TITLE: Red Dirt Girl
You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. You can't squeeze a drop of anything; not juice, not pulp, not even a slimy residue. Trust me, I tried. I know, it was a pretty immature thing to do, but I bought a bloated, redish turnip the size of a small apple and squeezed the bejeezus out of it. When it wouldn't give an ounce of juice, I shoved the hard vegetable under my foot and tried to stomp on it but it just rolled around under my flip-flop, collecting gravel.
I rubbed it against the pavement. Even more pissed off, I let go and the color returned to my fingers. I tossed it into the weeds. I had no use for it. I couldn't get it to sweat despite the unseasonable ninety degree heat. With a meager sense of satisfaction, I noted it didn't get me to sweat either...or sweat more then I already had. Due to the bizarre early spring heat wave and the fact that Decatur High School doesn't have air conditioning, (that's the South for you) I'd already soaked my shirt through before second period. So, maybe I did sweat a little bit in my fight to prove this idiom wrong, but it didn't make a difference. If I hadn't picked up the other end of the phone the night before, the night before everything changed, if I'd just continued reading my English Lit assignment, I wouldn't have heard them.