Girlchild (14 page)
M
rs. Buchanan finds me in the library at recess. She’s got something in a paper bag that I know is from the drugstore because of the way the brown paper creases tight. Mrs. Buchanan is Mr. Lombroso’s secretary and her clothes never get tired of fitting, never wrinkle, and circles never show up under her arms. She’s so pretty that, the first time they met, Mama said, “I wonder what
Mrs
. Lombroso thinks about that.” When she sits in the chair next to me her perfume is so sweet that my mouth goes dry and she says, “Principal Lombroso asked me to check on your preparations for the Spelling Bee final. Have you been looking through the dictionary?”
rs. Buchanan finds me in the library at recess. She’s got something in a paper bag that I know is from the drugstore because of the way the brown paper creases tight. Mrs. Buchanan is Mr. Lombroso’s secretary and her clothes never get tired of fitting, never wrinkle, and circles never show up under her arms. She’s so pretty that, the first time they met, Mama said, “I wonder what
Mrs
. Lombroso thinks about that.” When she sits in the chair next to me her perfume is so sweet that my mouth goes dry and she says, “Principal Lombroso asked me to check on your preparations for the Spelling Bee final. Have you been looking through the dictionary?”
I wish I was sitting closer to the big dictionary and not right here in plain sight with
Flowers for Algernon
in my hand, but I can at least see it from here. I’m figuring out that whatever’s in the bag must be for me, maybe a notebook, and I want a notebook, so I look hard at the dictionary and say, “Yes, I’ve been looking at it.” Mrs. Reddick is hovering an aisle away in Bird Watching and I know she’s listening because no one ever messes around in Bird Watching so there can’t be anything to tidy up there. But out of the corner of my eye I can see she doesn’t flinch at what she knows is my giant lie, and Mrs. Buchanan must believe me, because she sounds relieved. “That’s very good. You can’t spend too much time with it, dear. Do you have one at home?” We do, of course, it’s at Mama’s elbow, but I wonder if I said no would Mrs. Buchanan
come back tomorrow with a dictionary hidden in a paper bag so the other kids wouldn’t know I was her new favorite? I imagine her house, off the Calle, with deep carpets that show the vacuum lines and a bedroom ready for a little girl of her own, with a brass headboard and too many pillows in the shapes of circles and hearts, pillows that don’t do anything but take up space. I want to say I don’t have one so she’ll invite me home after school to use hers, and bring me hot chocolate while I turn the pages, but I figure one lie is enough and from the corner of my eye I can see Mrs. Reddick, a drawing of a hummingbird flutters from the cover of the book she’s holding, and I tell the truth.
Flowers for Algernon
in my hand, but I can at least see it from here. I’m figuring out that whatever’s in the bag must be for me, maybe a notebook, and I want a notebook, so I look hard at the dictionary and say, “Yes, I’ve been looking at it.” Mrs. Reddick is hovering an aisle away in Bird Watching and I know she’s listening because no one ever messes around in Bird Watching so there can’t be anything to tidy up there. But out of the corner of my eye I can see she doesn’t flinch at what she knows is my giant lie, and Mrs. Buchanan must believe me, because she sounds relieved. “That’s very good. You can’t spend too much time with it, dear. Do you have one at home?” We do, of course, it’s at Mama’s elbow, but I wonder if I said no would Mrs. Buchanan
come back tomorrow with a dictionary hidden in a paper bag so the other kids wouldn’t know I was her new favorite? I imagine her house, off the Calle, with deep carpets that show the vacuum lines and a bedroom ready for a little girl of her own, with a brass headboard and too many pillows in the shapes of circles and hearts, pillows that don’t do anything but take up space. I want to say I don’t have one so she’ll invite me home after school to use hers, and bring me hot chocolate while I turn the pages, but I figure one lie is enough and from the corner of my eye I can see Mrs. Reddick, a drawing of a hummingbird flutters from the cover of the book she’s holding, and I tell the truth.
“Of course you do, dear,” Mrs. Buchanan says, smiling, and pushes the bag across the table at me. “Mr. Lombroso and I wanted you to have these for the Championship.” I’m excited when she says “these,” because that means two notebooks or a pocket dictionary and a notebook, maybe, and I reach into the bag, but what’s inside doesn’t have anything to do with spelling. What’s inside is a pair of tights in a package that says “Perfect Girl Seamless.” There’s a picture of a perfect girl on the front. She’s leaning against white steps that lead up to nothing and her legs are an unnatural and seamless shade of cream that doesn’t match the rest of her at all. Mrs. Buchanan says, “Do you know how to put these on?” and I don’t, but before I have to admit it, Mrs. Reddick drops the book she’s been holding, the hummingbird crashes on the counter, and she comes over to our table and says to Mrs. Buchanan in a way that only librarians know how to do, in a whisper that sounds like it came over the loudspeaker straight from the principal’s office, “This is a library, not a dressing room, Diane.”
Mrs. Buchanan’s face goes red, and for the first time I notice how silly she looks in the kid-sized chair. She gets up and I notice that her legs are an odd shade of cream that doesn’t match the rest of her at all, but her earrings and bracelet and necklace that catch and shine in the fluorescent light do all match, gold squares hugging
into each other. If I lived at her house I’d probably have to go around matching stuff all day, the sheets to the pillowcases, the towels to the washcloths, and she probably doesn’t have a dictionary, anyway, because there’s something improper about a dictionary, the way it stays open to the last thing you didn’t know, there’s nothing seamless about that, nothing perfect. So I match my tone to Mrs. Buchanan’s perfume and say sweetly, “Thank you very much.”
into each other. If I lived at her house I’d probably have to go around matching stuff all day, the sheets to the pillowcases, the towels to the washcloths, and she probably doesn’t have a dictionary, anyway, because there’s something improper about a dictionary, the way it stays open to the last thing you didn’t know, there’s nothing seamless about that, nothing perfect. So I match my tone to Mrs. Buchanan’s perfume and say sweetly, “Thank you very much.”
We listen to Mrs. Buchanan’s heels clicking at a proper pace toward her office, and when the sweet library silence returns, Mrs. Reddick picks up the copy of
Flowers for Algernon
I was reading before Mrs. Buchanan came in and looks at its cover.
Flowers for Algernon
I was reading before Mrs. Buchanan came in and looks at its cover.
“This book is often banned in libraries.” She hands it back to me, open to my page. “There are many ways to define intelligence, Ms. Hendrix,” she says, as she puts the package of Perfect Girl Seamless tights back inside their brown paper bag, “and most of them, as you are already discovering, are completely inadequate.”
U
nder Arts and Crafts in the
Girl Scout Handbook
, there is a section on design and the symbol on its proficiency badge is a conventionalized flower. Not an orchid, sultry and moist, not a gladiola, ruffled and tall, but a
conventionalized
flower, petals uniform and polite. If you’ve never had the pleasure, a conventionalized flower is one so sturdy and dull the weeds don’t even try to choke it dry, preferring instead to fight with the beauties at the other end of the yard. The Girl Scouts and V. White have one thing in common: they like to play it safe. V. White didn’t ask how far Mama
could
go, just how far a person like Mama
has
to go. She was only interested in the shortest distance between Mama being on welfare and earning enough to stay broke without welfare’s help, or better yet, figuring out why Mama didn’t stay married just enough to keep off the dole altogether. As far as V. White was concerned, there was no reason for the County to send Mama to college and be made smart when, for less time and less money, she could go to vocational school and be made useful. I doubt it’s what V. White had in mind, but Mama does make herself useful now, pulling taps and making change, and her collar is as blue as my eyes.
nder Arts and Crafts in the
Girl Scout Handbook
, there is a section on design and the symbol on its proficiency badge is a conventionalized flower. Not an orchid, sultry and moist, not a gladiola, ruffled and tall, but a
conventionalized
flower, petals uniform and polite. If you’ve never had the pleasure, a conventionalized flower is one so sturdy and dull the weeds don’t even try to choke it dry, preferring instead to fight with the beauties at the other end of the yard. The Girl Scouts and V. White have one thing in common: they like to play it safe. V. White didn’t ask how far Mama
could
go, just how far a person like Mama
has
to go. She was only interested in the shortest distance between Mama being on welfare and earning enough to stay broke without welfare’s help, or better yet, figuring out why Mama didn’t stay married just enough to keep off the dole altogether. As far as V. White was concerned, there was no reason for the County to send Mama to college and be made smart when, for less time and less money, she could go to vocational school and be made useful. I doubt it’s what V. White had in mind, but Mama does make herself useful now, pulling taps and making change, and her collar is as blue as my eyes.
Girl Scouts learn useful stuff. Proficiency badges can be earned in all kinds of fields. Except academic. There’s nothing in the
Handbook
’s
index under Science or History, no listings for English or Math, but there’s loads to do under Arts and Crafts and there’s much good work to be accomplished in, say, Child Care or Nutrition, that would lead the dedicated Girl Scout into just the type of vocational training program V. White mentions in her initial report on Mama.
Handbook
’s
index under Science or History, no listings for English or Math, but there’s loads to do under Arts and Crafts and there’s much good work to be accomplished in, say, Child Care or Nutrition, that would lead the dedicated Girl Scout into just the type of vocational training program V. White mentions in her initial report on Mama.
In the
Handbook
’s section on design, under “How to Begin,” there are three simple drawings of a bird in a row and the question:
Do you want to use a bird in your design?
I hadn’t thought of it, but if I’m here to learn how to draw and if all they’re offering is birds, my answer to this question, like my mama’s answer to the question,
Would you like to earn a certificate that would bring you financial independence?
is: you bet your sweet ass I do. I do want to use a bird in my design.
Handbook
’s section on design, under “How to Begin,” there are three simple drawings of a bird in a row and the question:
Do you want to use a bird in your design?
I hadn’t thought of it, but if I’m here to learn how to draw and if all they’re offering is birds, my answer to this question, like my mama’s answer to the question,
Would you like to earn a certificate that would bring you financial independence?
is: you bet your sweet ass I do. I do want to use a bird in my design.
Pigeon and her husband started the Truck Stop when the Calle de las Flores was just a twinkling rhinestone in some developer’s eye and they kept the bar going even after the major plans for building up the area fell apart. But when her husband made one too many trips across the pavement to tip a waitress working at Hobee’s, Pigeon took a trip down to the courthouse before her husband had time to cross back again.
“Birds are hatched from eggs and are always egg-shaped.” That’s Girl Scout advice for drawing birds. You start by drawing the egg and from there it’s easy to draw the rest. In the
Handbook
’s examples, the first bird is only an egg, the next, an egg with a head. The third bird has legs and feet and feathers.
Handbook
’s examples, the first bird is only an egg, the next, an egg with a head. The third bird has legs and feet and feathers.
Pigeon filed for divorce and hocked her wedding ring to pay for new locks on the doors and cash drawer of the Truck Stop, with a little left over for new vinyl to cover its barstools. “That’s something I liked about Jo right away,” she tells me, “she wasn’t one of those fool women who toss their ring into the Truckee and cry poor me. I could tell right off, Jo was smart enough to make use of what God gave her and hold on to whatever else she picked up along the way.” Pigeon got over her husband, but she could never get over all the engagement rings thrown by shortsighted divor-cées to the bottom of the Truckee, the rings’ glimmer lost on the river’s trout. The wedding ring Mama still insisted on wearing made sense to Pigeon, and she may have been the only one on the Calle who took its meaning. Pigeon wanted someone she could trust not to run off with the first good old boy who tipped regular. While Mama may have been looking for a good time, by the time we got to the Calle she had all the jewelry she needed and more than enough of husbands.
Draw an egg, the
Handbook
says, or model an egg-shaped piece of clay, and “hatch out” a bird. I look through the Birds from Every Continent section in the encyclopedia, searching for one kind whose body doesn’t look like an egg, upright or sideways, but from loon to blue jay, ostrich to starling, all their shapes agree. Take this one to the bank: birds are hatched from eggs and are always egg-shaped. Maybe there’s no escaping the shape that molds you, no getting around how you got started even if you do break out. I haven’t found a mirror yet that doesn’t reflect the curves of the Calle back at me, my dirty ways, my fragile teeth and bad skin, my hands that won’t stop picking at themselves. The Girl Scouts win again. And maybe V. White does too. Except for one thing. Wings are born from that shape. They don’t come from any other.
Handbook
says, or model an egg-shaped piece of clay, and “hatch out” a bird. I look through the Birds from Every Continent section in the encyclopedia, searching for one kind whose body doesn’t look like an egg, upright or sideways, but from loon to blue jay, ostrich to starling, all their shapes agree. Take this one to the bank: birds are hatched from eggs and are always egg-shaped. Maybe there’s no escaping the shape that molds you, no getting around how you got started even if you do break out. I haven’t found a mirror yet that doesn’t reflect the curves of the Calle back at me, my dirty ways, my fragile teeth and bad skin, my hands that won’t stop picking at themselves. The Girl Scouts win again. And maybe V. White does too. Except for one thing. Wings are born from that shape. They don’t come from any other.
I
t’s the final round of the statewide competition and I get
t’s the final round of the statewide competition and I get
A-L-I-M-E-N-T-A-R-Y
and then I get
H-A-L-F-P-E-N-N-Y
but I don’t have any time for their subtle homonyms and sneaky, silent
l
’s and
f
’s, because all the while I’m just thinking about my new dress. Not just new-to-me, but new-brand-new with orange flowers and ruffly sleeves and a price tag I had to cut off with scissors. I’m going to wear it for school pictures and make double sure that none of its frills turn upside down like last year’s Salvation Army special, or the years before, when my pigtails hurt and I was scared of the flash.
l
’s and
f
’s, because all the while I’m just thinking about my new dress. Not just new-to-me, but new-brand-new with orange flowers and ruffly sleeves and a price tag I had to cut off with scissors. I’m going to wear it for school pictures and make double sure that none of its frills turn upside down like last year’s Salvation Army special, or the years before, when my pigtails hurt and I was scared of the flash.
There is only one more word to go, and I look out at Mama, small in the crowd of sweater sets that swarm around her where she sits straight in her best jeans and a new blouse she spent forty-five minutes ironing, a world record in our house, and still she went on to do my hair without cursing and only pulled once. Mama sits tall like everyone else but her face is the only one here that looks how mine feels, on picture day or any other. Like maybe she’s in the wrong place. And when the Pronouncer says my last word, I feel an insect curl in my throat and the auditorium goes quiet until she asks, “Would you like the word used in a sentence? Perhaps?” and I nod, mouth dumb but eyes smart, eyes on Mama.
The words chase around the walls of the auditorium but I don’t follow them because I’m thinking about Mama’s sentence. Mama’s life. How she never talks about how she reads all the time because she’s never had a breath to spare for feeling proud of herself, and now that I’m here, she never will. Mama’s already read up to
Ech-Fa
in the
Academic American Encyclopedias
I won and haven’t barely opened yet, except to write
Rory D. Hendrix
on the inside cover of each volume with the gold and maroon pen Mr. Lombroso gave me for getting to the State Championship. At least that’s what he said, but I know it’s for getting Roscoe Elementary School out of the
Reno Gazette
’s police blotter for once and onto the front page for that same once, even if it was at the bottom. Mr. Lombroso got a raise and I got a pen. The brand-new pen made my name feel brand-new even though I could tell Mama recognized her curls in my
R
’s and
y
’s and
D
.’s by the way her smile pressed tight over her teeth.
Ech-Fa
in the
Academic American Encyclopedias
I won and haven’t barely opened yet, except to write
Rory D. Hendrix
on the inside cover of each volume with the gold and maroon pen Mr. Lombroso gave me for getting to the State Championship. At least that’s what he said, but I know it’s for getting Roscoe Elementary School out of the
Reno Gazette
’s police blotter for once and onto the front page for that same once, even if it was at the bottom. Mr. Lombroso got a raise and I got a pen. The brand-new pen made my name feel brand-new even though I could tell Mama recognized her curls in my
R
’s and
y
’s and
D
.’s by the way her smile pressed tight over her teeth.
It’s the same way she’s smiling right now, trying to remind me that they’re waiting, that all these put-together moms and orthographic judges are waiting on my next breath, for the insect in my throat to unfurl itself and fly out in the shape of the correct letters.
I pronounce the word right but I spell it
O-U-T-L-I-A-R
because wrong is the only way they let you off the stage in this game. If I spell it right, they’re going to applaud and their applause will be polite and “cold as a witch’s tit,” like Grandma would say on winter mornings when the coffee’s still brewing. They’ll send me on to the next level, and the next level will take me farther away, in dresses I don’t have, on days off Mama won’t get. Wrong is my ticket home and I’m cashing it in. And they let me off the stage, their sorry applause rings against the sorry blood in my ears as I run to Mama’s arms and they wrap around me and hold me tight.
T
he prize for losing the Spelling Bee is that Mama takes us out to dinner. I’m thinking she’s going to make a speech but all she says is “Don’t forget your book” when we pull into the Sizzler parking lot and that is exactly all I want to hear. Reading during dinner means it’s business as usual. At least Mama pretends it is, she does give me too-long looks over the top of
Pocahontas
, some history-type book bought in the checkout aisle at the Save-Rite, but I drink bottomless Cokes, eat cherry tomatoes and sunflower seeds, read
I Am the Cheese
, and don’t look back.
he prize for losing the Spelling Bee is that Mama takes us out to dinner. I’m thinking she’s going to make a speech but all she says is “Don’t forget your book” when we pull into the Sizzler parking lot and that is exactly all I want to hear. Reading during dinner means it’s business as usual. At least Mama pretends it is, she does give me too-long looks over the top of
Pocahontas
, some history-type book bought in the checkout aisle at the Save-Rite, but I drink bottomless Cokes, eat cherry tomatoes and sunflower seeds, read
I Am the Cheese
, and don’t look back.
We come to Sizzler sometimes on paydays, but never dressed up, and the lady whose job it is to take away our dirty plates must think our outfits mean payday for her, because she doesn’t try to get me to reuse my silverware. Mama and I read straight through dinner, only stopping for our trips to the salad bar and my two trips to the soft-serve counter, and then I read all the way home, my finger holding my place in the dark stretches between streetlights.
I’m still reading as we enter the house and don’t stop until Mama comes out of the bathroom, her clothes changed and a bottle of nail polish in her hand. Identical bottles of red nail polish line the back of the toilet for every day before work, when she paints her nails a new coat of perfect red, but tonight she’s not scheduled to work and I make a face at her going-out jeans. Mama
exhales smoke through her nose and leans down to give me a kiss, but the click of the metal ball in the bottle that she has begun shaking, the clicking that signals her preparing to leave, turns my head. “You look like a dragon when you do that,” I say, bending the spine of my book backwards until it cracks, but I’m glad that she’s going. For once, I want to be alone. I smile at her and say, “Don’t kill any villagers tonight.”
exhales smoke through her nose and leans down to give me a kiss, but the click of the metal ball in the bottle that she has begun shaking, the clicking that signals her preparing to leave, turns my head. “You look like a dragon when you do that,” I say, bending the spine of my book backwards until it cracks, but I’m glad that she’s going. For once, I want to be alone. I smile at her and say, “Don’t kill any villagers tonight.”
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