Icy Sparks (7 page)

Nurse Coy laughed awkwardly. “I remember now,” she said. “I fixed you a Coke with ice.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dooley said. “Coke with ice. On a hot day like this, it sure tastes good.”

“Icy Sparks is in there,” she said. “I'm on my way to fix her some Coke. That's why I asked if you wanted some.”

“I know you didn't really forget,” Dooley said.

“Coke is the best medicine,” Nurse Coy said. “It'll cure a stomachache and ease the pain of a headache. Headache, bellyache, and heartache,” she explained. “I wish I had invented it.”

“I bet you do,” Dooley said. “If you did, you'd be a rich lady by now.”

Nurse Coy laughed again and padded down the hall. I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. After getting banged about, my confused mind was tired and my thoughts were mostly quiet. Still, every so often, the battle inside myself would rouse, and I'd think, Icy Gal, this is war! Mrs. Stilton is the enemy, and she deserves a good battle.

A
ll the way home, rigid in a seat at the back of the bus, I focused on revenge. Icy Gal, get out your bombs! I wanted to yell. Tit for tat. Raise high your just battle cry! In my mind, I relived every wrong that had been inflicted upon me since the first day of the school year. Mrs. Stilton had never liked me. All of her words had been barbs—sharp, little stings in my skin. Images of her ugliness marched through my mind: her neck, as long as a giraffe's; her black hair with its tight curls, like a top-knot on a poodle's head; her rigid spine, as flat as a cockroach's back; her eyes, black and slitted like a woodpecker's. She was ugly, all right! And I had the right to hate her. Just cause, I reassured myself, my fingers trembling with resentment. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A payback in spades, I thought, red-hot anger boiling in the pit of my stomach. Deserves what's coming to her. Deserves my wrath, I persisted until I was almost hugging my hatred, loving and accepting it as an integral part of me when, out of nowhere, a truth—more powerful than the fury I was feeling—burned through me and brought me to my senses: from now on, my rage would fuel impulses too horrible to contemplate.

“Oh, no!” I whimpered, as energy seeped from my pores. “Oh, no!” I cried, clutching my shoulders, curling up in the seat. While the other children chatted and laughed, I whispered, “Dear God, protect me from my anger.” When Emma Richards giggled with Lane Carlson, I thought about my future and begged the Lord to help me. All the way home, I prayed. When the bus rounded the curve, bumped down the road to Poplar Holler, and stopped in front of my house, I could no longer deny the truth: all the Cokes in the world wouldn't cure this monstrous anger, growing steadily inside me.

“H
ow was school?” Matanni asked as I slouched through the door.

I dropped my satchel on the floor and slumped down on the sofa. “I got sick,” I said. “I spent the afternoon in the infirmary.”

“Well, I declare!” Matanni said, coming toward me with an open palm. “Why, you're cool as a cucumber!”

Nervously, I looked down at my arms; the blotches, thank heavens, were gone. “I ate too much for lunch,” I said, “and got a bellyache.”

Matanni sat down at the other end of the sofa. “Lie back and give me your feet,” she said, patting her thighs. I plopped my feet in her lap. She unbuckled my shoes and slipped the socks off. “Child, your feet are swollen,” she said, and began rubbing my skin, sliding her fingers up and down, from the tips of my toes to my heels. “They're hot, too.”

“Maybe I should stay home tomorrow,” I said, sighing. “My feet need to rest.”

“You wore tennis shoes all summer,” my grandmother said. “These feet are just aching to get out of those school shoes.”

“Can't I stay home?” I asked.

Matanni ran her fingers over my toes. “Icy, what's wrong with you?” she said. “You used to be so happy at school.”

“A person can't be happy all the time,” I said.

“That's a fact,” she replied, “but, Icy, you can't go around avoiding things.”

“Daddy did,” I said.

“Your daddy didn't like working in the mines,” Matanni said, “but he never stopped.”

“Well, he should have,” I said. “He should've had more fun before he died…” I swallowed hard and whispered, “Before he died that awful way.”

Matanni was quiet for a second, then took a deep breath, and said softly, “Child, your daddy's up in heaven now.” She tilted back her head, her eyes looking upward. “Up there with your sweet mama. Their spirits are happy and whole, sugar darling. All of the pain in their bodies was left behind.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Without a doubt,” she said firmly, staring into my eyes. “I reckon the only thing that could make them happier is knowing you're happy, too.”

I turned over and buried my head in the red-flowered pillow.

“How do you feel now?” my grandmother asked, tickling the soles of my feet.

I pressed my face into the pillow and tried not to giggle.

“I hear you,” Matanni said. “If that's a giggle, you ain't too sick.”

I shook my head and giggled louder and louder as Matanni teased each foot.

T
he next day I readied myself for school. At five in the morning, I rose and stood in front of a small oval mirror that hung above the white dresser in a corner of my bedroom. For forty-five minutes, I stared at my reflection and prepared my face. Every day from now on would have to be planned. All my spontaneity would have to be subdued. Miss Emily had always said, “Icy Gal, I love your energy. I just love how you play.” But today my playfulness would go into hiding. Control would become my new calling card. I breathed in deeply and threw back my head. Then I sucked in my cheeks and tried to sink my eyes. My eyes appeared smaller, more sunken in. In fact, they even seemed a different color—less yellow, more earth-brown. Next, I wiggled my jaw several times, clamped down my teeth, and tried to freeze the stern look that had settled into my chin. But when I whispered at the mirror, my real face broke through, and once more I was Icy Sparks—playful girl. I brushed my hair so long and hard that little, distinct rivulets of yellow trailed down my back. Then I twisted it into a ponytail and straitjacketed it with a rubber band. Finally, from the wardrobe, I selected my ugliest, plainest dress—dingy brown with no frills—and scruffed-up brown loafers to match. I dressed carefully, making certain that even my underwear was yellow and old. I would make myself solid, dark, and impenetrable like the trunk of an old tree. From now on, this would be me. It would camouflage the urges that lived inside me, fence in the rage that triggered these urges, and cordon off my fear. No one ever again would see the real me.

“You sure look drab,” Matanni said when I sat down at the table. “Put on that pretty blue dress I bought you!”

“Peavy Lawson's giving me the eye,” I answered. “I don't want to encourage him.”

“That getup ought to change his mind.” She laughed. “Now eat up, you hear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, my bland face crunching on shredded wheat. The mask is working, I thought. It'll protect me.

“I
like your dress,” Peavy Lawson said as I walked through the classroom door.

With my new face, emotionless as a corpse, I walked right by him. “Thank you,” I said matter-of-factly, knowing that frogs—like him—were sincere. They didn't lie.

“I like your ponytail,” he said.

I sat down—this time not bothering to thank him.

Mrs. Stilton glanced up from her roll book. “Aren't you the pretty one?” she said. “Dressed all in brown.”

“Thank you,” I answered.

A smirk had settled into the corners of her lips. Laughter played in her eyes.

“You look pretty, too,” I lied with a straight face. I hated her poodle hairdo and her red polka-dotted dress.

She cooed, “What a nice thing to say!”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

She eyed me, sneering slightly, and said, “It'd be really nice if you meant it.”

“But I do mean it.” My rigidity began to disintegrate. Panic was pushing in.

“No, Icy, I don't think so.” She picked up the little bell on her desk and rang it. “Now, class,” she announced, “does Icy Sparks really think I look pretty?”

Emma Richards smiled and said, “But you do look pretty, Mrs. Stilton.”

“That's not what I asked,” Mrs. Stilton said. “Does Icy Sparks really think I look pretty?”

Emma Richards didn't answer.

“Only Icy knows for sure,” Lucy Daniels said.

Lane Carlson tittered nervously.

“Icy lies sometimes,” Irwin Leach said. “She called me stupid when I told her Harlan was the capital of Kentucky.”

Peavy Lawson raised up in his chair. “Icy Sparks don't lie!” he said.

“Hold on, class!” Mrs. Stilton said, raising her hands. “I heard a little story once—about a Coke being dumped over poor Joel McRoy's head.”

I took several steps forward. “Please, don't tell it!” I begged. “If you don't, I'll tell the truth.”

She nodded and folded her arms in front of her.

“N-no…I…don't…think…you…look…pretty,” I stuttered. “I…can't…stand…red…polka-dots.”

“Thank you, Icy,” she said coldly. “It takes courage to speak the truth. If you're going to lie, it's best to stay quiet. Class, did you hear that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the class said.

“Repeat,” she demanded.

“If you're going to lie, it's best to stay quiet,” the class responded.

“Thank you!” Mrs. Stilton said. “Icy, here, is good for a lesson a day.”

“Thank you!” the class repeated. “Icy, here, is good for a lesson a day.”

“No, not that,” Mrs. Stilton snapped. “You don't have to repeat that.”

The class was silent.

I tightened my jaw, pressed my lips together, and narrowed my eyes. I threw back my head and stood up straight. I popped out my eyes, a huge bullfrog pop, shook loose my stiff face, opened wide my mouth, and said, “Were you telling the truth when you said I looked pretty?”

Mrs. Stilton grabbed the top of her desk and leaned forward. Between clenched teeth, she spat out, “Listen hear, little girl, I don't lie. You understand?”

My courage failed. I nodded.

“Mark my words! If you ever—again—call me a liar, I'll have you expelled.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

All the while, I stared at the purple veins on her forehead, throbbing heartbeats against her skin, and thought: So demons have hearts.

After school, I decided not to take the bus. Instead, I ran all the way to Walnut Street to see Miss Emily at Tanner's Feed Supply.

CLOSED FOR INVENTORY
said the sign out front when I got there. “Miss Emily! Miss Emily!” I yelled, banging on the door. “Hey, Miss Emily!” I was about to run around to the back of the store where she kept the supplies when I spotted her round face, her breath fogging up the glass.

“Icy Gal!” she greeted me, unlocking the door, the bell above it jingling. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Johnny Cake's voice came from the back, “Miss Emily, you want me to sort out these leftover bulbs?”

Miss Emily cupped her dimpled hands around her mouth. “Go ahead,” she hollered. “I'll put them on sale for late planting.”

Johnny Cake screamed back, “Yes, ma'am!”

“Now let me take a look at you,” Miss Emily said, closing the door behind her, holding me at arm's length, looking me up, then down. “What's wrong, Icy Gal?” she said. “Are you doing any of those strange things we talked about?”

I shook my head. “That's not it,” I mumbled.

She took my hand and led me over to the counter where the cash register was. “What, then?” she asked me. Beside the counter was Miss Emily's favorite chair, a brown leather La-Z-Boy. “Get yourself a stool,” she told me, while she eased her massive body onto the plush leather seat.

I grabbed a stool from behind the counter and slid it over the floor until it rested beside Miss Emily. I hiked up my left foot to the first rung, swung my other leg over, and, straddling the top, sat down.

“Johnny Cake!” Miss Emily shouted. “How's it going back there?”

“You got one whole case of tulip bulbs,” he called out. “And two of daffodil.”

“That's good,” Miss Emily said. “Just keep on sorting.”

“I didn't know it was inventory day,” I said, my head slung down. “If you're too busy, I'll go.”

Miss Emily reached over and squeezed my hand. “Whatever day it is, Icy Gal, I always have enough time for you. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied, lifting my head, looking sideways at her.

“So tell me, why did you come to see me?”

I cleared my throat.

“My curiosity's getting the best of me.” Gently, she popped the top of my hand. “Come on, now. Speak up!”

“Well…well…” I stalled.

Impatiently, she drummed her fat fingers against the armrest. “Well, what?” she asked, annoyed.

“I told another lie,” I confessed. “Not like the one I told Joel McRoy. It was a different kind of lie, but still it made my teacher mad. Real mad.”

Miss Emily pulled at her ear. “Well, Icy Gal, I can't say I blame her. You're not supposed to lie.”

I scrunched up my nose and glared. “Well, she lied, too,” I fumed. “She can lie with the best of them. She's the biggest liar in Ginseng. In Kentucky, if you want to know. Why, she's the biggest liar in the whole United States!”

“Just because she lies doesn't mean you should,” Miss Emily said.

I pressed my middle finger against my forehead, breathed in deeply, and thought for a second. “Lies are tricky,” I said. “Everybody lies sometimes. You know, to spare a person's feelings.”

“That's called a white lie,” Miss Emily explained. “A little white lie.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I went on. “What I told Mrs. Stilton was a little white lie. When she said I looked pretty, I said she looked pretty back. But, truth is, she didn't mean what she said any more than I did. We both lied. The difference between us is she lied to hurt my feelings, not spare them. While all I did was lie to save my hide.”

Miss Emily shifted her weight. Beneath her, the leather whined. Leaning way over the armrest, she ran her index finger down the length of my nose. “You know what?” she said, winking.

“What?” I asked, returning the question.

“I think you don't like this teacher of yours.”

It didn't require much brain power for Miss Emily to figure that out. “That's the word with the bark on it,” I sassed.

“So why don't you?” she said, eyeing me.

“Like her?” I asked.

She nodded, the fat on her chin bouncing against her breastbone.

“'Cause she's mean,” I said flatly. “She doesn't just tell lies. Her whole self is a lie.”

“How's that?” inquired Miss Emily.

“'Cause she pretends to be syrup,” I explained, “when she's nothing but vinegar.”

“Don't you sometimes pretend to be someone you're not?” Miss Emily opened and closed her mouth like a trap.

I arched my back and aimed my eyes at her. “If I pretend,” I responded angrily, “it's not 'cause I want to hurt somebody.”

“So you're saying Mrs. Stilton means to hurt?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said firmly. “Everything she says is hurtful. Every look she gives me is mean. She lets me know every day of my life just how much she hates me.”

“And do you hate her back?” Miss Emily calmly asked.

I froze my face for a second, all of my anger solidifying in the taut pull of my features; then, unflinchingly, I stared right into Miss Emily's sky-blue eyes and spit out the truth. “I hate her with all my heart!”

“Well, then,” Miss Emily said, her demeanor unruffled, “we've got a problem.” I nodded, my lips shut tight. “You don't want to exchange your sweet nature for hers.”

“No, ma'am,” I muttered, shaking my head, “but it's hard. She makes me so dag nabbed angry.”

“Sure, it's hard,” Miss Emily conceded. “But no one ever said being good was easy.”

My lips began to tremble. “Then I guess I'm about the worst person you know.”

She pushed herself up with her huge arms. “Icy Gal,” she said, pointing her finger at me, “to me, you're the best.” Then, before I could tell her how much I loved her, she was pounding across the floor. “Now, how about I take you home?” she went on. “Your grandma must be worried.” Poking her head through the doorway, she gave Johnny Cake a dozen more things to do. “You're the finest assistant manager I've ever had,” she told him, waddling back to the counter, plucking up her car keys.

“Why, Miss Emily, you're gonna give me a swelled head!” he gushed.

“Icy”—Miss Emily motioned me over, the keys still cupped in her hand—“have I ever told you how hard Johnny Cake works?” She didn't wait for me to answer. Instead, she put her arm around my shoulders and answered her question for me. Miss Emily didn't know how to lie; I knew—without a doubt—that every good thing she said about Johnny Cake was true.