The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills (13 page)

“I love so many people in this town. I’m appreciative. And like everyone here, I’m learning — learning to look and listen, just as Margaret Mead suggested. We are all learning, changing, making mistakes and faltering at times but always learning —”

That’s when the microphone and all the stage lights went out. There was a huge blare of speaker feedback that startled everyone. The crowd gasped. I tapped the microphone, shaking a little. Nothing. I looked around for help, for Ms. Whitaker or Blair or someone.

The crowd was growing anxious. I could hear their collective murmuring grow like distant thunder.

“The esteemed anthropologist Margaret Mead taught me —” I began again. The microphone was completely dead. I tried once more, shouting, “THE ESTEEMED ANTHROPOLOGIST MARGARET MEAD TAUGHT ME —”

I looked over at Ms. Whitaker, but she didn’t seem to understand that the sound wasn’t working. She raised her eyebrows and gestured for me to go on.

There was no way I could shout my essay out to the audience. My mom just kept smiling up at me and waving. I squinted at her — her big, Bisquick biscuit of a face all made up and beaming. And then, inspiration struck.

I started doing the Pony.

I skipped to the left-two-three. I skipped to the right, holding my fists forward the way my mom had. It was so quiet that I could hear my feet thumping on the stage. I hummed an old soul song to myself for inspiration. And amazingly, I felt
good — silly, happy, pleased with good ol’ Melva and with myself.

“It’s the Pony!” some middle-aged woman who was not my mom shouted. “All right, girl! Do the Pony! All right!”

“Get it, girl! Work it!” another lady shouted, then started clapping. A few people started laughing, but their laughter seemed supportive, the kind of laughter that felt like it was rooting me on. I almost burst out laughing myself.

When Ms. Whitaker finally came out onto the stage to lead me off, the audience applauded (and possibly looked a little relieved). But my mom stayed on her feet, cheering. And cheering.

I was still shaking when Margo clutched my arm in the wings. “Wow! You had a real change-of-heart moment up there, huh?” Margo whispered, grinning at me.

I shook my head, still lost in a sort of haze. “Was it okay?” I asked.

“Seriously great while it lasted. You handled it brilliantly,” she said, throwing her arms around me. “Especially when you threw in the Pony.”

But before we could talk anymore, Ms. Whitaker hushed everyone, gathering all of us finalists together into the greenroom.

“Girls, we believe we have addressed the problem with our sound board. Y’all will now each do your interviews. Afterward, the judges will make their final decisions.”

The other girls broke into murmurs, either distressed or appreciative. I was swept with a wave of relief that I wouldn’t have to reattempt reading my essay. There was no way that I wanted to go back on that stage to repeat that talent. Answering interview questions would be less stressful by comparison.

Ms. Whitaker continued. “Finally, as planned, we will reconvene after the interviews at six p.m., for the awards announcements and ceremony.”

With that, Ms. Whitaker left, and Blair passed out the interview schedule, ushering the first girl on the list back out to the stage. The rest of us clustered near the curtains, watching, listening to the answers.

“What would you say your greatest weakness is?” one judge asked into the microphone.

The first girl approached the mike hesitantly, as if it might shock her. “My greatest weakness,” she said faintly, “is probably that I work too hard. I become too invested in things and never give up. It can be a lot of stress when you’re so dedicated. People say to me, ‘Just relax a little!’ but I always have to respond, ‘No. I can’t. I care too much, and so I have to keep working.’ That’s my greatest weakness.”

The first girl left, and another girl walked onto the stage.

“Lord Acton once said, ‘Power corrupts; and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ How do you respond to this claim?”

“This is an absolutely powerful statement,” the next girl said, “because power is very corrupting, as we may see in Stalinist Russia, where there was both much corruption and power, and the super-complicated relationship between both, which leads to corruption in an absolute sense. So absolutely this is absolutely true.”

I had no idea what the girl had just said, but the audience clapped politely.

TR went out next.

“Some say that our greatest problems are our greatest opportunities. Do you agree with this statement and why?”

TR answered, “I’ve been taught by many mentors, including Oprah Winfrey and my mother, to look at the greatest problems as the greatest opportunities. The example that comes to my mind is when the members of the cheerleading squad did not have enough new cheerleading uniforms for everyone. Instead of viewing this as a problem, I said, ‘Hey, this is an opportunity. Why don’t we seek donations from all our parents, and instead of just getting enough for the missing uniforms, we’ll have an opportunity to get nice new uniforms for everyone!’ And that’s how we ended up with cute new uniforms for the entire squad. And thus I truly believe all great problems are actually just opportunities in disguise.”

I had to swallow my own vomit on that one. After TR, the rest of the interview questions went by in a blur. Finally it was my turn. I walked out onstage.

“What piece of advice would you like to give to a young girl who might be standing exactly where you’re standing ten years from now?”

I thought for a minute. Bring extra bobby pins? Make sure you have on strong deodorant? Don’t let your mom pick out your Miss Livermush dress? Then I remembered what my mom had said to me. It now seemed like she’d definitely been onto something.

“Try to remember,” I said, “that it’s difficult to have any perspective on things when you’re sixteen or seventeen. And difficult
sometimes to appreciate the people and things around you. So try to be generous to yourself and others.”

What a dork I sounded like. What clichéd and stupid-sounding advice! My heart was still pounding as I walked offstage. But the more I thought about it, the more I reassured myself that nothing I’d said was untrue. I’d made a good point, really — my mom’s good point. But how much easier to say than to execute in real life.

When we’d finished our interviews and changed into regular clothes, my mom was the only mother waiting outside the Arts Council building on her tiptoes, periodically jumping up and down. My dad stood beside her, shuffling his feet and looking off to the side, almost as if he were embarrassed to be next to a giddy, jumping, middle-aged woman wearing a “LIVERMUSH, THE GREATEST STUFF!!!” T-shirt.

“Oh, Miss Livermush, Miss Livermush!” she chirped, jumping up and down while Margo and I walked out. “You were both so beautiful, girls! I’m so proud! You’re all winners in my book!”

FACT:
My mom was the type of person who could say things like “You’re all winners in my book!” and be absolutely sincere about it.

“Did I look dumb, Mom? When the microphone cut out?” I whispered to her as she hugged me.

“Don’t be silly,” my mom said. “It made you look very poised, I thought, the way you handled it with such good humor! I thought to myself, those old judges are saying,
That girl has
incredible
poise
! “

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hugging her tighter.

“Chucky Healey’s mother was sitting next to me, and she said you just looked beautiful!”

I pulled myself back, looked at my mom, and groaned.

Then my mom looked at me seriously. “I heard what you were saying up there, Janice. Before the microphone went out. I liked where you were going. Your father and I are very proud of you.”

My dad nodded at me like we’d just made a business deal together.

“You’re my princess,” he said for the hundredth time, as if this finally made it so.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, before my mom pulled me into a hug again.

After I disentangled myself from my mother’s five-minute-long Bear Hug of Pageant Enthusiasm, and I managed to convince her that she didn’t need to hang out with us at the festival, Margo and I went to walk around on our own. We had a few hours to spend before the awards ceremony.

The afternoon had grown less cloudy, and the Livermush Festival was now bustling. We headed past face painting stands and French fry stands, stands representing local businesses, and of course, livermush stands: livermush biscuits, fried livermush, livermush and cheese. Tired-looking women waddled along in shorts, screeching at their little kids, who zipped around, keyed up on sugar, grease, and face paint. Middle schoolers and high school freshmen passed by in little clusters. Local businessmen and Realtor-types clasped one another’s hands firmly and slapped one another on the back. Aside from the Letherfordton County Fair, this was the biggest community social event of the year. Everyone in Melva who could be out was out, and the air smelled thick and greasy with livermush frying. The livermush air clung to our nostrils and clothes as we walked. Margo and I walked slowly, absorbing it all. I liked this smell, I thought. I liked its familiarity.

Then we noticed a crowd of people our age in the parking lot behind the Arts building. Margo and I walked closer. There were a bunch of trucks parked there. Guys in backward trucker caps milled around, and several bare-legged girls hung out on the truck beds. A couple of the guys were drinking from bottles of Mountain Dew that I guessed had something else mixed in. Many of them held another soda bottle into which they’d spit periodically. There was a lot of chasing and squealing and flirting, new girls strolling up in packs and showing off their lean, bare legs in miniskirts. I didn’t recognize most of them and so assumed they were county kids. Except for TR and her crew.

TR and her crew were still wearing their Miss Livermush gowns, and (now that I was an expert in the matter) they appeared to be tipsy. Laughing and falling against one another, the three girls climbed into the back of a big red truck with an “I brake for boiled peanuts” bumper sticker. They waved Margo and me over.

“Hey, hey! Nice dancing up there, Janice!” TR said, giggling a little.

“So what are y’all up to?” Margo asked, ignoring TR’s comment.

Tabitha hiccupped. Casey gave a squealing little laugh. “We’re ssssslirting,” Casey said, breaking into a squeal again. “Slirting!” TR said. “Slirting.”

“Oh, wow,” Margo whispered to me. “This is for real. For some reason, I always thought they were exaggerating.”

TR cackled, jumping in. “Normally we go to a really crappy place like the Rutherville Quik-Stop or the Wal-Mart parking lot!” She grinned. “But today with the Livermush Festival going on, they come right to us!”

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
Rutherville was one of the few places people in Melva felt confident mocking, as it was even smaller and perceived to be even more “country” than Melva itself. If you lived in Melva, you felt you were allowed to make incest and moonshine jokes about Rutherville.

Margo and I exchanged a look.

“Isn’t that, sort of, I dunno — evil?” I asked.

The three girls cackled drunkenly.

“No, no, no! They love it! They love that we’re paying attention to them, and they never know that we think they’re really complete losers!” Casey said.

“The girls get mad, though,” TR added wisely, with a hint of glee. “Like today. Those county girls hate us!”

“You’re invading their turf,” Margo said. “And mocking their friends.”

“Whatever!” Tabitha squealed. “They’re total rednecks! We’re, like, the thrill of their chaw-chewin’ lives!”

“Yeah! And these aren’t even the worst we’ve ever tried. They’re, like, awesome compared to some of the guys we’ve found!” Casey added.

As if to demonstrate, TR practically jumped onto the lap of a nearby guy in a camouflage hat. He looked up, startled but not disappointed. TR took a swig of his drink, and then, grabbing his neck, she lifted his face up to hers and kissed him. It was a full, slow, long kiss. Margo and I stared, speechless.

When their lips finally disconnected, the guy looked up, bewildered and pleased, at TR. With that, she sprang back and slapped him in the face. Hard. The sound of the slap was loud enough that everyone turned.

“What the —” the guy began. One half of his face was red, and his eyes glistened like he might be holding back tears.

“What do you think you’re doing, kissing someone like me?” TR hissed. “Where do you even get the nerve?”

“Not cool, TR,” I said. She turned to face me, her eyes fierce and feline.

Margo looked at me, her brow furrowed. “What do we do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

We quickly walked back to the main area of the festival, right around the court square. While Margo ran inside the courthouse to use the bathroom, I stood waiting by a frozen lemonade stand, idly inspecting my fingernails. I sensed a person approaching me and looked up.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, stepping back before I’d even registered who he was. He smelled of cigarettes and peppermint chewing gum. He wore dark jeans and a black shirt.

Jimmy Denton.

He scowled — not at me, it seemed, but as if he were trying to pluck the right words from the air.

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t see you.” Which was a stupid thing to say since of course I hadn’t seen him until he’d walked right up to me.

He shrugged, scratching his head behind one ear and just staring at me. Quiet. A sour taste rose in my throat. I thought of Mrs. Johnson’s whistling old voice spitting near my ear during
the fancy walking lessons. I thought of my mom’s advice. I thought of the night at Jimmy’s.

“You know,” I said. “What you did that night, how you acted to me, it wasn’t cool. It wasn’t cool at all. I’m sorry that you’ve had a rough time in this town, but you’re not the only one.”

He stared at me, unblinking. He was the cutest guy I’d ever seen, and yet he looked ugly to me. No, not ugly. Just unappealing.

“A nice person, a
decent
person, would apologize,” I said. My voice was dropping quieter and quieter for some reason, until I was only barely audible. “And if
you
are having problems, maybe you should TALK to someone. Don’t just be bitter and mean. Especially to people who want to like you.”

Jimmy cleared his throat but said nothing.

“And I liked you. I wanted to get to know you,” I said, looking right into his eyes.

But he still didn’t say a word, just shuffled one of his dirty shoes a little, as if he were wiping away a spot on the ground.

“I was going to tell you …” he said, then paused. “I was going to say …”

“Listen, don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’re cool. I’ve moved on.”

And, as an Anthropologist/Reluctant Participant in Livermush Pageants and also a newly minted Woman of Action, I think I really
had
moved on. I turned from Jimmy and walked away.