Genuine Sweet (5 page)

JoBeth Haines, town librarian and police dispatcher, smiled as I walked in.

“Genuine! Good thing you stopped by! The new
Georgia History Today
just came in.” She slid the magazine over the counter, along with the
Sass Settee,
our biweekly newspaper. “My column's in the
Settee,
you know. ‘Police Beat.' Page three.”

“Thanks, Missus Haines. I can't wait to read it.”

I gave the
Settee
's headlines a quick glance:
PACK YOUR UMBRELLA, SAYS WEATHER BUREAU!
and
SASS-Y CHILI RECIPE FEATURED ON COOKING CHANNEL!

I looked around the library. It didn't take long, seeing as how the place was half the size of my schoolroom. Still, it was stacked floor-to-ceiling with books, giving it a cozy sort of feel.

Both computer stations were empty.

“Missus Haines, did you see a girl in here today? A stranger, about my age?” I asked.

JoBeth was about to reply when the police radio squawked. She held up a finger and mouthed,
Hang on.
Deputy Lamar asked her to check some license plate numbers, which she did before turning her attention back to me.

“There was a young lady in here earlier,” she said. “Saw her yesterday, too. She fiddled with the computer for a while, then asked where she could get a mocha latte. I'm pretty sure that's fancy coffee, so I sent her over to Ham's.”

I stuffed my reading material into my satchel and darted across the street to the diner.

A bell jangled overhead as I entered. Scree Hopkins sat with her tenth-grade boyfriend on the pill-shaped stools at the counter. She gave me a Hey-Genuine-look-at-me-with-my-tenth-grade-boyfriend! kind of look, which I answered with my own That's-great-I'll-see-you-in-homeroom-like-everybody-else-anyway smile. Aside from them two, and someone in one of the booths, the place was empty.

“Genuine Sweet!” Ham, a pink-cheeked feller with a crewcut, slapped the counter. “I see you came for one of my fine apple fritters!”

Don't tell no one, but I sometimes thought of Ham as my almost-pa. He looked out for me. Plus, he'd known my ma real well. Whenever he found me feeling chewed up or sad, he'd sit me down and tell me some peart tale about the good woman Cristabel Sweet had been.

“That does sound tasty, Ham. Maybe some other time,” I said. Of course, what I truly meant was, “Aw, Ham, you know I'm so poor I can't even pay attention,” but a girl's got to have some pride.

The person in the booth turned to look my way. It was Jura. A frothy coffee sat before her.

“I'll just join my friend over there, if that's all right,” I told Ham.

“Sittin's free,” he replied, swatting my shoulder with his dishrag.

I walked to the booth and slid in across from Jura.

“Hi, Genuine.” She practically shone in her fine city clothes.

“I'm late for school, so I can't stay, but I brought you something,” I said, reaching into my bag.

“What is it?” Jura leaned forward in her seat, trying to sneak a peek.

“It's a wish biscuit.” I offered Jura the biscuit bundled in a handkerchief. Before I left home that morning, I'd whispered to it that Jura's ma needed a job in Sass. “Don't let the waitress see. She might not appreciate us bringin' non-tippable food in here.”

Jura opened the cloth. Her eyes grew wide. “Ohh!” She drew a long breath over the biscuit. “Just the smell of it! I love homemade! My granny used to make these!”

“Shh!” I hushed her, dipping my head toward the counter. “Your granny's weren't quite like this one, I reckon. Now, promise you'll eat the whole thing, all right?”

“I wouldn't waste a crumb! Thanks, Genuine.” She pulled a piece off and popped it in her mouth before tucking it into her bag.

Scree screeched a giggle. I spun around in a panic, thinking I'd been overheard, but she was only laughing at something her beau had said. Maybe I was getting jumpy after Gram's talk about not stirring folks up with my wish fetching.

“That biscuit is
really
good,” Jura told me. “You should
sell
those or something.”

Then she reached across the table and grasped my hand. “Thanks for doing this for me and my mom. It means a lot.”

I swallowed hard. She truly meant it. I may not have known Jura well, but even I could see this wish would take a real load off her shoulders. When you can help folks in a way that fills them with such sincere appreciation, why would you want to keep that secret?

“Ain't nothin' but a thing.” I waved a hand like I was clearing the air. “But you've got to know I haven't even conjured so much as a sunrise at dawn yet.”

“But you will,” she insisted. “You're going to be really good at this. I know it.”

Go figure. There was somebody right in my very own Sass, Georgia, who
believed
in me. Besides Gram, I mean.

“Well, if you're gonna live here, you'll be needing this.” I reached into my satchel and pulled out the newspaper. “Can't call yourself Sassy unless you read the
Settee.
”

“Better news than nothing.” She laughed. “I can't take any more Channel Two
Fo Sho Cajun Cooking
!”

“Don't you talk trash about Boudreaux Thibodeaux in
my
town,
cher,
” I teased.

“Gen'wine, you a wish fetcher fo' sho'!” Jura spun the worst Cajun accent I'd ever heard. “Go take care of your bizness,
cher,
den let's get on with saving the world, aw-rite?”

I couldn't help laughing, but I confess, a part of me sat back real still and serious, thinking things over. Sure, I could keep my wish fetching quiet. Because it was true: you never did know how some folks might respond. But keeping quiet might also keep me hungry in a world that didn't see fit to feed a person just because she had a mouth. Whether a body dies at the hands of the mob with pitchforks or dies of starvation and lack of heat—they both amount to the same thing. The end of all breathing.

I'd have to wait and see if Jura's wish biscuit came to anything. But if it did, well, maybe my new friend was right. Maybe it was time to stir the pot.

4

I
N MY GRADE, THE SEVENTH GRADE, THERE WERE SIX
kids, including me. There were four in eighth, five in the ninth, and a whopping nine people in tenth. The eleventh and twelfth grades were so small—three people put together—that they met in the same room. The younger ones—we called 'em ankle biters—all had classes in our school, too, a big-ish building made of the same red brick they used to build the city hall/police department/library.

It won't take long to familiarize you with my classmates, so I'll do that now. There was Danny (who went by Chester), Sligh (who went by Donut), Martin (who glared at you no matter what you called him), and Sonny Wentz (who I always thought was kind of cute). Me and Scree Hopkins (who I told you about) were the only girls at that point, and she didn't have much time for me, seeing as how she and Micky Forks were attached at the lips.

Our teacher is Mister Strickland, and he does have a reputation for strick-ness, if you take my meaning, but I still like him because he's careful about answering people's questions until they really understand the answers.

He wasn't too happy with me that particular morning, though.

“Genuine Sweet, where is your mind?” By his tone of voice, I reckoned he'd asked me something and I'd replied by staring out the window.

Actually, my mind was on wish biscuits and how they might be turned to the sort of profit that would pay an electric bill. What if I
did
have the MacIntyre shine and Jura's wish really came true? Could I charge money for fetching? What
was
a reasonable cost for a wish?

“Sorry, sir,” I said.

“‘Sorry, sir,' is not an answer,” he pressed.

“I guess I was thinking about . . . economics, sir. Scarcity and demand. That sort of thing.” As I may have mentioned, I don't like to lie.

He gave me a long look. “That would be downright respectable if we weren't in the middle of reading
Macbeth.
I want two pages on my desk tomorrow, on the economics of
paying
proper attention in class, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed with obligatory sullenness.

Secretly, I kind of liked writing essays for Mister Strickland. He let me think big thoughts on paper, and he underlined important ideas, making comments like, “Follow this rabbit down the warren and you'll really have something.” I figured I might write this essay about the costs and benefits of devoting oneself to an education. For instance,
Cost:
Valuable cooking-channel-watching time is lost. Benefit: An education might well prepare one to be a chef with a show on the cooking channel.

 

Concerning the question of electric bills and wishes, I postponed my deliberations until lunch, seeing as how Mister Strickland would have a wide eyeball turned my way for the rest of the morning.

Lunch was consternating for two reasons. First, the food was awful—but it was filling. To eat or not to eat? Given my circumstances, I believe you know the answer to
that
question. The other problem was a little hairier. See, there was this boy, Travis Tromp, same age as me but in a lower grade because he got held back.

Travis fabled himself as a sort of rebel, but he wasn't a very successful one. Far as I could tell, he was mostly just angry. About hunters
and
animal rights-ers, overgrown yards
and
code enforcers. Goodness forbid somebody expressed an opinion in front of him—he always took the other side. Loudly. And never by invitation. I think he tried to make himself unpleasant to be around. There were only two things in the world he liked: basil cigarettes and me. If the smell was any indication, basil cigarettes were as revolting as they sounded, but his ma was a seller of herbs and such, so I guess the stuff was lying around. Regarding the other, well, let's just say I had my strategies.

On this particular day, I waited outside the cafeteria door until Travis—wearing all black, as usual—sat down and started to eat. Then I found a seat that was blocked on both sides—by Donut on the right and Sonny on the left. (Sitting next to Sonny did give me warm shivers, but you won't repeat that, will you?) Engirdled in that way, I opened my milk, opened my notebook, and wrote:

 

Number of wishes I might fetch each week = ?

Amount of money I need to bring in weekly = ??

??
divided by ? = cost per wish

 

If only I knew for sure that I
could
fetch a wish! Hopefully, it wouldn't take long for Jura's biscuit to go to work. Missus Fuller's gas had appeared overnight, after all.

“Move,” said an all-too-familiar voice.

“Eat a turd, Travis,” Sonny replied. I fancied this was him sticking up for his right to sit by me. Warm shiver number two.

“Don't make me tell you, Donut.” Travis poked Donut in the shoulder.

I don't expect it would have really come to blows. Travis was actually kind of skinny, and I thought he kept his dark hair long mostly so he could hide behind it. But Donut sighed, gave me a look of mild apology, and went off to sit with Mister Strickland.

“Hey, baby.”

And there I was, back with my lunch buddy, Mister Blackshirt Blackpants Blackington.

“If you respected me at all, Travis, you'd call me by my name,” I told him.

“Shore I respect you,
Genuine.
But a man thinks of his girl as ‘baby.' It's a habit.”

I didn't even acknowledge the “his girl” comment. “Like those noxious things you're always smoking?”

“I'd quit in a flash, if you asked me to.”

I wasn't going to be roped in. “I'm kind of busy right now, Travis.”

Sonny broke in. “How's life in the third grade, Travis?”

“Sixth.
Sixth
grade,” Mister Blackpants corrected. “Busy with what, sugar?”

I rolled my eyes.

Sonny sighed, loudly setting down his fork. “Mister Strickland asked me to clean the blackboards for him. If you're not too busy, I could use a hand.” This invitation was wonderfully, blessedly directed at me.

Busy? Who said I was busy? “Sure, Sonny.”

Travis disappeared completely from my mind, as did the cafeteria and all the people in it. Sonny and I scraped out our trays, dropped them in the bin, and I floated out the door after him.

Later, Scree Hopkins deigned to tell me that Travis looked real vexed as Sonny and I sauntered off together.

 

Here's what I'd like to say about what happened in that empty classroom, me and Sonny alone:
None of your business.

Here's what really happened: a lot of blackboard washing and the exchange of two incomplete sentences.

“Thanks for, uh . . .” I mumbled.

“Welcome,” Sonny mumbled back.

Still, I treasured the memory of those words until the last bell rang.

After that, though, my thoughts drifted back to biscuits and wishing. Once food and heat were taken care of, how
would
it be to step out some? I confess I took some pleasure in daydreaming that I, Genuine Sweet, might mend some great catastroke with the mere flick of a wish. Wouldn't it be a marvel to hear someone say,
That Genuine sure did save the day with that wish fetching of hers! Dangerous Dale Sweet's daughter made good after all!
And maybe Sonny would be there, and might reply,
I don't know what this town would do without her!

 

“Genuine! You won't believe this! Look!” A friendly hand shook the latest
Sass Settee
under my nose.