Abby stood on the sidewalk in front of Mr. Jones’s house, clutching a clipboard and pencil. She had been standing there for probably forever. Her right leg itched. She tried to scratch it with her left foot, but she couldn’t stay balanced long enough. She would have reached down with the pencil to scratch it, but her mom had caught her doing that once and scolded. The sun was behind Mr. Jones’s house, causing a vast shadow to reach out from the porch, down the front walk, and stopping just a few inches from where Abby stood. It was time, she thought; she should at least make an effort. She stepped on to the first square of the front walk, into the shadow.
Abby wasn’t scared of Mr. Jones, not exactly. She had told her mom she was scared, but that wasn’t what she meant. She didn’t know the right word, but scared, she thought, was what got little girls out of doing things they didn’t want to do. So she had said scared, and her mom had told her there was nothing to be scared of, and pushed her out the door.
There was a single blade of grass poking out of a crack in the walk. Abby stared down at it, half-willing it to grow, like Jack’s magic beanstalk, or maybe Rapunzel’s hair. She wasn’t sure if Mr. Jones was more giant or witch. He was a big man, a tall man. Her dad came up only to his shoulders. His voice was deep and dark, commanding. He sometimes drew words out, creating strange new sounds, secret sounds, in between the ones she knew.
Abby steeled herself and took another step forward, being careful not to step on the crack. She was completely in the shadow of the house now, the sun just a glow behind the roof. The tiles on the roof were grey. The whole house was grey. She pictured herself as Jack, standing before the giant’s castle. She remembered that the giant in the story sang. She had never heard Mr. Jones sing, but she could imagine. “Feeee, fiiie, fooooe, fummmmm,” he would sing, and the house would rumble with the final note.
She looked back at the sidewalk. It looked very far away. Jack was probably scared when he heard that giant singing, she thought, but he hadn’t turned back. She leaned forward on her toes. Leaned back. Leaned forward. Then she made a decision, and ran up the walk, up the porch stairs, and pressed the doorbell.
The bell sounded too loud, like it wasn’t supposed to be rung. She waited a few moments, and then she heard footsteps. Giant’s steps. Then the door opened.
“Well, hello,” Mr. Jones said. “What can I do for you?”
Abby swallowed, then almost shouted, “HI I’M ABBY FROM DOWN THE STREET AND I’M IN THE GIRL SCOUTS AND I’M SELLING COOKIES AND WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME PLEASE?” She held out her clipboard and pencil, arms fully extended, keeping as much distance between them as possible.
“Ah, cookies. I like cookies,” Mr. Jones said. He gently took the clipboard and perused the different flavors. “I think I’ll have, hmm, one box of Peanut Butter Patties, and, ah, one box of Thin Mints,” he said, filling out the form. He handed the clipboard and pencil back to her, smiling broadly. “Thank you very much, Abby.”
Abby smiled. “Your welcome, Mr. Jones, thank you for not being scary, not that I thought you were, I have to go now, bye, thanks,” she said, and turned and walked quickly back to the sidewalk before breaking into a run. She ran all the way back to her own front porch, where she sat on the step to catch her breath, and scratch her leg, which really, really itched.
Certain of Eventual Failure 