Chasing Lilacs (12 page)

Cly, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least bit concerned about school. He told me his uncle apologized and wanted him to
try out for the Mandeville basketball team. Shrugging like it was no big deal, Cly said he couldn’t wait. He’d moved back
in with Norm and Eva, but we still met at Slim’s, who seemed like the grandpa I never had. His slate-colored eyes crinkled
up when
I outsmarted Cly, and he was nowhere near the murderer Tuwana still proclaimed him to be.

Mostly, though, those dying days of summer, I stuck close to Mama. I watched her when she thought I wasn’t looking, trying
to pinpoint little signs of her memory slipping. But honestly, she just sailed through each day, pretty as you please, chatting
about this and that, sipping her coffee and leaving pink lipstick smudges around the edges of the cup.

No matter how hard I tried not to think about it, every day brought the first day of junior high nearer, and with each new
day my stomach gnawed deeper. A terrible empty feeling like fingers clawing their way to my backbone. When I mentioned it
to Mama, she said, “It’s the excitement of junior high. Changing classes, having a locker for the first time, just a whole
new part of your life.”

Then she gave me a teaspoonful of Pepto-Bismol and showed me how to clip the new sponge rollers around my hair.

S
ITTING OVER THE TIRE
humps wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The only way to get any leg room was to turn sideways so my new penny loafers stuck
out in the aisle. Tuwana put one knee in the seat we shared and turned around. “Y’all have to yell and clap for PJ and me
at the tryouts. Crowd enthusiasm counts as one-fourth of the total points.”

“You bet, Tu-tu,” Doobie said.

Tuwana scrunched her eyes at Doobie, and I could see she’d gone with the full makeup treatment—blue eye shadow, black liner,
and the new Maybelline mascara she’d bought down at Willy’s.

Cly sat next to Doobie, his feet turned to the aisle to make room for Doobie’s orangutan legs. He had his gym shoes—new Converse
high-tops—on his lap. They were a peace offering from Norm and Eva, he said. Along with a new basketball since he was trying
out for the school team. Cly’s flattop haircut shone and smelled of Vitalis.

I edged my foot over to his and nudged it. “You nervous?”

“Nah, I got this gig made in the shade.”

“Oh sure. You talk like that in Texas, they’ll boot you all the way back to California.”

“Hey, I’m tight with Doob here. He’ll show me the ropes.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

Before we knew it, the bus passed the Mandeville, Population
1,639 sign and rolled to a stop behind the school. As we piled out, Cly whispered behind me, “Cool haircut, Sam.”

“Thanks. It’s called a pageboy. Good luck on your first day.” I waved as he followed Doobie toward the high school entrance.

The junior high had to report to the auditorium, where a proctor passed out stapled packets.

“Sammie, over here!” Gina Hardy jumped up and down, waving her arms and pointing to the seat she’d saved me. “Tell me about
your mother.” We sat down. “I heard she had a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh that. She had some problems, but she’s all over it.”

“You never get over nerve problems.”

I smiled. “Some people do, I guess.” I liked Gina. Friendly. Bookish, like me. Taller than all the boys in our class, like
me. My best town friend.

A microphone screeched from the stage. “Testing. Testing. Find your seats, please.”

“It’s Howdy Doody time,” Gina whispered behind her hand.

Carrot-colored hair and buckteeth got Mr. Howard, the principal, his nickname. It fit him to a T. His voice boomed into the
microphone, “For you who are seventh graders, you’ve passed the diapering, baby-coddling stage. Things work different from
now on. We have high expectations, and you will be held accountable. The packet we handed you is your instruction bible for
the next nine months. Guard it with your life.” His eyes bore down, searing deep into ours. A blistering sermon followed,
citing all the deadly sins like smoking in the parking lot, monkey business in the halls, and a long list of don’ts for the
dress code. Brother Henry could have gotten a few pointers on pulpit pounding and driving home the wages of sin from Mr. Howard.

“It’s all a big show,” Gina whispered. “He just does it to scare the bejeebies out of us.”

“He certainly got my attention.” I thumbed through the instruction packet.

During the bathroom break, we talked about the extracurriculars we wanted. School newspaper for me. Typing for Gina. Thankfully,
she didn’t bring up the subject of Mama again.

“I’m having a slumber party Friday night after the football game. Can you come?” We found our way to our lockers and then
homeroom (second page in the bible packet), both of us glad we had classes together.

“Sounds like fun. I’ll let you know.”

Both the junior high and high school came to watch the cheerleading tryouts right before lunch. While the girls did their
jumps and cheers, I heard Doobie and Cly in the section behind me: “Tu-tu! PJ! Tu-tu! PJ!”

I turned my head and saw Cly with freshman girls on either side of him. Very friendly freshman girls. I whipped my head back
around to the action on the floor. A flush crept up my neck, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I should have been happy
Cly was getting along great. Too great, it seemed. Why hadn’t I thought about all the girls who would be swooning over the
new kid from California? My stomach cartwheeled like Tuwana on the gym floor.

Tuwana finished her jumps in the individual competition and ran up into the stands to sit by me, still carrying her pom-poms.

“How’d I do? Do you think I have a chance?” Her breaths came in short spurts, and her eyes twinkled like blue sparklers.

“The best I’ve ever seen!” I meant it from the bottom of my heart. If anyone deserved to be a cheerleader, it was Tuwana.

We had to wait until the last hour of the day to find out the cheerleading results. Back in the auditorium, extracurricular
sponsors sat at tables with cardboard signs for the various options—yearbook, drama, newspaper, art, etc. Mr. “Howdy Doody”
Howard
gave us our instructions about signing up before announcing the 1958–59 cheerleaders. Ten girls had tried out for four positions.
I held my breath as each name was called. Darsha West. PJ Ford. Linda Kay Howard. Patty Gruver.

My heart sank. There had to be a mistake. He hadn’t called Tuwana’s name. Claps and cheers broke out, but all I could think
was
poor Tuwana.
All those hours of practice down the tubes—her summer a complete waste. As soon as we were dismissed, I stood on tiptoes,
scanning the auditorium. She had disappeared. I looked up and down the aisles, at the various tables where groups of students
huddled, waiting to sign up. Finally I dashed to the bathroom and found her slumped on the floor, her back against the gray
tile.

“You
were
one of the best,” I said when she looked up, streaks of black mascara running down her cheeks.

“You know what stinks? Miss Howdy Doody.”

“Linda Kay, the principal’s daughter?”

“She can’t even do the splits, not with those thighs. And another thing—PJ. She only tried out ’cuz I made her. She wasn’t
supposed to beat me. All summer me telling her, ‘You can do it,’ and then what does she do? She gets to be a cheerleader,
and I don’t. It’s just gross, that’s what. I might as well move to another planet or Italy. There’s absolutely no possible
way I can ever show my face in this school again.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Tuwana. You have no choice. Next year will be here before you know it, and you’ll make it then.” I turned
the crank on the paper towel machine and yanked off a scratchy brown strip. After wetting it with cold water, I handed it
to her. “Here, clean your face. We’ve got to sign up for extracurriculars.”

“I… I… can’t face anyone.” Her eyes widened. “Mike, oh my gosh. Mike Alexander will never speak to me again. You know football
players only want to go out with cheerleaders.”

“They may want to, but so what? There are only four
cheerleaders and how many on the football team? Thirty? Maybe more. It doesn’t add up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, but when I was searching all over the place for you, I checked with Mike, and he was looking for you too. Hurry up or
we won’t get to sign up for stuff and we’ll be stuck in study hall all semester with the goofballs who never do anything.”

We went back to the auditorium. I dashed over to the school newspaper table.

“Signing up for the newspaper?” A tall, thin lady smiled at me. Her hair, twisted into a knot, was held in place by two wooden
sticks with rhinestone tips sparkling like antennae.

“Yes, if I’m not too late.”

“I’m Mrs. Gray.”

“Sammie Tucker.”

“I’ll need a copy of some of your writing—schoolwork, poems, anything you’ve done in the past. Bring it by Room 12 tomorrow,
and I’ll make a decision by Friday.”

She had a sweet laugh, and her friendliness made me like her right off. Now, more than ever, I wanted to write for the newspaper.

I hurried off to catch the bus. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mama about Howdy Doody and Mrs. Gray and Gina Hardy’s
slumber party. I climbed the steps and turned to find my seat over the tire hump.

“I’m home, Mama!” Scarlett bounced up and down doing her basketball impersonation the moment I stepped into the house. Dropping
my books into the rocker, I scooped her up and buried my face in her fur. Through the puppy slobbers, I didn’t notice the
mess in the front room at first. Magazines and books from the
squatty bookcase littered the floor and teetered in a lopsided pile in front of the television. Then Mama came from the bedroom,
her eyes wide and wild-looking. Her whole body trembled, shaky and ruffled.

Nervous breakdown
flashed in my head.

My body froze, but in my heart I prayed,
No, God, please don’t let this happen!

M
AMA, WHAT IS IT
?” Her eyes flashed when I stepped toward her.
Does she even know me?

“I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find them.” She aimed the comment at the room in general.

“Find what?” I whispered.

“Oh, you know. Those… pictures of you girls.” Her eyes had a scared-rabbit look. “They’re around here somewhere, I just know
it.”

“I think they’re in the hall cabinet. Why do you want to look at pictures?”

“It’s a long story. It’s… Sylvia. This morning I realized she would have started second grade today, and I tried to picture
her climbing the steps onto the bus, leaving me….” She stopped and got that fuzzy look again. “When I tried to remember her
face, all I could see was a round, doughy lump. No eyes. No turned-up nose. Not even the teeny, pink mouth.”

Mama’s fingers trembled. Taking her by the arm, I steered her toward the couch.

“It’s all right, Mama.” Like a robot, she sat down. I sat beside her as Scarlett wriggled her way up between us and rested
her chin on Mama’s lap.

“Well, anyway…” She took a deep breath and focused somewhere behind me. “I know this sounds silly, but my mind has
played the awfulest tricks on me since those treatments. Nasty things. Meant to help me forget the bad memories so I can
cope with the present.” Her voice got stronger as she held my hand, squeezing it until I thought she would crush my bones.
“You ask me, it’s a shot in the dark. How do they know where to zap my brain? What if they get off a fraction of an inch and
fry the good parts?” Her eyes flashed. “Where does that leave me?

“Here’s the crazy part. After a while it’s hard to tell if I’m remembering something that’s real or forgetting something that’s
not. Like today. Had I imagined Sylvia? Had she even existed? I started looking for her pictures, to prove she had been real,
and I couldn’t even remember where we kept the pictures.” She rocked back and forth. “I couldn’t remember….”

“I’ll get the box, Mama. Hang on.” I went to the wall cupboard between our two bedrooms, a narrow set of doors, the inside
shelves just deep enough for books. I found a blue shoe box on the bottom shelf and took it to Mama. She patted the couch
next to her for me to sit down.

She lifted out a handful of pictures and sorted through them. Me holding Sylvia. Mama leaning against a car, pulling up the
hem of her skirt, showing her leg to whoever was taking the picture (Daddy?). Mama and Daddy getting married. Me holding an
Easter basket. Baby pictures of Sylvia with a bow stuck on top of her bald head.

Mama held them to her chest. “Thank goodness, I haven’t lost my entire mind.” She pulled out another stack and laughed at
a snapshot of Daddy in a fishing hat.

And that’s how Daddy found us—the house in a terrific mess, Mama looking a wreck, both of us giggling and pointing at the
pictures.

“Looks like a tornado in here,” Daddy said.

“Pert near.” Mama shoved a picture at him. “Look at you, all gussied up. Thought you were the cat’s pajamas, didn’t you?”

“Handsome devil, that’s what you always said.” Scarlett pranced around on the floor. Daddy scooped her up and let her out
the front door. “What’s the occasion? Why’d you two decide to look at these old pictures?”

“It’s a long story.” Mama winked at me.

“Look at this one. Is this me or Sylvia?” I showed her a picture of a baby in a bonnet, screaming her head off.

Mama’s eyebrows went together into a V as she pulled the photo in close. Her expression changed. The sparkle left her eyes
as she pinched the edge of the picture.

“Poor thing. Crying all the time. Never could get her to stop. Colic, that’s what everyone said. You’d think her own mother
could ease it, though, wouldn’t you? Not on your life. The more peppermint water bottles I gave her, the more she cried. Practically
wore out the floorboards walking her.” Mama’s voice sounded far-off. “Never could do a thing with her. ‘Just give it some
time,’ people said. I never got the chance. She was gone before I could make her happy.”