Icy Sparks (9 page)

P
atanni was sitting on the porch in his huge rocker about to cut into a piece of pumpkin pie when Matanni pushed through the door with a bowl of whipped cream in her hands. “Virgil, I told you to wait,” she scolded him. “I made some topping for that pie.” Before he could say a word, Matanni had scooped up two huge spoonfuls of whipped cream and plopped them on his plate.

“This is the part of Thanksgiving I like best,” Patanni said, swallowing a mouthful, leaving an outline like shaving cream around his lips. He licked it off with his tongue and smiled.

“I want a dollop on mine, too,” I said, shoving my plate at my grandmother from where I was sitting on the step.

“Ain't you having none, Tillie?” Patanni asked. “You been cooking all day, but when it comes to eating, you turn shy.”

“Oh, don't worry about me none,” she said. “I've been tasting.” Matanni sat down, put the bowl on the floor beside her rocking chair, and sighed. “These cool November days sure do feel good,” she said.

“Especially after cooking in a hot kitchen,” Patanni reasoned, finishing the last of his dessert with a gulp and a loud belch.

Matanni slapped the armrests of her rocker. “Virgil!” she warned him. “Quit that!”

“Just showing my appreciation,” he said.

“Well, appreciate a little less!” she snapped.

“Bossy, bossy, bossy! When you go to acting like that,” Patanni said, leaning over, placing his plate on the porch floor, “you put me in mind of your cousin.”

“What cousin?” I asked, forking up another mouthful.

“Cousin Acorn,” Patanni replied.

“She died before you was born,” Matanni said, “but she weren't so young when she went.” Matanni made a
tsk
ing sound. “Odd, ain't it, how little we talk about her?”

“Acorn was a strange one,” Patanni said.

“Came to it rightly,” said Matanni, “with Uncle Buddy moving around so much. With Mary being the way she was.” Matanni rocked back. Pressing the balls of her tiny feet against the floor, she kept the rocker in position. “She's outstripped us and gone,” my grandmother said, “so let's not speak unkindly of her now.”

“How was she strange?” I asked, steadying my clean plate on my knees.

Patanni pressed the edges of his hands together, turning them into a bowl. “She gathered up animals the way a squirrel gathers nuts,” he said, swishing his hands from side to side.

“We called her Little Acorn on account of it,” Matanni added. “Whenever she found a hurt animal, she'd bring it home. She had the usual dogs and cats and even rabbits, squirrels, and birds.”

“Fed those baby birds a mush of earthworms,” Patanni said. “And how about that raccoon?”

“About drove Buddy and Mary crazy,” said Matanni, shaking her head. “Tending to all sorts of critters. Making everyone do her bidding,” she went on. “But it was the monkey that was the last straw.”

“Monkey?” I said, plunking my plate on the step.

“A tad strange,” Patanni said, nervously reaching down, picking up his empty plate.

“Are you wanting more pie, Virgil?” Matanni asked.

“No, couldn't eat another bite,” he responded, still fiddling with the plate.

“It was all a little queer,” Matanni continued. “Acorn seen this baby spider monkey at the big state fair in Louisville. The minute she laid eyes on him, she had to have him. Said he was sick. Said he was losing his hair. And the truth be known, he was acting puny.

“Bought him, she did. With the few dollars she had saved up for the fair. It didn't matter what her parents said or how they tried to put their foot down; she did exactly as she pleased. Bought a sick, ailing monkey that nobody wanted.

“Stuffed him inside her lunch basket. The whole way back on the train the poor little critter was quiet—being that he was so sick. ‘You best keep that dirty animal in the basket,' her mama threatened her, but when they got off the train in Maysville, she pulled that monkey out like he was some grand prize and showed him off to everyone. Poor Mary!” Matanni threw back her head and laughed loudly. Her feet left the porch floor, and the rocker lurched forward. “She was horror-striken! That's what Uncle Buddy said.”

“And before anyone knew what had happened, there was a monkey in the house—not in a pen out back,” Patanni said. “With Acorn telling everybody what and what not to do.”

“Now, mind you, Icy,” Matanni said, pointing at me, “we're not talking about a spoiled child. This was an almost grown, fifteen-year-old young lady who should've been thinking about beaus and high school basketball games.”

“There's more to life than boys and games,” I said. “That's not so strange.”

“'Twas strange seeing a fifteen-year-old cradling a mangy-haired monkey like he was a youngin',” Matanni asserted. “Odd, how she loved that ugly thing.”

“And he kept on losing his hair. Scratching and scratching until it was coming out in handfuls. Until he looked like a newborn pink possum,” Patanni said.

“All shriveled up.” Matanni had a faraway look in her eyes. “Kind of sad, really.”

“Did the monkey get well?” I asked.

“A little cornmash whiskey saved the day,” Patanni said. “Uncle Buddy…” Patanni hesitated for a second, then turned and looked squarely at my grandmother, “was known to keep a Mason jar or two out in the barn himself, and Cousin Acorn got the crazy notion of getting that monkey drunk.”

“Whiskey sure helped me feel better when I was sick,” I said. “You wouldn't want folks calling you strange just 'cause you gave me whiskey.”

Matanni paid me no mind. “Cousin Acorn fed that monkey moonshine with an eyedropper,” she said. “Kept that monkey so drunk he couldn't scratch.”

“As soon as that monkey showed some sign of improvement, Cousin Acorn didn't waste no time. She had all the family taking turns with that eyedropper,” Patanni said. “That monkey stayed dog drunk.”

“But it cured him, didn't it?” Matanni said.

“Stopped losing his hair,” Patanni said, “but Buddy told me that later on he died of a bad liver.”

Right then, my grandparents started guffawing at the top of their lungs. Both of them were laughing so hard that Patanni's plate slipped out of his hands and fell with a thud to the floor. “You-all are teasing me, aren't you?” I asked them.

Rising from her rocker, Matanni picked up the plate and inspected it for cracks. “Everything we've told you is true, Icy,” she said, “but we shouldn't be laughing at Cousin Acorn's expense. Truth is, she lived a pitiful, lonely life. No husband. No children. And no friends.”

“Peculiar, she was,” Patanni said.

“A house full of animals till the day she died,” said Matanni.

“As far as I'm concerned,” I stated, vehemently, “animals are nicer than most people. Much nicer than those fair-weather friends I have to spend time with.”

“If you don't want to be alone,” Patanni corrected me, “you best start thinking better of your classmates.”

Grabbing my plate, I stood up angrily. “From now on,” I announced, “alone is what I intend to be.”

“We'll see how alone you feel on that crowded bus Monday morning,” Matanni finished.

T
he first time I croaked at school, no one—except for Lane Carlson—heard me. It happened during recess. The girls were jumping rope. The boys were shooting hoops. Miss Palmer, my old third grade teacher, sat in a chair by the wide double doors and watched us. I was swinging in the rope swing that hung from the maple tree, throwing out my legs and pulling them in, whooshing forward and backward. While I swept back and forth, I looked at the fall foliage—the red, yellow, and crimson leaves—smelled the sweet, sharp odor of burning wood, and sang “Greensleeves.” All the while, the sound of my voice soothed me.

Lane Carlson sat on the other side of the maple tree, drawing pictures in the brown dirt with a stick. Twice, I glanced down to see what he was drawing. Silly stick figures, I thought. But then, Lane Carlson had always been silly. A prissy sissy, he seemed like a caricature of what he thought a girl should be, except that he had gotten it all wrong, and now it was too late. His father owned a gun shop and was the best shot in Crockett County. His younger brother was as tough and mean as Lane was girlish. “Mabel pampered him too much,” the townsfolk said. “She wanted her first to be a girl.” Mothers didn't want their sons to play with him. Even girls found him too high-pitched and hysterical. He was a misfit long before I became one. A year ago, before all my own problems started, during one of our afternoon tea parties, Miss Emily had given me some advice. “Look at life from Lane's perspective,” she had said. “He only wants to fit in. He just doesn't know how.” At the time, I hadn't answered her. Swinging high above his head, catching a glimpse of his stick figures in the brown earth, I now felt ashamed.

Then, as always, the bell rang. Lane Carlson abruptly stood up, cupped his hands around the corners of his mouth, and yelled something at me. I stretched out my legs and slammed my shoes like brakes into the dirt. Lane stepped forward, holding his index finger high in the air.

I felt uneasy. “It's time to go in,” I said. “What do you want?”

He shook his finger at me. “Look!” he shrieked.

“What?” I said, coming closer.

“Make it go away,” he said.

“Make what go away?” I asked, irritated.

“This,” he answered and poked his finger into my face. “The wart.” He giggled. “Frogs cause warts,” he said, laughing hysterically, jabbing his finger at me.

“Get away!” I screamed, hitting his hand.

“You're a frog,” he said. “If you can cause warts, you can make them go away.” He pushed his finger toward my mouth. “So bite it off!” he demanded, thrusting the wart at me. I jerked back. “Eat it like you would a fly!” I twisted my head. “You're a frog!” he squealed. “You can do it!” he screeched, and triumphantly shoved his finger against my clamped lips.

Ferociously, I bit down. Blood spurted forth.

Astonished, he jerked back his hand and looked down at his bloody finger. “You bit me, you bit me,” he moaned.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “but you made me mad.” Shaking my head, I wiped the blood on my shirtsleeve.

He lifted his hand and held up his hurt finger. A moment later, a smile slid across his face. “You did it!” he said. “You made the wart disappear!”

Wide-eyed, I stared at him.

“I'm a sissy. You're a frog witch.” He came toward me with his arms outstretched. “Don't you see?” His voice was urgent. “Nobody likes us. Now we can be friends.” He flung his bony arms around me. “What do you say?” he said, squeezing tightly.

“CRO-OOO-AACK!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs.

Startled, he flinched spasmodically and jumped backward.

“CRO-OOO-AACK!” I repeated. With my eyes popped out and my head tossed back, I croaked loudly until the second bell rang.

W
hen we filed in from recess, I kept my head down. Lane Carlson tagged behind me, tugging at my shirttail, giggling. Blood stained the front of my shirt and sleeves. Blood covered his hand. We looked as though we had been fighting, but no one would believe that. Again he pulled the bottom of my shirt.

“What?” I hissed from the corner of my mouth. “What do you want?”

“To be your friend,” he whispered back.

I turned around, looked at his pitiful eagerness, and—in an effort to hush him up—relented. “Okay,” I said.

Red blotches flushed over his cheeks. He tittered and giggled shrilly.

Adamantly, I shot him a look and pressed my finger against my lips. He gulped once. Then no more wild hyena laughs escaped from his mouth.

So Lane Carlson is going to be my friend, my only fourth grade friend, I thought wistfully.

As we marched into the classroom, Mrs. Stilton, who stood by the door, stopped us. “What happened?” she said, grabbing our shirts, pulling us over.

“We…” we both began at once.

Then Lane, in a mannerly voice, said, “Icy was swinging too high and fell back. I caught her.” Proudly, he held up his finger.

“Are you hurt?” She pointed at the blood.

“We're fine,” he said. “I cut my finger. That's all.” He waved his finger from side to side. “Icy, here, stopped it from bleeding.”

“Really?” Mrs. Stilton said.

“She wrapped her shirttail around it,” he explained.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, lifting up my shirt.

Mrs. Stilton clicked her tongue, mumbled something, then said, “Both of you go to the bathroom and wash up. I'll give you five minutes.”

Off we went down the hallway. As I rounded the corner, heading for
GIRLS
, I saw that Lane was following me. “You're a boy!” I said. “Use the other one.”

“Oh, yes,” he said with a giggle, twirling around.

“By the way,” I said, tugging at his shirt, “thanks!” I opened the heavy bathroom door and, smiling broadly, went inside.

A
few days later, while we were discussing Costa Rica during our geography lesson, Mrs. Stilton glared at me; and immediately my anxiety began to rise. Thinking that she might detect trouble, I kept very still and made the most of my anonymity. While Sherman Murphy read a paragraph from the textbook, I tried to blend into the classroom. The minute he finished reading, Mrs. Stilton asked, “What is the capital of Costa Rica?”

Emma Richards raised her hand. “San José,” she said in a tidy little voice. “And the capital of Guatemala is Guatemala City,” she added, beaming. We had studied Guatemala last week.

“Very good,” Mrs. Stilton said. “Class, what language do they speak in Costa Rica?”

Emma Richards raised her hand again.

I looked at her appeasing face, and a sliver of dislike cut through me. I inched my hand upward.

“Yes, Emma.” Mrs. Stilton nodded and smiled at her.

“They speak Spanish in Costa Rica,” Emma said.

“Excellent!” Mrs. Stilton praised.

Red-faced, I shot my hand up.

“Yes?” Mrs. Stilton said.

“Hablan español en Costa Rica,”
I said, remembering what Miss Emily had taught me.

Mrs. Stilton squinted at me, tilted her head, and announced, “Listen up, class!”

A beginning of a smile flickered over my mouth.

“Icy Sparks wants to show off,” she sneered.

Flushing, I fiercely bit my bottom lip and knotted my hands together.

“Icy was too young when she learned Spanish,” Mrs. Stilton jeered. “That's why she gets confused and speaks improper English.”

I caught my breath. Warm anger rushed through me. “I might be from the hills,” I said bravely, breathing in. “But I don't talk like it. Your speech marks you for life,” I said. “If you don't speak good English, people will hold it against you, and you won't get a chance to better yourself.”

“Now, where on earth did you hear that?” Mrs. Stilton asked. “Those aren't your words, Icy Sparks. Who taught them to you?”

“No one,” I said. “I can come up with my own words. I don't need no one, I mean anyone, to teach them to me.”

“You're lying, Icy Sparks,” Mrs. Stilton said. “Remember what I said about lying?”

“I don't lie,” I said, thrusting out my chin. Rage flamed over my cheeks.

“Oh, yes, you do, little girl,” Mrs. Stilton growled. “You're known for your lies.”

“I am not!” I said vehemently.

“What about calling me a woodpecker?” she said. “Telling poor Emma here that I'm so stingy, so mean, that God punished me and turned me into a woodpecker.”

“That's the truth!” I said defiantly. “I've seen you in the woods behind our house. I saw your pointed nose turn into a beak. I saw your squinty eyes become woodpecker eyes. You bored your way into our birch trees.”

“Then why I do I look like this?” she said, holding out her dark blue skirt, swirling slowly around. “Class, do I look like a woodpecker?”

“No,” the class said.

“Emma, do I look like a woodpecker?”

Emma pointed at me and snickered.

“Peavy, do I look like a woodpecker?”

Peavy shook his head.

“Sherman, what do I look like?” Mrs. Stilton asked.

“Like our teacher,” he said. “Like Mrs. Stilton.”

“Lucy?” Mrs. Stilton said.

“You look like our teacher,” she said.

Mrs. Stilton pushed on. “What do I look like, Ronnie?”

“A pretty teacher in a pretty blue dress,” Ronnie Halcomb answered.

“Lane?” she asked, cupping a hand over her eyes and looking toward the back of the room. “Lane Carlson, what do I look like?”

He wouldn't answer.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

Lane nervously tapped his feet against the floor.

“Answer me, Lane Carlson! What do I look like?” Her voice was sharp and furious.

Abruptly, Lane stopped tapping his feet, leaned forward, and jumped up beside his desk. “You look like a woodpecker,” he said boldly. “A redheaded peckerwood.”

“See!” I said, standing up, too. “I'm not a liar.”

Mrs. Stilton threw the textbook on her desk. “Sit down, you two!” she warned through pressed lips. “I know troublemakers when I see them.” She jerked open her desk drawer and snatched up the Ping-Pong paddle. “You're misfits,” she said, stomping around her desk, thudding down the aisle. “You're weird,” she said, waving the paddle in the air. “A sissy and a frog,” she said, coming toward me. “A sissy and a frog,” she repeated, banging the Ping-Pong paddle against my desktop. “A lying, pop-eyed frog,” she sniped. “Frog,” she said, and smacked the paddle against my arm. “Frog,” she repeated, whacking me again.

I tilted to the left, felt my legs crumbling beneath me, and was about to slump down when—out of nowhere like a whirlwind—the urge rushed through me. Bewildered, I grabbed the back of my seat, steadied myself, popped out my eyes, threw back my head, and bellowed, “CRO-OOO-AACK!” Hopping up and down on the tips of my toes, my desk knocking against the floor, I roared, “CRO-OOO-AACK! CRO-OOO-AACK!”

Lane Carlson giggled and shrieked hysterically.

“CRO-OOO-AACK!” I grunted again. “Shit! Piss on you!” I hollered. “You mean ole bitch!” I yelled, and pounded my feet. “Piss on you!” I shouted, violently jumping beside my desk.

Mrs. Stilton looked wildly around her. “You're both crazy!” she screeched. “Crazy!” she screamed, then dropped the paddle and stomped out of the room.

When she returned with Mr. Wooten, the principal, Lane Carlson was still shrieking and I was still cursing.

“Piss on you!” I bellowed. “Piss on you!”

“It's ungodly,” Mrs. Stilton said, pointing at me, looking around at the others, who sat stunned and mute.

Mr. Wooten shook his head, calmly strode over, put both of his hands on my shoulders, and in a firm voice said, “Icy, hush now! Get hold of yourself.”

“Piss. Piss,” I said.

Mr. Wooten put his fingers to his lips, turned toward Lane, and shushed him.

Immediately Lane quit shrieking.

“Now go sit down,” he said quietly.

Lane did as he was told.

With his left hand, Mr. Wooten motioned to the door. “I'll handle this,” he said, gently grabbing my hands, rubbing them with his square fingers, pulling me out into the hallway.

“Mean ole bitch!” I moaned, my voice growing weaker. “Shit! Piss!” I said softly, closing my eyes, hearing the door snap shut. “Shit!” I groaned. “Pisssss. Pisssss,” I sputtered, like an engine giving out. “Pi…ss. Pi…ss. Pi…ss,” I stammered. “Pi…” I began again. “Pi…Pi…” I stuttered until, completely exhausted, I stopped and was quiet.