Cliques, Hicks, and Ugly Sticks Page 2

  They are still in our house, but only for a couple more months. Some of the other men in the neighborhood have promised to help Daddy and Ian do all the repairs once the summer farming season wraps up. In the meantime, the Cedar Ridge school hired ole Isabel to teach a few dance and drama classes. She’s a professional dancer and has quite a bit of acting experience, so it seemed logical to hire her. The thing I had to ask myself, though, was how in the world was that woman gonna teach dance if she had a broken leg? I had a feeling ole Isabel’s teaching career was over before it started. That was not a good thing for a lot of reasons, but mainly because she had been looking forward to it so much that she’d often forget to be a pain in everybody’s neck.

  “About the time I got to the highway,” she was saying right then, “I realized that, in my haste, I had forgotten the video of As You Like It at home. I had to go back and get it because I wanted to show it to the senior drama club on their first day.” She looked a little concerned. “I do hope those children do not think good acting starts and stops with Dallas or The Dukes of Hazzard.” She thought about that a minute, shuddered, then continued, “Well, anyway. Lily, girls, you know what Rough Creek Road is like since that deluge last week.”

  You better believe we all knew what she was talking about. Our old country road is a mess, and will be for the next seven or eight million years unless I miss my guess.

  “It took me a good fifteen minutes just to get to the highway, dodging those loathsome rocks and holes,” Isabel said. “And, of course, it took another fifteen to get back home. I was not pleased.”

  No one would ever argue that. Isabel St. James was often disgruntled because so many things displeased her.

  “When I got back to the house,” she went on, “I saw that Ian had made the coffee after I left.” She huffed loudly. “Why he couldn’t have made it earlier is beyond me. Especially since he knows I need my morning coffee!”

  Ole Ian just stood there, cooling her coffee while she stabbed him with fiery darts from her eyes. He continued to look out the window as if his wife weren’t even in the room.

  “I would have made it for you, dearest Isabel, if you’d asked me to,” Myra Sue said, her eyes all shiny.

  “Oh, darling, I know you would have.” Isabel gave Myra Sue the best smile she could muster from those busted-up lips. “You are such a precious child.”

  Oh brother! I looked around for barf bags because those two were making me sick. I thought they were making Mama sick, too, because right then she was so pale that her freckles stood out, but she was smiling. I could not do that. Instead, I sighed.

  “So I poured myself a cup to drink on the drive to school,” Isabel continued. “Of course it sloshed everywhere as soon as I got out on that wretched road, so I got only a mere sip. Well, it was all just too much! That dreadful road, no coffee, an inconsiderate husband, and being late.” She and Myra Sue sighed in unison. “The school board will not allow anyone to smoke in the school, so I knew if I was going to have a cigarette that day, it would have to be on my way into town. I got one out of my purse, then pressed the lighter on that horrid little car Ian bought. Wouldn’t you know, the foul thing did not work. It’s all Ian’s fault, of course, for buying such a dreadful automobile.”

  Ian looked over his shoulder at her. “Want your coffee now, lambkins? It has cooled off some.”

  She stared at him a minute like she had totally forgotten that she had demanded someone brew it fresh for her Spoiled Majesty at the coffee place.

  “Yes! Oh yes, thank you, Ian, my darling.”

  Good gravy, but those two have a weird relationship.

  She delicately sipped between her bruised lips with her eyes closed. “Ahhhh,” she murmured.

  “So what happened?” I prodded. “The lighter in your car didn’t work, and . . . ?”

  One eye opened and stared at me. Then she opened the other one and said, “I fished the lighter out of my purse, of course. But just as I was about to use it, I hit an enormous pothole and dropped the wretched thing. It fell right on the floor of the passenger side. I slowed the Tercel to a crawl, reached over to retrieve it, and . . . woke up here.”

  “With the car nose-first and totaled out in that low-water culvert at the foot of Howard’s Hill,” Ian added.

  We all stared at Isabel, who calmly sipped her coffee and blinked a bunch of times.

  “Yikes, Isabel,” I said, shuddering. “Johnny Fields was killed running off that culvert three years ago.”

  She choked. Coffee dribbled out of her mouth.

  “What? I could have been killed?” She threw a wild gaze to her husband. “Did you hear, darling? I could have been killed, Ian! Killed! ”

  Well, I guess I should have kept my big mouth shut about that, because I’ll tell you something: when Isabel St. James gets going, there’s no telling where she’ll stop. Thank goodness she got interrupted right then.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Temple Freebird called as she walked through the doorway. Right behind came Forest, her other half.

  They are two old hippies who live on the property next door to the St. Jameses’ place. That afternoon, their combined body odors chased out the smell of medicine, antiseptic, clean sheets, sick people, and coffee in about three seconds.

  I coughed. Myra Sue shuddered. Ian took a step backward. It looked like Isabel tried to shrink into that hospital mattress. As usual, Mama smiled warmly at them, but I noticed she looked paler than ever.

  “Mama,” I said, looking up at her. “You okay?”

  She smiled weakly. “Yes, honey. Fine.”

  She still had one hand on my shoulder, and I patted it. I noticed it was puffy and soft—not at all like her usual strong, slim hands. And guess what? Her face was kinda puffy, too. That just was not normal. I decided to say something to my daddy about all this, because Mama had not been herself the last several days, and I was pretty sure she was getting sick, no matter what she said.

  “Hello,” Isabel said to Forest and Temple. She gave them a quick, thin smile that never reached her eyes.

  She had stopped calling her hippie next-door neighbors “those vile creatures,” but she barely tolerated their presence, especially when they avoided bathing for a while—which, let me tell you, was more often than not. Today, the pair looked freshly washed. Their gray ponytails were clean, and so were Temple’s faded prairie skirt and tank top and Forest’s frazzled overalls and T-shirt. Even his bald head above the ponytail shone all clean and bright.

  Also, I noticed Forest wore those funny paper hospital slippers over his bare feet. I reckon kids under twelve and bare feet are both forbidden on the third floor of Blue Reed General Hospital.

  “Oh, Isabel!” Temple cried. She rushed right to the woman’s bedside with almost as much enthusiasm as Myra Sue. “How are you feeling?”

  She touched the other woman’s purple-blotched forehead— which resulted in a sharp, hissing intake of Isabel’s breath.

  Isabel’s eyes darted back and forth between her two newest visitors. Then she yanked the thin bedcovers up to her chin, clutching them with her bony fingers. “I’ve had some miserable experiences since we left California, but this has been the absolute worst.”

  I would give my last Kraft Caramel if ole Isabel could prove that her day was any worse than mine, except for that wreck, of course. Let me tell you what happened.

  TWO

  Junior High Stinks in More Ways Than One

  I had looked forward to that first day of junior high for many reasons. Number one: I wouldn’t have to spend the entire day with Myra Sue or Isabel St. James. Number two: I could see my best friend, Melissa Kay Carlyle, and number three: I like school.

  So, after riding good ole bus number 9 for nearly an hour and finally being let off at the front of Cedar Ridge Junior High, I was all set to have a memorable experience. In fact, I expected it would be great. But guess what? I thought wrong.

  Melissa Kay Carlyle met me at the front door of that building, which pro
bably was built twenty years before Columbus discovered America. It stunk like his sailing crew had left their gym socks in the old, beat-up gray lockers that lined the hallway. The smell was so bad, you could almost taste it.

  “I’m glad you’re here!” Melissa said, grabbing my forearm so hard I nearly dropped my brand-new red-and-blue Trapper Keeper.

  During summer break, Melissa’s mom always sent her to summer camp, so I hadn’t seen her most of the summer vacation. We had a lot to catch up on.

  That day, Melissa’s light brown hair hung in a shiny bob just below her earlobes, and her pale hazel eyes sparkled, as always, like clear creek water. Melissa has a tiny little nose and rosy mouth that look more like they belong to a baby doll than a girl of eleven, but my mama says that when she grows up, those round features will keep her young-looking.

  That morning, she looked wide-eyed and pretty scared.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, feeling some alarm.

  “We don’t belong here, that’s what’s wrong!” she said. “I am telling you, April Grace, sixth graders have no business being in the same building as seventh and eighth graders.”

  I frowned at her.

  “What d’you mean? Of course we belong here. We are—” Someone shoved me right into Melissa, who bumped into someone who pushed her back into me.

  “Out of the way, worms,” said the boy who pushed Melissa. He had a pink, pimply face and a turned-up nose.

  “Yeah, worms,” said the boy who pushed me. “Don’t you realize that sixth graders are the worms of junior high?”

  “I’d rather be a worm than a doofus like you,” I said. I started to shove him back, but Melissa grabbed my arm again.

  “Sorry,” she said to the boys as she pulled me over to the wall and out of their way. They sneered and swaggered away.

  “Melissa Kay Carlyle, do not tell them ‘sorry’ when they—”

  “Listen, April Grace. We aren’t in elementary school anymore, and we don’t fit in here. Take a look around.”

  I glared good and hard at her because I saw no reason to be all apologetic to those nasty boys who had shoved us and called us names. Then I noticed my friend’s frightened face.

  “Look around!” she said again.

  So I looked. Here’s what I saw: Except for some of us sixth graders, most of the girls looked like Jem and the Holograms cartoon rock stars, complete with leggings, slouch socks, and oversized sweaters with big shoulders. They wore their big hair pulled into banana clips or on the side in ponytails. Their makeup jobs consisted of bright blue gunk on their eyes, spots of red blush on their cheeks, and vivid pink lipstick.

  The boys came in all sizes. Most of them looked like their hands and legs had grown too big for the rest of their bodies. They wore their hair all poufed up, too. They swaggered when they walked. Oh brother.

  Most of us sixth graders wore the kind of clothes we wore last year. For instance, I wore red shorts and a white T-shirt. Melissa’s own blue-and-red shorts outfit was new. We looked like we always did as far as I could tell. Some of the girls wore their hair in regular ponytails or had new, short haircuts. Those older kids were looking at us all like we were weird.

  I’ll tell you something: the Cedar Ridge sixth graders might have stuck out like a pimple on Myra Sue’s face, but as far as I was concerned, we were not the weird ones in that noisy, stinky hallway.

  “So we don’t exactly fit in,” I said to my friend. “So what? There’s no way I’d ever wear my hair fixed like that.” I pointed to one particular awful-looking hairdo. “Her bangs look like a rooster comb. I like my braid.” I grasped that thick, red braid and pulled it over my shoulder, waving the end of it at Melissa. “And wearing makeup is about as dumb a thing as anyone can do. Who wants to look like a clown?”

  “But don’t you want to be fashionable?” Melissa said as if she could hardly believe what I’d just said.

  “Fashion is a big fat pain!” I declared. “That’s my motto.”

  “April Grace, you have a lot of mottoes.”

  We stood there eyeballing that milling herd while the odor of perfume, aftershave lotion (what boys need that, I’d like to know?), armpits, mildew, and floor wax nearly gave me a lung disease from the foulness of it all. I liked grade school, where the air smelled like books and chalk dust.

  “Wait until you see Lottie Fuhrman,” Melissa muttered.

  “Why? Is something wrong with her?”

  “You know how she spent an entire month this summer in Little Rock? With her cousin Cassie?”

  I nodded.

  “You know how her mom and new stepdaddy went on their honeymoon and then moved into their new house? Did you know it’s over there in that fancy new neighborhood, Acacia Heights?”

  I nodded again.

  “Well, oh brother, has she changed!”

  “Changed?” I asked. “Changed how? What do you mean?”

  Lottie had been friends with me and Melissa since we were little. She wasn’t a best friend, like Melissa, but we did all go to the same church, and we’d had sleepovers and birthday parties and stuff. She had always been prissier than me or Melissa, but we always had fun and got along just fine. I couldn’t imagine her being any different than usual.

  “Right there,” Melissa said. “Look!”

  My gaze followed her pointing finger.

  That first day of school, in that hot, narrow, smelly hallway full of scared sixth graders, loud seventh graders, and swaggering eighth graders, one thing stood out more than anything else. A group of five girls stood together, and it was as if an invisible cone around them kept everyone else away. Let me tell you, they looked like a clump of vividly identical, blond-haired, overdressed, red-lipped, clown-cheeked Barbie dolls.

  Mystified, I said to Melissa, “What is that?”

  She sniffed. “That is ‘the Lotties.’”

  “The Lotties? What in the world are the Lotties?”

  Melissa shrugged and wrinkled her small nose. “That bunch of girls.”

  I looked again and saw Brittany Johnson, Aimee Dillard, Heather Franks, and Ashley Cummings. I didn’t know them very well because they had always been kinda standoffish.

  “You are not allowed to speak to them unless they say you can,” Melissa said.

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Because when I said hi to them a bit ago, Lottie said in a snotty voice, ‘You cannot speak to us unless we tell you that you may do so. It’s a rule, and don’t forget it!’”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She shrugged. “That’s the way it is, April Grace.”

  I squinted hard at that silly group of girls.

  “Well, I’m fixin’ to find out what this is all about,” I told Melissa.

  “Oh, April, I don’t think—”

  But I wasn’t going to let her stop me from speaking this time. I waved off her warning, shook her hand from my arm, and marched right over into the awfullest cloud of perfume you can imagine.

  “Hey, Lottie,” I said, friendly as all get-out and trying not to sneeze. “Did you have a good time with your cousins and grandparents? How’s your mama and her new husband?”

  That girl slid her mascaraed gaze over me, then started whispering to that goofy Aimee Dillard, who has always thought she was the hottest thing since fried potatoes because her daddy owned the only hardware store in Cedar Ridge.

  “Lottie? Aren’t you going to say hi?” I was still just as warm and friendly as a piece of apple pie.

  “Lottie,” said Aimee, “I’m not sure everyone understands our rules. Especially certain bus riders. Especially riders of bus 9.”

  “What are you talking about, Aimee?” I said. “You ride the school bus.”

  Ole Aimee looked at Lottie and said, “Isn’t it funny, Lots, how some people think that riders of bus 7, who live on the west end of town, are like riders of bus 9, who live on Rough Creek Road?”

  “As if anyone from the west end of town
would ever in our lives hang out with hicks from Rough Creek Road. Gross me out!” Brittany added, rolling her eyes.

  All those girls laughed way too loudly.

  “Maybe we should post our rules on the bulletin board,”

  Aimee said, “so everyone will know them.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, Aims,” Lottie said with all the snootiness you can imagine. “That is your assignment tonight. Make a list of our rules and post them in the morning. In the meantime, those who are not a Lottie should mind their own beeswax.”

  “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind, Lottie Fuhrman? We’re friends.”

  “I just hate that annoying buzz in the air,” she said, swishing her hand back and forth as if she were waving away a bad smell. Those girls giggled and waved their hands, too.

  “It might be the smell of the barnyard,” Aimee said.

  “It might be the smell of those red shorts,” said Heather.

  All of them giggled even more, then they turned as a single unit and walked down the hallway. Students moved to the side for them, half on one side and half on the other, and the hall looked like the Red Sea parting for Moses and the children of Israel.

  “See what I mean?” Melissa said behind me.

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” I declared just as the bell rang.

  The sad thing is, that might have been the high point of my day because the rest of it went downhill from there.

  We all clomped over to the gym for First Day Assembly, in which square-built, gray-haired, flat-footed Mrs. Patsy Farber, the principal, lectured us about the rules of junior high. All that mess went on and on until I thought my ears would bleed.

  From the gym we went to our homeroom. Our school was so small, there was only one homeroom class for each grade—and wouldn’t you know, I had to sit next to that obnoxious ole J.H. Henry. For some reason, J.H. decided he was too cool or something. He like to have driven me nuts winking and calling me “baby” and “hot stuff.” Where in the world did he come up with that? Since I have made a decision to be a nicer person, I didn’t hit him with my history book or tell him to go jump up a stump or anything, but I figured if he kept up that nonsense, he’d be winking out of two black eyes sooner or later.