The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (34 page)

and . . .” But she didn’t have a chance to finish.

He stuffed his tongue into her mouth, shutting her up, choking

her. She tried to turn away but he had her against the tree. She felt

the jagged bark pressing through her hair, but she wasn’t sure she

really wanted him to stop. If he’d just quit choking her. Finally he

let her up for air.

“Come on, Bourrée,” she begged, “don’t be like that. Be sweet.”

“What do you want?” His voice was as cold and damp as the

night air.

Sissy shivered. “I just want us to be like we were. That’s all.”

His pale eyes flickered over her as if he were appraising a pile of

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lumber. Just a hint of a snicker escaped the edges of his mouth

before he grabbed her coat, ripping off the buttons, rending the

material.

“Don’t! You’ll ruin it!”

But he didn’t pay any attention. He yanked the coat, tearing it

from her body.

“Bourrée, for God’s sake . . .”

“Shut up,” he growled, throwing the coat to the ground, leaving

her exposed and shivering. He pushed her back against the tree,

and pinning her there with one hard hand to her breast, he pulled

up her short nightgown with the other. But where he was gentle

before, he was rough now, and fumbling. “Is this what you want?”

he snarled as he unzipped his fly and rammed himself into her. She

tried to scream, but he slammed her head into the tree and silenced

her with the heel of his heavy hand, pressing on her windpipe. Sissy

felt the gnarly trunk make welts in her back as she twisted and

shoved trying to get away. “Is this what you want?” he repeated.

She was so dry, she felt her skin tear. She was beating on him now,

trying to force him away. But he increased the pressure on her

windpipe as he ground his body into hers, thrusting and jabbing

and pressing harder and harder on her throat so that screaming was

out of the question. She had to struggle to breathe. Then he made a

quick grunt and pulled out, dripping along her leg and over her

fallen coat.

“Is that what you want, little girl? You want me to come over

every now and again to service you?” Sissy shook her head. “Then

stay away from me and mine, you hear?” He pinched her cheek

hard between his fingers and, baring his teeth, kissed her off.

Beware of other people’s plans for your own good.

—Belle Cantrell, Sissy’s grandmother

Unnumbered Rule, The Southern Belle’s Handbook

C h a p t e r 1 5

Sissy stayed away. She stayed away from the whole family

and nursed her hatred. She’d never hated before, but Bourrée had

taught her how. She felt defiled. Peewee had been upset, of course,

when she told him she had to give him back his pin. She tried to

push him in Amy Lou Hopper’s direction, sang Amy Lou’s praises,

but he wouldn’t budge. After going out with the head cheerleader,

Amy Lou must have seemed too low rent for him. Instead, his pale

blue eyes, filled with the silent reproach of a wounded bird, fol-

lowed Sissy in class and around school until she thought she was

going to scream.

“Who wants to translate the first two lines?” asked Miss Mar-

tine, pacing around the class.

Sissy kept her head down, avoiding all eye contact. In the front

row Amy Lou’s and Doreen’s hands shot up. Doreen had already

grabbed Parker and was clinging to him like ivy.

For the first couple of weeks, he hadn’t dated anyone else, but he

wouldn’t have anything to do with Sissy, either. She’d tried all the

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wiles in the Southern Belle’s Handbook, and made up new ones,

but none of them worked with Parker.

Then Doreen moved in. She managed to be there all the time

now, hanging on to his arm, wearing his letter sweater. And he was

so attentive. He seemed to adore her. Sissy figured it was her own

fault for being such a fool. She tried to make up some rule that

would cover her foolishness and warn her in the future, but all she

could think of was: don’t give up a good man for a bad one,

although that seemed pretty obvious.

She wondered if he “respected” Doreen. She sure hoped so. She

couldn’t stand the thought of Parker making love to someone else.

Especially not someone whose face she knew.

Miss Martine ignored the upraised arms and called, “Betty Ruth.”

“Huh?” Betty Ruth looked up very carefully so as not to disturb

the steel mallets of her hangover.

“You did prepare this lesson, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.” All around the class there were titters. Rumor

had it that Betty Ruth had stayed on at the football field after prac-

tice and had taken on the team. That hadn’t happened, of course,

but she had lured five of the players over to her house. What had

happened there nobody knew.
Boys are such liars
. That should sure

go somewhere in the Southern Belle’s Handbook as a warning. Sissy

decided to make it Rule Number Fifteen. Coach had declared Betty

Ruth off-limits for the rest of the season and was pressuring Miss

Robbie to kick her off the cheerleading squad.

“Page seventy-two, read the first two lines.”

Betty Ruth bent to her task, sounding out each syllable of “Au

Clair de la Lune,” in a language resembling nothing spoken on this

planet.

Sissy flipped to the calendar in the front of her notebook. She was

due over two weeks ago.

She studied the calendar. She’d missed two months last summer

after her brother died. Her mother had said that was normal, not to

worry. But in June it couldn’t have meant anything unless someone

T h e S c a n d a l o u s S u m m e r o f S i s s y L e B l a n c 2 3 1

spotted a star in the East. And it was unlikely that the Lord, even if

He wanted to beget a Second Coming, would pick the Virgin Sissy.

Of course, she reminded herself, she wasn’t exactly eligible for that

title anymore.

But she and Bourrée had always been careful. After the first

time, he’d always worn a rubber. She remembered how it looked

when he rolled it on over his red . . . Sissy brought herself up

sharply.

She checked the calendar again, counting backward. The last time—

up against the oak tree—was the night of the Awards Dinner, which

was, oh my God, four weeks ago. She didn’t want to think about

that time. She felt raped, except you couldn’t call it rape if you’d

been having sex with the man, could you? Besides, he’d say, she’d

asked for it, and she knew she had, but she hadn’t asked for that!

Not that! She tried to remember if he’d worn anything or not. Oh,

Jesus, she couldn’t have gotten pregnant from that! It was too

awful.

She was probably just upset like last summer. But last summer

her breasts didn’t hurt all the time and she wasn’t so sleepy.

“Sissy.”

Sissy jerked her head up. “Ma’am?”

“Translate the next two lines.”

Sissy looked at her book.

“Page seventy-two.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know.” The class was watching. She didn’t want

to look like a dope, but she couldn’t figure out what was she doing

sitting here in neat rows with her whole life crumbling in front of

her. French words like black bugs scuttled across the page.

“Start with
‘Ma chandelle est morte . . . ’
Do you know what

that means?”

“My candle is dead?”

Miss Martine winced. “My candle has gone out. Now read.”

“Ma chandelle est morte . . .”
Sissy parroted and then slowly . . .

“ ‘
Je n’ai plus de feu
. . . ’ I don’t have any more light.” What did

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this stupid French song about dead candles have to do with her?

Things were happening to her own body. She was having trouble

buttoning the waists of her skirts, she felt like a big old balloon and

she had to sit still and read this crap.

Miss Martine walked over to Sissy’s desk and closed her book.

“That’s quite enough. Sissy and Betty Ruth, I want to see you both

after class. Now,
mes enfants, ‘
Au Clair de la Lune
’
wasn’t written to torture us, it’s a beautiful French folk song. Can anyone sing it?”

Amy Lou’s hand shot up. “I can, Miss Martine.”

Who cares? thought Sissy. Who gives a flying fart? She tried to

ignore the growth that might be forming inside her, pushing out

her stomach. This tiny growth with Bourrée’s face growing inside

of her.

God wouldn’t let this happen to her. Okay, so she hadn’t obeyed

all
His commandments. She ticked them off as best she could

remember them. She hadn’t killed anybody, and she didn’t steal.

Well, hardly ever, except that time when she copped the orange lip-

stick at Rubinstein’s, but she’d dropped the price into the collection

plate at church the following Sunday. And there was the time she

borrowed Norman’s penknife, but that didn’t count. Okay, it

counted. Honor thy father and mother, don’t use the Lord’s name in

vain, keep the Sabbath holy, don’t covet, don’t bear false witness,

adultery . . . okay, she’d broken most of them, but she’d never

killed anyone. She’d kept the most important one. And she’d never

had another God before Him. She hadn’t even been tempted to

break that one. She couldn’t believe she’d been really bad. Not bad

enough for this, Lord.

She was supposed to go to college in the fall. Her parents had

been saving up for it her whole life. She’d be the first girl in the

whole family on both sides to go. Her grandmother had been talk-

ing about it since she was in diapers.

“Ma chandelle est morte, je n’ai plus de feu/Ouvre moi la porte

pour l’amour de Dieu.”
Amy Lou sang out in pure, clear notes.

T h e S c a n d a l o u s S u m m e r o f S i s s y L e B l a n c 2 3 3

* * *

in the yard, when the sound of the phone made her leap. She

headed for the door. “Honey, it’s Peewee,” said her mother. Sissy

slumped back down on her bed. She’d been waiting for the phone,

but she hadn’t been waiting for Peewee.

Her mother’s gaunt figure in her flowered dress appeared in the

doorway. The dress was too big for her now. She asked in her gen-

tle voice, “Aren’t you going to talk to him?”

Sissy shook her head. “Tell him . . . tell him I’ve run away to

Hollywood. If he wants to contact me, he’ll have to get in touch

with . . . Clark Gable.” She made a grand gesture she’d seen in

some movie, but faltered in the middle.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sissy turned back and watched the sheets

flap in the wind. The clothesline was strung up in front of the live

oak tree.

Cady sat down next to her daughter, exhausted. Belle had named

her after Elizabeth Cady Stanton, but it hadn’t worked. Sissy knew

all her mother wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was to be a good wife

and mother.

Sissy felt her thin hand on her shoulder. It was all she could do

not to shrink back. “Why do you always think there’s something

wrong with me! There’s nothing wrong with me!
I’m
fine.”

The New Orleans surgeon who’d removed Cady’s cancer in

August was still optimistic, but Sissy thought her mother looked

terrible.

Pain spread across Cady’s face, but she didn’t raise her voice.

“What do you want me to tell the boy?”

Sissy had stopped and talked to Peewee at school that afternoon.

All she’d wanted was for him to quit looking at her like that. She

hadn’t meant for him to call. She wondered what would happen if

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she abandoned the Southern Belle’s Handbook and told the truth

for a change. It would feel so good. “Just tell him he makes me

want to puke.”

Cady sighed and went back to the phone. Sissy heard her trying

to make up an excuse to save Peewee’s feelings without actually

telling a lie. For God’s sake, either tell him I think he’s vomitous or

lie creatively, Sissy willed. Don’t just shilly-shally somewhere in

between, feeling all virtuous about yourself. Sissy didn’t feel virtu-

ous about herself at all.

She went to the mirror. If only she had X-ray vision. She stared at

her stomach and concentrated, trying to divine what was going on.

Had her own body, like her mother’s, betrayed her? Were cells

floating toward one another and sticking, massing together, grow-

ing some alien being inside her?

Friday after French class, she’d taken the car, driven to Amite

all by herself, and found a doctor who didn’t know her family. Now

she had to wait around to find out what happened to some rab-

bit she’d never see. She was unclear what her urine would do to it,

but she wished it well. It was funny to think that her life and the life

of a rabbit hung by the same chemical thread. On the theory that

God didn’t like you to pray for yourself, she considered praying for

the rabbit. But she thought better of it. Any God stupid enough to