When she was very young, Marigold had a habit of sticking out her lower lip when she was angry. Her brother Dennis, having thumbed through hundreds of old issues of National Geographic Magazine, said she looked like one of those Ubangi women in Africa who insert large plates into her lips to be attractive to … God knows who or what.

Marigold’s lip protruded when she was told do so things that she did not want to do, such as the dishes if it wasn’t “her turn,” or turn off her light at night when she was reading a good book. Her mother informed her that this habit was repulsive, and that if Marigold didn’t stop, her mouth would get permanently stuck in that position.

Agreeing, her grandfather laughed, not unkindly, pointed a finger accusingly at her face (his eyes were twinkling at the time), and proclaimed “Picklepuss.”

Marigold didn’t just love her mother’s father; she was in awe of him. His skin was a shade described on the color chart for the new floors in their kitchen as “Brazilian cherry.” And there was something about his entire being — warmer than a marble statue, but of sterner stuff than flesh and blood — that reminded Marigold of saints carved out of wood at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Her grandfather’s name was Arthur, but Marigold did not know that until she was thirteen years old. Only his children called him “Dad.” Everybody else called him “Gunny.” He had been a career Marine and a gunnery sergeant in Viet Nam. After he left the military and until he retired, he worked on ships that serviced and supplied tanks to American troops all over the world.

Gunny loved all of his grandchildren, but because Marigold was occasionally obdurate and always unconventional, she was his favorite. And in truth, she was a very nice little girl. Not popular at school. Not unpopular either. She was a non-conformist by nature, and even if she had wanted to, would have had no idea of how to fit in.

Although nobody had ever bullied her, once Marigold became known to a group of girls Gunny called “Golden Thugs” – Golden because their parents were all rich, and thugs because … well … that’s how they acted – she became targeted by them, too.

Another thing about Marigold was that although she usually had an amiable disposition (unless being forced to do the dishes when it wasn’t her turn), her benevolence did not translate into acts of charity. She never shoveled snow off the sidewalks of old people after a winter storm. She didn’t bring home birds with broken wings. She didn’t volunteer to read to residents at the local hospice. In fact, when her mother explained to her what a hospice was, she had nightmares for a week.

What she did do, though, was hate bullies. I’d like to say that Marigold hated them with a passion, but she didn’t think that way. In fact, when it came to bullies, she didn’t think at all. She just reacted. She ambled unambitiously through her school years, avoiding homework whenever possible, reading only the books that interested her, and liking almost everyone who crossed her path.

“Almost” being the operative word.

Now, you already know Marigold’s opinion of the Golden Thugs. For the purpose of this story, you don’t need to know who were their victims. Maybe skinny nerds on their way to playing video games … classmates from different religious or ethnic backgrounds … or even pale-faced prodigies carrying piccolos or violins. Regardless of who or what they were, if Marigold saw one or more Golden Thug bearing down upon a helpless victim, she went into a rage.

Now, despite Marigold’s vociferous defense of the innocent, she was neither large nor was she agile (she could barely do a somersault). Only five-feet tall, with frizzy ginger hair, brown eyes, a pert nose, and freckles, she looked more like a cheerleader than a warrior. Even so, whenever she encountered a bully in the process of mocking, manhandling, or harassing one of those she felt compelled to protect, her instantaneous response was to plow into them like a locomotive, grab their victim by the arm, and wrench him (or her) away.

Sometimes when she did this, she was effective. Sometimes, not. Regardless of the outcome, however, she always got hurt. The coup de grâce of Marigold’s career as a crusader came after she saw three Golden Thugs outside the door to the gym attacking Marla Baik, a gentle 13-year-old “special needs” child with long brown hair and no personality.

Marigold charged the lead bully, scattering her and her cohorts like pins in a bowling alley. Mrs. Rehnquist, the school’s principal, a good, but non-confrontational personality, believed Marigold’s versions of events. But her reprimands to the Gold Thugs had no effect in curbing their reign of terror, because they held no consequences.

After defending Marla from her oppressors, Marigold left school with a sprained ankle, a torn blouse, and a determination to consult her grandfather. Within second of ringing his bell, he came to the door, observed her looking dejected and bedraggled on his doorstep, and opened his arms. Marigold flew into them, and stayed long enough for one bone-crushing hug. Then she pulled away.

“Gunny,” she said. Although clearly agitated, there were no tears in her eyes. “I have a problem.”

Her grandfather stepped outside. He sat on his stoop and drew her down beside him. “Talk,” he commanded.

So, Marigold related details of that day – and of all previous encounters with the Golden Thugs – including names of their victims and what she had done in their defense. Winding up her recitation, she added, “The bad guys are winning this battle, Gunny. And I don’t know how to stop them.” Then, exactly as her mother could have predicted, Marigold thrust out her lower lip (looking very much at the moment like a Ubangi tribeswoman), lowered her eyebrows, and glowered.

Surprised by the sudden change in her expression, Gunny slapped his knees with his hands, burst out laughing, and again addressed his favorite grandchild as “Picklepuss.” Which caused her mood to worsen to the extent that she began to shoot bolts of lightning at him from her eyes.

Feeling the full force of her wrath, Gunny snapped his fingers, and said, “That’s it!”

Marigold’s eyes softened. She retracted her lower lip and tilted her head to one side. “What, Gunny? What? I could really use some help.”

Her grandfather said, “If I tell you how to vanquish your foe” – he sometimes talked like that because he had read so many Sir Walter Scott novels – “will you promise never to utilize this methodology again. Particularly when in a non-threatening situation or at home?”

Marigold gave his request a moment’s consideration. Then she said, “I promise.”

He stood, brushed off his pants, and in a voice that he hadn’t used since training raw recruits in the Marines long ago, he said, “Okay, Picklepuss. What have to do now is weaponize that lower lip.”

His idea was this: In any subsequent confrontations with the Golden Thugs, instead of charging them like an angry bull, she was to stride forward – shoulders back; head up – and shield their victim with her body. Then, as Gunny so vividly put it: “Stick out your Infamous and Invincible, Lower Lip, shoot bolts of lightning at them from your Beautiful Brown Eyes, and convey the message: I WILL NEVER BACK DOWN.”

She followed Gunny’s instructions to the letter, but it still took two more confrontations with the Golden Thugs before they gave up. One transferred to a new school. Another joined the volley ball team. And the third decided to run for class president.

After that, Marigold’s lower lip receded fully, never again to protrude. Not when her mother called her to dinner as she was watching a favorite movie. Not when her father turned out the lights in her bedroom as she was reading a new book. Not when her sisters cheated, and she had to dry the dishes when it wasn’t her turn.

Not even, and sometimes this made her laugh, when Gunny called her “Picklepuss.” Since she knew … and he did, too, that she really wasn’t – at least, not anymore – a Picklepuss at all.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, vibasit www.shellyreuben.com