Yankee Girl (9 page)

“Gross,” said Carrie. “Stick that gum back in your mouth.”

“Nooo.” Debbie stared at the wet wad of green in her palm. “Let's stick it in her hair.”

“Whose hair?” Carrie blinked, looking confused.

“Coon Girl's hair,” said Debbie. “Let's stick gum in her hair. She'll have to shave her head to get it out.” She grinned. A big evil grin.

The Cheerleaders' eyes lit up with a nasty glimmer.

“Fab,” said Cheryl.

“Valerie has that ponytail…” began Carrie.

“And we could stick it right at the top of…” Saranne went on.

“It'll never come out. She'll look a mess,” interrupted Debbie.

My stomach roller-coastered into my shoes. They wouldn't
really
do that, would they?

This was worse than hiding Valerie's sweater or sprinkling skunk oil. The sweater always turned up. Room 6B stopped stinking. This was permanent. Or permanent for as long as it took for hair to grow out.

Of all the mean, nasty schemes the Cheerleaders had cooked up, this one was the worst. I hoped they would forget about it by recess.

They didn't forget.

“Alice,” called Saranne as we lined up for volleyball. “We're meeting at my house after school to talk about you-know-what.” She rubbed her hands together in a businesslike way. “You'll be there.” She wasn't asking me.

“I'll be there.”

I was thrilled to be included. None of the Cheerleaders had invited me over to their house so far.

Then I thought about what I was being invited over for. I decided to go anyway. After all, I didn't have to do anything. Just be there. Besides, I didn't want to make Saranne mad.

We all crammed into Saranne's bedroom. It was hot with the furnace vents blasting and all of us jammed together on Saranne's canopy bed. Hot, and very pink. Bubble-gum pink. Pink walls, pink bedspread, pink shag rug.

The bubble-gum-coloured walls swirled around me.

I should go home. I should go home and never talk to any of these girls again.

I thought about how good it felt to belong.

I stayed.

Saranne's plan was so stupid it was brilliant. The Cheerleaders would rush Valerie and knock her down, like it was an accident. During the confusion, Cheryl would plant the wad of gum in Valerie's hair.

“You really think this is gonna work?” I asked.

“Of course it'll work.” Saranne sounded confident. “We'll do it tomorrow at recess.”

I thought it over as I rode Blue Rover home through the damp dusk. It felt good being in on such a big secret.

It felt really crummy, too. In Chicago, I would've said, “Hey, what's Valerie ever done to you?” But this wasn't Chicago. Here I was just Yankee Girl. Who would listen to me?

The next morning, I wobbled off the bus feeling queasy. It was a beautiful blue-sky day. Too beautiful for mean tricks. Maybe Valerie would be absent.

Nope. Right on time, the Taylors' white Chevy station wagon pulled up to the kerb. Out jumped Valerie. Did her ponytail look longer and shinier than usual?

“Look at that.” Saranne sounded disgusted. “She's wearing a hair bow right where the gum is supposed to go.”

“So the plan is off?” I hoped.

“Of course not!” Saranne snapped. “We'll stick it
below
the bow.”

All morning I hoped something would happen. The office would forget to ring the recess bell. A Russian missile would fall on the playground. Time would stand still.

Time didn't stand still, the Russians weren't mad at Americans that week, and the recess bell rang right on time.

“Hurry up,” whispered Carrie, flinging her coat over her head. She grabbed me by the wrist and threw me into line ahead of her. Saranne squeezed ahead of Valerie, glanced over her shoulder, and winked at me.

Carrie nudged something small into my palm. Two pieces of Dubble Bubble gum.

Put it in your pocket. They can't do this without gum.

Ahead of me, Cheryl glanced over her shoulder. “Where's the gum, Yankee Girl?” she whispered loudly.

It's not even my gum. Maybe she'll just chew it.

I passed her the gum.

We filed past the fifth-, fourth-, third-grade rooms. Closer, closer to the playground doors. The library. The water fountain. Second grade, first grade. Then out the double doors to the playground and into the bright blue morning.

Saranne stopped short to pull up her kneesocks. Valerie ploughed right into her.

“Hey, why don't you watch where you're going?” Saranne yelled at Valerie.

“Yeah, wake up,” Carrie chimed in. She gave Saranne a hand while pushing Valerie down. Cheryl tripped and landed on the heap with Debbie right behind her. I just stood there watching the five-headed girl-monster struggling on the asphalt playground, a tangle of elbows and knees and waving hands. A loafer flew in the air, bopping Leland in the nose.

“Ow!” he howled. “Creepy girls!”

The monster flopped around for what seemed like for ever. Then, one by one, the Cheerleaders got up. When Cheryl stepped away, a wet wad of sticky pink gum blossomed just below Valerie's hair bow. Last of all, Valerie struggled to her feet, brushing herself off.

The rest of the class jostled closer for a better look.

Oh no. What have I done?

Hey,
you
didn't do anything. It was Debbie's idea.

Miss Gruen burst out the double doors. “What happened here?”

“Nothing, ma'am.” Valerie swiped asphalt crumbs off her knees.

“Looks like plenty happened.” Miss Gruen pinched Valerie's ponytail between her fingers and peered through her glasses. “Why, this looks like gum.”

“Ma'am?” Valerie's voice trembled.

“You have a sizable wad of chewing gum in your hair. Bubble gum, to be precise.” Miss Gruen pulled a hanky from her pocket, wiped her fingers, then blasted her whistle.

All of 6B came running.

“There is gum in Valerie's hair,” Miss Gruen said to the class. “It didn't grow there. Can anyone tell me what happened?”

We looked at each other, then away. A few giggled. Leland's wide grin said he wished he'd thought of it first.

“Saranne stopped to pull up her socks and everybody fell on top of her,” Jeb volunteered.

“Who is ‘everybody'?” demanded Miss Gruen.

“Debbie and Carrie was all I could see,” said Jeb.

“Debbie, did you have gum in your mouth?” demanded Miss Gruen.

“No, ma'am,” said Debbie, grinning. “I
still
have gum in my mouth.” She blew a big bubble to prove it. Miss Gruen pointed to the trash can, then turned to Carrie.

“I don't chew gum,” Carrie said before she was asked. “I have braces. See?” She pulled the sides of her mouth wide so Miss Gruen could see.

“That will do, Carrie,” said Toad Woman. “I'll tend to this matter later.”

Valerie stood next to Miss Gruen. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks.

My stomach hurt.

Miss Gruen sighed. “Let's go to the office and see what we can do about this. The rest of you, back to class.”

“Hey, what happened to recess?” protested Leland.

“Recess is over,” said Miss Gruen as she and Valerie disappeared into the building. The rest of us followed, dragging our feet all the way to 6B.

Miss Gruen was back in five minutes. With Mr. Thibodeaux.

“We tried peanut butter, but it didn't work.” Miss Gruen glared at us. “Now she has peanut butter
and
gum in her hair. She'll have to have the gum cut out.”

A girl giggled in the back of the room. Leland laughed out loud.

“This isn't funny, boys and girls,” said Mr. Thibodeaux. “Why, this might even be on the news tonight.”

Mr. Thibodeaux talked on and on about being good citizens and loving thy neighbour, but I wasn't listening. On the news! Walter Cronkite sticking a microphone in my face. “Alice Ann Moxley, did you know about this plan? And why didn't you stop them?”

I couldn't sleep that night. Behind closed eyelids I saw the tears on Valerie's cheeks. Her trembling lip. The pink rose of gum in her hair.

After a lot of flopping and flipping, I finally fell asleep. What woke me? Car doors slamming? Laughter? Or was it the odd smell that drifted through the half-open window. A smell that reminded me of summer and lawnmowers.

Gasoline. Gasoline?

Something bright flashed behind my closed eyelids. Lightning?

Rubbing my eyes, I looked out my bedroom window. It swam into focus. The letters “KKK”. On fire. In the grass. In our front yard.

The police poked around the scorched grass. “Bunch of kids horsing around,” they decided.

“Horsing around, my foot,” said Mama, tight-lipped.

Kids or the Klan? Daddy discouraged both by hanging floodlights at the corners of the house. They glared in my eyes at night. Not that I slept much anyway. Life was just too crazy. It flip-flopped between normal and weird.

School was the normal part. I got a C in math. In folk dancing, we moved on to the “Mexican Serape Dance”. Miss Gruen looked more like a toad every day.

Then I'd go home, the weird part. “KKK” branded in our yard. People on the phone telling us to “go back to Yankeeland”. Sometimes they used dirty words. After a while, weird seemed normal. I guess you can get used to anything. Like being scared all the time.

Valerie returned to school with her hair cut off. Cropped to her scalp, the new hairdo showed off the shape of her head and made her eyes look bigger.

“Nigger gal looks like a nigger boy now,” Leland sneered.

“Well, she sure looks different.” Saranne sounded disappointed that Valerie didn't look perfectly hideous.

I was all mixed up about Valerie. I felt crummy about how the Cheerleaders treated her. But hanging out with the Cheerleaders felt good. Sort of. They still weren't all that friendly to me. I wanted friendly.

Like that day in the clinic with Valerie.

I gave friendship with Valerie one more chance.

“I like your hair.” We were alone in the rest room. I lathered my hands. Valerie stood at the next sink, doing the same.

“Thank you.” She kept her eyes on her soapy hands.

“What do you call it? A crew cut?”

Valerie's eyes narrowed. Did she think I was making fun of her?

“It's called a natural. African women wear their hair this way.” She dried her hands on a brown paper towel, folded it neatly in quarters, and tossed it in the trash. “I told you I don't need white friends.”

Fine! If she didn't want to be friends, I didn't either. I had the Cheerleaders.

And I had more important things to think about. Like Christmas.

The Christmas season officially started the day after Thanksgiving vacation. The whole school smelled and sounded different. Instead of the old-lunch-and-Lysol smell, the halls shimmered with the aroma of fir tree, rubber cement, and gold spray paint. In front of the office stood a fir tree. Bit by bit, the tree acquired paste-smeared paper chains, cockeyed Dixie-cup angels, and glitter-covered Styrofoam balls.

The halls echoed with classes practising for the Christmas pageant: the fifth grade singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” or the first grade screaming “Jingle Bells” at the top of their little lungs.

“Same old pageant,” Jeb griped. “Each grade does the same skit every year.”

“What does the sixth grade do?”

Jeb frowned. “The manger thing. Shepherds, angels, the whole bit.”

“Sounds okay to me. Why the frown?”

“At church, I always get stuck being a Wise Man.” Jeb kicked a rock into the storm sewer. “Wear my dad's bathrobe with cotton stuck to my chin? In front of the whole school and their parents? No, thanks.”

“I wouldn't mind being Mary,” I said.

“You might could be. The teachers assign parts, except for the angel. You have to try out for that. The angel sings a solo.”

That counted me out. I couldn't carry a tune with both hands. But at lunch the next day, I discovered I was the only sixth-grade girl not trying out. Or at least the only one besides Valerie.

“I want to be the angel.” Saranne sipped her milk, and waited for someone to say, “Of course you'll be the angel, Saranne.”

Nobody did.

“So do I,” said Debbie.

“I can sing better'n you,” huffed Saranne.

“Yeah, but I look like an angel.” Debbie batted her eyelashes. She
was
the prettiest cheerleader. And boy, did she know it!

Tryouts were during recess. We squirmed on the splintery auditorium seats as girl after girl sang “The First Noël”, with Miss Gruen at the piano. Some were pretty good; some were just plain terrible.

Saranne glided onstage, very sure of herself. Then she opened her mouth.

Jeb covered his ears. “Sounds like a cat caught in a lawnmower.”

Saranne smiled her wolf-fang smile and waited for everyone to tell her how great she was.

Nobody did.

Debbie's turn. She swished her behind all the way up to the stage.

“She just thinks she's it.” Saranne poked out her lower lip.

“Sssh,” said Andy. “I want to hear her sing.”

Debbie sang sort of twangy, but on key.

“She sounds like that country singer that died. Patsy Cline?” said Jeb.

“I think she sounds good,” said Andy, jaw jutting.

Debbie prissed off the stage, looking very pleased with herself.

“Valerie Taylor,” called Miss LeFleur.

Valerie? Whispers rippled through the auditorium.

“Told you she was uppity,” Debbie said. “She don't know her place.”