Yankee Girl (16 page)

Shaving was bad enough, but those nylons! It took me for ever the next morning to get them on. I bunched the stocking in my hand the way Pammie showed me. My thumbnail poked through the sheer nylon. Rats! Fortunately, stockings came three pair to the box. I bunched and pulled another one over my Band-Aids. The Band-Aids showed. Chicken hips!

I snapped the garters to the stocking tops. The straps twisted and the nylons bagged around my ankles. I unsnapped the garters and yanked them up. Maybe being a teenager wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Since the Class Day programme was after school, the sixth-grade girls had a long, long day of tugging at hose through their skirts. Finally, the school day ended.

Miss Gruen pounded out “Pomp and Circumstance” on the piano as we marched into the auditorium past rows and rows of moms in flowered hats. No dads. Just moms. All the dads were at work.

All except Valerie's dad. Reverend and Mrs. Taylor sat in the front row, dressed like they were going to a fancy party instead of a grade-school graduation. I thought he would look different, after being in jail, but he looked the same as always. Solemn, in a suit and tie.

The sixth grade thumped up the stage steps to rows of folding chairs. The girls' new French heels clonked like wooden shoes. It was about a hundred degrees in the auditorium, even with the windows open. We blinked and yawned. Garter snaps dug into the backs of my legs as I squirmed on the metal chair.

Tommy led the prayer, which we couldn't hear since he prayed into his tie instead of the microphone. Skipper led the pledges to the American and Mississippi flags so fast he might as well have been speaking Russian.

Mr. Thibodeaux talked about what good neighbours and citizens we all had been this year. I guess he forgot about us putting gum in Valerie's hair.

We stood and recited “Hiawatha” together, sang “This Is My Country” and “Dixie”. Carrie read a long, boring essay about some Confederate general. Mary Martha and Skipper won the Eleanora Parnell Good Citizen Award.

“Whyn't they just call it the Teacher's Pet Award,” grumped Saranne.

The six best folk dancers did the “Mexican Serape Dance”. I wasn't one of them. We sang a couple more songs, marched out to the “King Cotton March” (what else?), and that was it. Big deal.

The big deal was the party. Everybody was itching to get to the country club. But first, there were pictures.

All the moms had cameras and snapped about a million pictures. Pictures of us in front of the school. Pictures with our friends. I stood with the rest of the Cheerleaders on the front steps as each of our mothers took the exact same shot.

Pictures with our teachers. I tried to drag Miss LeFleur into one of my pictures.

“Sorry, Alice,” she said, backing towards the parking lot. “I'm late for an engagement. Have a wonderful time at your party, dear.” She trotted off on her high heels, White Shoulders perfume hanging in the air.

Nobody wanted to be in Valerie's pictures. She posed with her mom, then her dad, and finally Lucy. I felt sorry for her. I checked to see if anyone was watching before I went over to her.

“Great dress, Valerie. Where did you get it?” It was the prettiest in the class, white linen embroidered with lilies of the valley.

“New Orleans.”

I didn't have to ask why she went all the way to New Orleans for a dress.

“Come along, Valerie,” called Mrs. Taylor. “People are waiting for us at the house.”

“Having a party?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Valerie. “A graduation party for me. Bye.”

So there, Daddy! Valerie's having her own party.

Cars started to leave for the country club. I spotted Jeb with his buddies, horsing around by the bike racks, their madras sport jackets flung on the grass.

“Hey there,” I began, but Jeb cut me off.

“Not here,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, like a TV gangster. He jerked his thumb towards the teachers' parking lot. I followed him around back. He reeked of Old Spice.

“Here's the rules,” he said. “You walk behind me. Act like we're not together.”

“That's not fair! You're supposed to be my date.”

“Take it or leave it.” Jeb marched off to the kerb where the Mateers' car waited.

I followed, calling Jeb nine kinds of rat fink under my breath.

Some date! I climbed in the backseat. Jeb got in the front. He messed with the radio while Mrs. Mateer smoked and yakked about dances she had gone to when she was a girl.

“Leave us here, Mama,” Jeb said as the car crunched into the gravel drive of the country club. He was halfway to the clubhouse before I was out of the car.

“Wait up,” I yelled. I ran after him, and lost a shoe in the driveway gravel.

Chicken hips! I might as well have come by myself.

I jammed the shoe back on, and followed Jeb's madras sport jacket into the clubhouse.

Inside the ballroom, Mary Martha's cousin's band tuned up. If the Walloos knew Beatles songs, they sure weren't playing them. They played “Gloria”, a song that had only three chords.

The singer would say, “We'd like to do the Beatles for you now,” and play something you couldn't tell what it was. Then they'd play “Gloria” again.

The boys took turns sliding from one end of the waxed dance floor to the other in their sock feet. So did some of the girls, me included. No one was dancing. I wondered why everybody made such a big deal about coming with a date. Our dates didn't get near us all evening!

At ten o'clock the Walloos played “Goodnight, Sweetheart”, a real old-fashioned slow-dance song. Everyone just stood around until Mary Martha's father hollered, “This is it, kids. Boys, dance with the young lady you came with.”

Jeb came over, but stood about ten feet away.

“Hey, I won't explode,” I hollered. Very slowly, he came closer. His shirt was sweaty, his jacket missing, and the Old Spice evaporated. I sure didn't want to touch him. “Do you know how to slow dance?”

“Nope.” We looked around. Kids were dancing at arm's length, fingertips resting on the shoulders of their partner. So that's what we did. Not real romantic, but not gross either.

I wonder if Valerie is dancing at her party. I hope she's having fun.

I was happy to let Jeb and his sweaty shirt sit in the front seat going home.

Mama and Daddy were in the den watching Johnny Carson when I came in.

“Did you have a good time?” they asked at the same time.

My feet hurt and “Gloria” pounded in my brain.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll tell you all about it in the morning.”

Only I didn't.

It seemed like I had just put my head on my pillow when…

Ka-boom. The windows rattled and my bed shook.

A bomb. Not in my neighbourhood, but not far away.

I knew what would happen next. I watched the glowing second hand whir around the face of my clock radio. Nine minutes, ten minutes…

The phone rang. In my parents' room, Daddy said, “I'll be right there.” He slammed the receiver down so hard the bell jingled.

“What is it now?” said Mama.

“Someone wired dynamite to Reverend Taylor's car over in Tougaloo.”

“And…” Mama's voice trailed off.

“He's dead.” The closet door creaked open. Hangers scraped the clothes rod.

I ran to my parents' room. Daddy had on pants and his pyjama top. He yanked a clean shirt from a hanger.

“But what, but how…” I knew Daddy didn't have the answers. That wasn't what I wanted anyway. I wanted him to pat me on the back and say, “There, there, Pookie. It'll be all right.”

Daddy buttoned his shirt. “Go back to bed, Alice.”

I crawled under the covers, turned up my transistor, and cried. Cried for the little girl I'd never be again. Cried because Daddy couldn't make everything right.

And I cried for a girl who would never see
her
daddy again.

Monday was a beautiful morning. I wore a new outfit, a plaid blouse and skirt that matched the blue sky. New outfits usually made me feel like skipping, even if I was almost twelve. But not this morning.

The sixth graders stood in hushed knots on the playground, the usual groups broken and scattered. Boys stood with girls, the Cheerleaders here and there. Kids wandered from one cluster to another, checking rumours, adding to them.

“Our maid, Inez, says Martin Luther King is preaching at the funeral,” said Jeb.

“I heard Reverend Taylor was blown to smithereens,” contributed Andy.

Jeb turned to me. “Your daddy's FBI. What do you know?”

“You kidding? I haven't seen him since Friday night.” Even if I had, Daddy never talked about work.

“Nigger had it coming to him.” Leland lolled against the bike racks.

I waited for someone to say, “Shut up, Leland.”

No one did. Including me.

“I heard his wife had him kilt,” said Karla. “He was running around on her, so she paid to have his car blowed up.”

Shut up, Karla.

I didn't say that either.

There had to be something I could do. But what? I was too chicken to even tell Karla and Leland to shut up.

The school doors banged open, the “King Cotton March” cranked up, and down the hall we marched. Left, right, left, right. Just like any other morning.

We said the Pledge and the Lord's Prayer. Any other morning.

Miss Gruen cleared her throat. “Boys and girls,” she began. “I'm sure you've heard by now that Valerie's father was killed Friday night.”

Outside, a motor scooter putt-putted by, birds chirped in the oak, the chains on the flagpole clanked in the breeze.

Inside 6B, silence.

“It's a small mercy that his family did not witness this tragedy.”

Clank clank clank.
The sound of the chains filled the room.

“The police are doing their best to find out who did this. Until they do, I will not tolerate gossip and rumour in my classroom.” Miss Gruen gave us the Look over the top of her glasses. “Remember Valerie and her family in your prayers. But there are three weeks left in this school year and we have work to do.”

“Miss Gruen.” Mary Martha raised her hand. “Aren't we going to take up money for flowers?”

“Nigger lover,” Leland mumbled.

“Of course,” said Miss Gruen. “Mary Martha, you take charge. Would someone else like to help?”

Something to help Valerie! I raised my hand and looked around.

Mine was the only hand up.

“Very well, Alice.” Miss Gruen sounded like she wished someone else had raised their hand. Someone better in math.

“If everybody gives a quarter, that's more than eight dollars,” said Mary Martha, figuring on her notebook cover. “We can get something nice for that.”

“What for?” blurted out Saranne. “Why're we sending flowers to that nigra? If he hadn't gone around stirring up trouble, he wouldn't be dead.”

“My daddy says he was a Commie,” Debbie jumped in, without raising her hand.

“How could he be a Communist?” I didn't raise my hand either. “He was a minister. Communists don't believe in God.”

“Class, this is exactly the sort of rumour and gossip I was talking about,” Miss Gruen said. She rummaged in her desk and came up with a blank report-card envelope. “Put your contribution in here, if you wish. We will discuss this matter no further.”

The envelope travelled up and down the aisles. A lot of kids passed it without opening it. I dropped in my quarter and shook the envelope. It felt awfully light.

“Seventy-five cents, three gum wrappers, and a baseball card,” said Mary Martha after we counted the take during recess.

“What are we going to do?” I said. “That's not enough.”

“I have three dollars,” Mary Martha said. “I was going to get the new Beatles album, but I guess that can wait.”

“I've got two dollars.” It was my whole allowance for the next two weeks. “Can we get something for five dollars and seventy-five cents?”

“I don't know. I think six dollars is as cheap as flowers come.”

I slid my two dollars into the envelope. That left me the two dimes Mama always made me carry in case of emergency. I wasn't supposed to spend it unless I had to.

“Did you girls collect enough money?” Miss Gruen asked after recess.

“No, ma'am,” said Mary Martha. “Not quite.”

“Let me add my donation,” said Miss Gruen. She hauled an ancient pocketbook from the bottom desk drawer. From a leather change purse she handed us a dollar bill, worn soft as velvet. “Y'all take care of this during lunch.”

As 6B filed down the hall to lunch, Mary Martha and I walked past the cafeteria and the office and through the front door. It felt weird being out of school in the middle of the day.

“We're going to Culver's,” said Mary Martha, leading the way. “That's where Mama buys flowers. Mr. Culver knows me.”

Culver's Florist was a Hansel-and-Gretel kind of house with red shutters and a picture window filled with roses. A mostly bald man in a grey smock slouched from the back room at the jingle of the screen-door bells.

“Why, Mary Martha Goode,” he said. “Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“Yessir, Mr. Culver. Our teacher knows we're here. A girl in our class, her daddy died, and we want to send flowers to the funeral.”

“That's a shame.” Mr. Culver settled his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. “How much did you want to spend?”

“We only have six dollars and seventy-five cents,” said Mary Martha, opening her purse.

“I can give you a nice spray of carnations for that,” said the florist. “Red and white. Will that do?”