The Color Game

Beckett, strapped in the car seat behind me, waves his arms excitedly. “Me! Me!”

Raleigh, old enough and tall enough to have graduated to the passenger seat, rolls his eyes at his younger brother’s shrill cries for attention. “Mo-om, make him stop!”

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. As if Beckett would just stop by me calmly asking him to.

My attention was on the traffic ahead, around, and behind our aging SUV. DC traffic was harrowing to navigate any time of day. Trying to get Raleigh to his new tutor on time was proving to be an ordeal. I worried that making the trip three times a week for the next two months so far from home was not all that great an idea.

“Play a game with Beckett, Ralls. Please? The color game or something?”

My son sighs mightily, his thin shoulders hunching in the faded green polo he insisted on wearing today. It was a shirt that regularly found its way, at my insistence, into the donation pile, and was just as regularly plucked from its demise by an incensed seven-year-old.

“Dad. Gave. Me. This. Shirt.” This was the gritted-teeth pronouncement from my oldest boy the last time we went through the dance. Hands on hips, one hand clutching the shirt, he glared at me. “Don’t ever give it away. Ever.”

The shirt wouldn’t fit him for much longer. Or it would fade to some horrible pea green color with enough washings. For now, though, he wore it as he did every Tuesday, rain or shine.

Fine with me. Brandon didn’t leave much behind when he moved out. If Raleigh got comfort from having the shirt his dad gave him, then great. We needed all the comfort we could get.

I slam on the brakes as the car in front of me comes to a sudden stop. My right arm flings out automatically in the ages-old “Mom brakes” that probably never saved a child but damned if we weren’t going to try.

Beckett points out the window. “BLUE!” Raleigh cranes his head to look. “Yeah, buddy, you got that one right.” When it’s safe to do so, I look as well, confirming that there is a blue car next to us.

Beckett chortles in glee at having drawn his brother into the game. He squirms in the confined seat, determined, at four, to be let loose from the straps that hold him safely in.

The car in front of me moves. Cautiously, I take my foot off the brake and inch forward.

“Wo-lly! You say!”

Raleigh tries to ignore Beckett. We both know this won’t work. Sighing, Raleigh looks around at the cars, vans and SUVs that surround us. He finally points at one of them. “That one, buddy.”

Beckett leans forward, twisting his little body so that he can pinpoint which vehicle his brother pointed at. That was part of the fun.

He furrows his brow. “Yellow?”

I hide a smile. Beckett doesn’t like to be wrong. But he doesn’t want Raleigh to stop playing the game more than he doesn’t like to be wrong.

Raleigh shakes his head dolefully, trying to tease his little brother. “I don’t know, buddy. You sure it was the yellow one?”

“Yuh. Yell-ow.” Beckett has made up his mind.

Seeing a slight break in the traffic, I put my foot on the gas, only to slam it on the brake once more as a bright yellow Mustang cuts in front of us.

“Dammit! You trying to kill us?” I slam my fists on the dashboard.

“Yellow! YELLOW!” Beckett cries out.

“Beckett! Stop it!” At the end of my rope, I yell back at him. He falls silent for a moment, stunned by the sharpness of my tone. Then he starts to cry.

“God,” I groan. I’ve made my kid cry. Great parenting here.

“Raleigh. Give your brother a juice box, please.”

In charge of all snacks and drinks, Raleigh releases his seatbelt so he can lean forward and snag the cooler bag we take everywhere we go. Beckett is wont to get hungry or thirsty at the slightest whim, and he’s not quiet about who knows it.

Raleigh pokes the pointy end of the tiny straw through the hole in the juice box that has a picture of apples on the front, then twists in his seat to hand it to Beckett.

Beckett, tears forgotten, plucks the juice box from Ralegh’s outstretched hand. “Fanks!”

The Mustang in front of us stops. Half a second too slow, I slam my foot on the bra—

There is a mighty CRASH. Then darkness.

When I come to, it’s because my right arm hurts like hell. So does my head.

I open my eyes. “Wh-what happened?” Raleigh is in the seat next to me, his eyes round as saucers. “You’re hurt? Honey?”

He shakes his head. “No, Mom. Not hurt.”

“Beckett? Beckett?” I twist around in my seat, wincing as my shoulder screams with pain.

My little boy grins at me from the safety of his car seat. His lips, chin and the front of his shirt are wet with juice. He points to my forehead. “RED!”

Sure enough, I’m bleeding. An EMT opens the car door as I dab my forehead to staunch the trickle of blood that runs between my eyebrows.

“Your kids are all right?” He asks as he unbuckles my seatbelt. I nod, relieved and grateful that they are okay.

From the looks of things, our SUV won’t ever be the same. I’ll need to call Brandon.

My right arm is all but useless, but that doesn’t stop me from getting Beckett out of his car seat and checking him over. The EMT is checking Raleigh for injuries, but I can tell my kid is okay. He’s okay.

I smile, despite everything. Thank God for the “Mom brake.” Thank God.


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983 words

Prompt: Write a story or poem using the words Red, Green, Yellow, and Blue. Bold the prompt words. Make one of your genres Drama.