer sang, “please welcome to the stage, the cutest of all, Jamaica!”

            Cop Ralph shoved Jamaica out onto the stage and she began to sing:

                                                            There was a flower,

                                                            there was a bug.

                                                            The bug was snug

                                                            on the flower’s rug.

                                                            The flower was rosy.           

                                                            The bug was blue.

                                                            Then, with a twitch,

                                                            the bug went achoo.

                                   

                                                            It blew the petals

                                                            off the stem.

                                                            The bug was homeless,

                                                            so he found a cozy limb.

            The crowd erupted in cheers. Cop Ralph fell back into a chair, breathing a sigh of relief.

The End

This story first appeared in the inaugural Story Hatchery Anthology last year.