Oranges and Dust
(Flash Fiction) The dust knew no bounds, and as she walked along the fence line the wind carried it onto the corn, the cows, and the vacant cottages.
Why is the sky bluer on days like today? Have our eyes always been able to see the difference? Why do some oranges grow strong and sweet and others turn black?
Ruby wrote the words in orange gel pen on the black lines of her composition notebook. A healthy orange tree disappeared from the window as the school bus jostled down the dirt road that led to the Meyer residence. She recreated the branches and leaves, then emitted warped scribbles for each piece of deflated fruit.
Bolted grass surrounded the road, corralled by barbed wire fences, a sea of seed heads parted only by a few gravel drives lined with rows of rusted mailboxes. On windy days like today, Ruby’s eyes were red from squinting and wiping the grass pollen away from the creases of her doughy eyelids.
“You gonna cry?” Joe Meyer called from his seat at the front.
Ruby ignored him.
As the bus slowed on the uneven dirt the gentle jostle became violent lurching. Ruby held tightly to her seat and tried to stay grounded, to appear calm, and to keep her notebook and pen under her control. But one large stone later the notebook flew off her lap and hit the ground as the bus stopped and her new orange pen rolled down the length of the aisle toward Joe Meyer.
“I’m gonna hold on to this,” Meyer said.
“Give it back!”
“That’s not very nice Ruby. You need to learn how to be more generous,” he ripped the notebook from her hands, “so I’m taking this too,” he said and exited the bus.
Ruby flushed. The bus driver looked back at her in the rearview mirror, shaking her head.
“Aren’t you ever gonna stand up for yourself?” she said.
Ruby looked down at her shoes, fuming.
“If you don’t want my advice, that’s fine. You can go right ahead and get off my bus.”
Ruby walked down the long drive of disheveled cottages. Most were empty. Some were full of cows. When she arrived at home, her mother was outside watering the orange tree.
“What’s wrong sweetie?”
Ruby began to sob.
“He stole my notebook.”
“Meyer’s kid?”
Ruby nodded
“Just ignore him, he’ll leave you alone.”
“Why is he so mean?”
“I don’t know. Those Meyers are rotten. Something’s in the well.”
Ruby boosted herself up the trunk of the orange tree and picked a piece of fruit from a low branch. She broke the skin with her thumb nail, peeled it, and separated a mushy wedge. She took a bite, but it tasted gritty as the dirt Joe Meyer had kicked in her face last week. Sharp like the constant barrage of insults he threw at her on the bus. Foul as he smelled when he came too close to her.
The sound of a plane disrupted Ruby’s rumination. She watched as it flew overhead and dusted the Meyers’ crops. The dust knew no bounds, and as she walked along the fence line the wind carried it onto the corn, the cows, and the vacant cottages.
Joe Meyer was across the field when she looked down, carrying a baseball bat. He made sure she was looking at him as he strung Ruby’s notebook up in the citrus tree among the shriveled fruit; orange and black.