Scarecrow by Richie Tankersley Cusick Page A

reached out, hesitated just inches from those empty, repulsive eyes, yet at the same time they were so horribly beautiful and fascinating and I was afraid, wanting to back away from him, wanting to give in and caress the lines of his cheeks…
    “Well,” Franny demanded, “was I right?”
    “He’s so real,” I murmured, and my hand, groping again toward his face, halted once more in midair.
    “It’s all right, you can touch him.”
    But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My hand lowered to my side as I shuddered. “What…is it made of? It looks so real.”
    “Not it. He! But do you think so really?” Franny asked urgently. She followed my slow gaze up the front of the scarecrow, to his impassive face. “He is real.”
    “Girlie thinks everything is real… ” But they were talking about a child, not Franny…not this….
    I stared at Franny, something in her voice sending pinpricks up my spine. A low wind sighed through the orchard, rattling the branches around us, above us, stirring the scarecrow uneasily beneath his clothes. Franny cast me a sidelong glance and laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally into the quiet.
    “He’s real to me. That’s what I meant. But I can’t say, can I?”
    I wasn’t sure I understood. “Can’t say what? That he’s real?”
    “Course I can’t. They’d say I was like Girlie—which I’m not.” For a second she looked annoyed. “And, anyhow, Seth would wear me out if he caught me talking that way.”
    I wondered if Franny even realized how much the scarecrow resembled Seth, but I decided against mentioning it. “What way?” I asked instead.
    Franny’s lower lip jutted out; she flounced over and snapped off a twig. “He hates it when I talk about boys and stuff. All the nice things I’d like to have. And I should have them anyhow. I got a right to have nice things, and if Seth doesn’t want them he doesn’t have to have them.”
    I listened, surprised at the obvious distress on her face.
    “He tries to hide us all up here. Never see anybody. Never do anything. It’s not fair. It’s my life, too, and I got a right to a nice life, don’t I?” She glared at me, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, he thinks I don’t know about the world out there, but I do. Oh, I do, I do, I do.” She wrapped her arms about herself and waltzed gently back and forth, just a few steps, and gave me a dreamy smile. “Dewey—when he comes here to get eggs and bring our stuff—he sneaks me magazines sometimes—and I hide them and read them when nobody’s around.” She looked so pleased with herself that I had to smile.
    “And what would Seth say to that?”
    “Well, it doesn’t matter ’cause he’ll never find out!” she grinned, and waltzed again. “And me—I know about that world out there, and pretty clothes, and parties, and money—”
    “It’s not all like that.” I wanted to tell her, tell her how different it could be, the reality of it all. I wanted to tell her about the really important things—love and family and people who really care. I wanted to tell Franny about all of this, about the things she already had right here, but she didn’t seem to want any opinions, and when I opened my mouth to speak, she rushed on again.
    “And I know about boys out there and how they’re all strong and rich and handsome and smart.” She stopped dancing and a little smile played at the corners of her mouth. “How they make love to a girl and make her feel so pretty…” She broke off and looked at me directly. “How many times have you made love?”
    I regarded her for several moments without speaking, feeling foolish, knowing my cheeks had reddened, but knowing by the pleading intensity of her face that she expected an honest answer. “Well.” I laughed uneasily. “I don’t think I ever kept count.”
    Franny’s shoulders moved in a noiseless sigh. “Millions, probably. Was it…beautiful?”
    “Yes.” My eyes lowered, not embarrassed now, but sad, and I forced Brad