Icy Sparks (8 page)

“M
atanni,” I yelled, racing in from school, my anger so intense I thought my body would ignite and burst into flames. “I'm going for a walk!” Before she had a chance to say howdy, I was out the door again—running. In the cool October afternoon, still wearing my school clothes, I sprinted over the hills like a runner on the Ginseng High School track team. Although it wasn't cold, I ran so hard I felt blood rising in the back of my mouth the way it felt when I ran on a very cold day. As I moved, the sturdy edge of my left shoe cut into my skin, and with each step I endured a stab of pain, but I didn't care. If the pain diluted my anger, it didn't matter if a blister the size of a silver dollar formed on my heel.

Throughout September, my anger had grown bigger, more unruly each passing day, until it was determined to get out. In Mrs. Stilton's classroom, it escaped in little gestures directed her way—a pop here, a jerk there—each time she had issued an order, usually when her back was turned. The minute I got home, so much rage was shoving against the backs of my eyeballs I feared they might fly out. So I had run.

I ran until my dress was drenched in sweat, until the balls of my feet ached, until I could barely breathe. I ran until I came to Icy Creek, where I collapsed on the bank. Through the sieve of multicolored leaves, I looked up at the sky, listened to the rumble of water, and prayed. “Dear God,” I whispered, “please help me.” A squirrel was gathering nuts a few feet from where I lay. Every so often a bird twittered, and once I spotted the white fluff of a rabbit beyond the creek in the woods, but try as I might, I recognized no sign from God, no gesture to let me know that He heard me. But then I wondered how any god could love me. Who could hear my prayers above the turmoil of my jerks and pops? Who could see the real me through the wall of angry urges that set me apart? Miss Emily didn't know who I really was; she was blinded by too much love. And if my grandparents knew the truth, I was certain it would kill them. My mother had been as sweet as a pasture rose. “That girl didn't know bad,” Patanni had said. And my father had been hardworking. Honest, he always was. Whenever he popped out his eyes, he had done it right in front of people. There was no running away, no hiding in a root cellar for him.

“Hit ain't right that your mama never knowed you,” my grandmother had said. “Hit ain't right that your daddy died so young. They kilt themselves to have you and got none of the pleasure, none of the joy of seeing how you growed up.” None of the joy of seeing me grow up, I thought, rolling over, feeling the cool moss through my dress. “None of the shame of seeing how disgraceful I've become,” I said, burying my head in my arms, my eyes avoiding the sky, God's dwelling place. “Hit just ain't right,” I said, sobbing so loudly that not even the thunder of Icy Creek could drown me out.

As the light started to fade, I eased myself up, wiped the strands of moss off the bodice of my dress, and headed home. It was nearing suppertime. I knew that Matanni would be cooking, waiting for me to set the table. Weary from the run, exhausted from crying, I felt depleted. Tonight, perhaps, I wouldn't have to dash to the root cellar and vomit forth every pop, jerk, and thought that had demanded repetition during the day. Tonight I wouldn't be forced to cast wild, unfettered shadows in the candlelight against the root cellar walls.

When I banged through the front door, my grandparents were sitting in the parlor. Matanni was putting a new hem in an old dress of mine. Patanni was dozing in his chair. “I'm sorry I'm late,” I apologized, whisking into the room. “Time got away from me.”

Matanni didn't say a word. With pins between her lips, she continued to sew. Patanni moaned and opened one eye, then closed it again.

“I said I'm sorry.”

“Sometimes saying it isn't enough,” Patanni said, his eyes still shut.

Matanni took the pins out of her mouth, cocked her tiny head to one side, and said, “We waited for you. Must have waited an hour. The fried chicken got cold.”

“Your grandma works hard,” said my grandfather wearily. “By six o'clock, she'd like to be finished with everything.”

“I know,” I muttered, my anxiety increasing. “I'm sorry, really sorry.”

“We raised you to be considerate,” Patanni said. “To think about other people's feelings.”

“But lately you've been thinking only about yourself,” Matanni added, nodding in the kitchen's direction. “Your supper's in the warming oven,” she said. “I saved a drumstick for you.”

“I wanted two,” Patanni said, “but some of us ain't as selfish as others.”

“That's right, Icy,” Matanni threw in. “Some folk put others before themselves.”

I turned my hand into a fist and popped it against my palm. “I said I was sorry,” I shot back. “What do you want me to do? Go to prison? Hang myself from the big oak out back? Scrub the floors with a toothbrush? Lordy sakes, it ain't like I killed somebody!”

Matanni readjusted her glasses. “It's okay, Icy,” she said, returning to my dress. “Now go on. Eat your supper before it gets too late.”

Patanni stretched out his long legs. “Ain't you got homework to do?” he asked as I walked by.

Immediately I came to a halt at the kitchen doorway.

“Homework?” he repeated, emphasizing both syllables.

I gritted my teeth, heard the sound of them grinding into calcium, digging deep, down toward the nerves. Groaning, I bit the inside of my cheek. “Lordy mercy!” I exclaimed, tasting a drop of blood. “Dag nab!” I said, at that moment remembering. “I left my assignment back at school.”

Patanni shifted in his chair, his boots scraping against the floor. “Icy,” he said, in a voice filled with judgment. “What will your teacher think?”

Quickly I turned around, and in a desperate effort to channel all of my anger into one movement, I extended my arms, pressing my hands on each side of the doorframe, and shouted, “I don't give a dang what she thinks!” Then, unable to tolerate the tension a moment longer, I pivoted back around, dashed through the kitchen, out the back door, and headed for the root cellar.

Inside its dank walls, I lit the candle that I kept on an empty shelf, hurled the door shut and latched it, and was about to inflict my fury against the block wall when my shadow suddenly caught my eye. Strangely, it had changed. I had grown taller, my body curving upward, the top of my head sliding down the ceiling. I touched my nose. The daintiness and smallness were gone. Like Pinocchio's, it was longer. Its tip end pointed, almost sharp. When I opened my mouth, it seemed as though all the darkness of the root cellar was being drawn into it. I grimaced, and my lips knifed downward, like a scythe harvesting harsh words. Frantic, I felt my eyes. Once immense, they had shrunk to slits. Two tiny cuts in my face. No longer were they the windows to my soul; they were not wide enough for light to shine through, not generous enough to emit it. I shook my head. “Oh, no!” I said, my curls, corkscrewing furiously. Moaning, I lifted my hands to cover my face and watched, horrified, as they expanded, inch by inch, turning into large, round shapes—durable and thick as my grandmother's iron skillets. Immediately I jumped back. “Oh, Lord!” I cried, my arms zooming out, the movements, exaggerated yet quick. “God, no!” I protested. Twirling like a funnel cloud, I longed to spin myself out. Eat my hate up. “Hateful!” I screamed. “I am hateful!” I yelled. My fingers twitched; my left hand whipped forth like a Ping-Pong paddle and slammed against my cheek. Stinging, my face jerked to the right. Then my right hand whooshed forward and hit my other cheek; my face snapped to the left. Over and over, my hands inflicted pain, first one cheek, then the other, until my face burned from the blows. “Oh, God!” I cried, whirling frenziedly. “Sweet Jesus!” I moaned, feeling the weight of God's sky upon me, my body trembling under what I feared was His heavy, horrible sign.

“I
cy, you're gonna get caught,” Emma Richards said one day during lunch. “Everybody sees you copying her, making fun of everything she does. One day she's gonna turn around from that blackboard and catch you.”

“I can't help it,” I said, chomping into an apple. “When Mrs. Stilton flicks out that tongue of hers, my tongue has a will of its own. It's gotta do the same. When she screws up her ugly lips, my lips just naturally screw up, too.”

“You're gonna get us all into trouble,” Emma said.

I chewed my apple and swallowed. “I can't help it,” I repeated. “When she whacks Peavy, my hand can't stop itself.” I spread my fingers apart and whacked at the air.

“You're scaring me,” she said. “If you don't quit, something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”

I put down my apple and looked straight into Emma's eyes. “I can't help it.” I heard the tremble in my voice. “I don't want to. It just happens.”

Emma Richards glared at me. “If you don't quit,” she said, “you're gonna turn the whole class against you.”

“Why?” I asked.

Her face turned white, and her jaw stiffened. “Because when Mrs. Stilton's mad at you,” Emma snarled, “she makes all of us pay.”

“But I'm the only one she hates,” I said.

“Peavy Lawson gets smacked 'cause he likes you,” she said. “I already told you about Lane Carlson; his hands will be next.”

“Lane ain't no friend of mine,” I said angrily.

“He talks about you all the time,” she said. “He's always bragging on you. I promise, afore too long, she'll whack him, too.”

“You're wrong!” I said. “Lane Carlson ain't talking about me. I ain't heard a peep out of him!”

“Something bad is going to happen,” she warned. “I can feel it.”

Mrs. Stilton walked by. I nudged Emma with my elbow. “She worships idols,” I whispered.

Emma raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.

“She thinks she's a great singer,” I said. “This summer, she's going to the Vatican and audition for the Pope.”

“You're a troublemaker,” Emma sneered.

“She's selfish,” I said. “She wouldn't give a hungry old man a piece of cake.”

“You're a liar,” Emma snapped.

“At night, she turns into a redheaded woodpecker.”

“You're making that up,” Emma said.

“No,” I said, “it's the truth. She hops up and down the trunks of trees, always hungry, looking for something to eat, working hard for her food.”

“Liar!” Emma said.

“No, really!” I protested. “I got this book at home, all about her. In it, there's this one story about a mean old woman who wears a little red cap and a long black dress. She drapes this white cape around her shoulders. And since she's always baking, she wears a white apron cinched around her waist. She bakes, bakes, and bakes. She bakes enough cakes to fill up every shelf in Margaret's Bakery, but she's so mean and stingy that she won't share them with anyone. When a poor, hungry old man asks her for a bite of cake, she makes excuses. ‘This cake is too big,' she says. ‘And this one's too little' That's how mean she is! She won't share nothing with nobody. At the end of the story, though, she gets her comeuppance. All of her clothes—that little red cap of hers, her black dress, and her white cape and apron—all of them turn into feathers. And guess what bird she turns into?”

“I don't care,” said Emma flippantly.

“A woodpecker,” I said. “A woodpecker from Chicago,” I added. “And she spends the rest of her life looking for bugs with those dark, squinty eyes of hers and drilling holes into trees with her mean, sharp beak.”

“Sure!” she growled.

“It's the truth,” I said. “The story's called, ‘The Old Woman Who Wanted All the Cakes.' Miss Emily Tanner gave me the book, and she's an expert on everything.”

“She's an expert on eating,” Emma scoffed. “When she hugs you, she squeezes the life right out of you.”

“That ain't true,” I said indignantly. “She hugs me all of the time, and I'm still breathing.”

“That's too bad,” Emma said. “The longer you breathe, the longer you'll lie.”

“I'm not a liar!” I said.

Emma Richards tossed back her head. “Mrs. Stilton ain't no woodpecker, and you know it.”

“You wait,” I finished. “One day, when we have white cake for lunch, I'll ask her. I'll say, ‘Mrs. Stilton, if a hungry old man came up to you and asked you for a bite of cake, what would you do?' You mark my words, Emma Richards, Mrs. Eleanor Stilton will answer, ‘If he wants some cake, he can bake his own.'”

A
fter lunch the next day, while Mrs. Stilton read to us, I fell into a daydream and imagined her living as a woodpecker in the black pine near Little Turtle Pond. Her nose had turned into a hard, pointed beak; she was drilling into the pine tree hunting for a little piece of white cake, her tail feathers, stiff and proper, her little dark eyes spiteful and greedy. Mamie Tillman sat on the ground with her back leaning against the trunk and her stomach ballooning over her pants. Every so often, she'd throw up her arms. “Please, Mrs. Woodpecker,” she'd beg, “me and my baby is hungry. Could you spare us a bite of cake?”

But the woodpecker wasn't touched. “If you want some cake,” the bird trilled, “bake one yourself.”

I was enjoying my reverie when Mrs. Stilton plopped down the book she was reading, breaking the spell.

“Now, class, in honor of Halloween,” she said sweetly, “I've got a treat for you.” Then she walked primly to the back of the classroom, opened the closet door where supplies were kept, and stepped inside.

The whole class waited anxiously. Peavy Lawson tapped his fingers against his desktop. Emma Richards rocked back and forth. Lane Carlson giggled. Lucy Daniels wrapped a strand of her brown hair around her middle finger and whispered something to Irwin Leach. Never before had Mrs. Eleanor Stilton treated us to anything.

“Probably some poison,” I whispered to Emma, who sat across from me.

“Hush!” she said.

“Toads and black cats.”

“Troublemaker!” she sneered.

“Toadstools,” I said.

“Liar!” she said.

“Poison pokeweed,” I said.

“Shut up!” she warned.

“Jack-in-the-pulpit. Jack's little red berries.”

“Zip it up!” she threatened.

“Hemlock,” I was saying, when the closet door creaked open.

“Class!” Mrs. Stilton said.

Everyone became quiet.

“Children, please close your eyes,” she said.

When I heard her switch off the lights, I opened my eyes. A constellation of flickering lights floated toward the front of the room. Fearful, I closed them again and was trying to figure out what I had just seen when I heard another clicking sound.

“Now open your eyes,” Mrs. Stilton said.

A huge rectangular cake with orange frosting and yellow, lit candles glowed on top of her desk. Neat little rows of candy corn decorated the sides.

“All right, class,” Mrs. Stilton said. “There are twenty candles for twenty students. Each of you gets to blow out one.”

We all stood up.

“Trick or treat?” she asked, as we filed toward her desk.

“Treat,” I heard them say as they pressed forward.

“A slice for each of you.” She put a piece of cake on Emma Richards's plate.

“A big treat!” they said at once. “Thank you!” they said, and clapped loudly.

A trick, I said to myself, a cake laced with poison.

But, later on that afternoon, not one student suffered from a stomachache, not even Peavy Lawson, who ate three slices. No one was sent home, and no one died. That October thirty-first, Mrs. Stilton had cast her spell. When class was over and we marched out to catch the bus, Emma Richards refused to walk with me. The minute I'd swallowed that slice of Halloween cake, I'd sealed my fate and turned into a liar before Emma Richards's eyes. On the bus ride home, I overheard her talking to Lucy Daniels. “Icy thinks she's so smart,” she said. “Smarter than the rest of us. But Mrs. Stilton sees right through her. That's why Icy hates her.”

By the time I got off the bus, she wasn't talking to me and had convinced everyone else not to talk to me, either.

The next day, even Peavy Lawson began ignoring me. No longer did he want me for a girlfriend.

Whenever I walked down the hallway, my classmates would press their backs against the wall, melt into the plaster, and part like the Red Sea. When I mimicked Mrs. Stilton, they pretended not to notice. Like turning off a leaking faucet, they began to turn me off. Having lost my ability to astonish. I had lost my identity.

At home, in the darkness of my bedroom, I hugged my shadow. “Nobody will be your friend,” Joel McRoy had once said, and now I knew he was right. Miss Emily was right, too. Cut off from the world, different and alone, we were just alike. Terrified, I withdrew even more, too proud to talk to my grandparents, too disconcerted by Miss Emily to talk to her.