Cliques, Hicks, and Ugly Sticks Read online

  Even if I hadn’t been feeling completely yucky by lunchtime, the gross food smell of the cafeteria and my one bite each of the rubber macaroni and cheese, cold, greasy green beans, and too-sweet applesauce would have put me over the edge. I took my tray right up to one of the lunch ladies and handed it over. She looked at my full tray, then she looked at me.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

  “I am starving out of my mind, but I guess I’ll survive.” I sighed and trudged back the way I came.

  The one bright spot in that day was Mrs. Scrivner, the English teacher, who told us we’d be reading literature and writing stories. Now, I figured that right there might make junior high worth the trouble. I nearly stood up and cheered.

  But, even with that bit of good news, I was glad to get home from that first day.

  I walked up the lane to the house beside my sister after the bus dropped me and Myra Sue off. The junior high shares buses with the high school, so there was no peace from Myra Sue at the end of my school days. My empty stomach growled like eighteen grizzly bears who were eyeballing a solitary Snickers bar. All I wanted to do was eat until I exploded. And with all that school nonsense and Lottie stuff and J.H. Henry irritations, the only thing my brain wanted was to read my book until my eyes crossed. But it didn’t happen that way.

  Instead Mama met us at the door with her car keys in her hand.

  “Put your books on the table, girls, then pile in the car. Isabel’s in the hospital.”

  THREE

  Meanwhile, Back on the Farm

  When we finally got home from visiting Isabel in the hospital, I shucked off my school clothes and put on jeans and my favorite green T-shirt and sneakers. Then I headed down the slope behind the house to the barn. The sun made the western sky all golden and orange as it edged down toward the horizon.

  Before you get to the milk barn, you pass the original barn that my great-grandfather built about a million years ago. The wood is all gray and weather-beaten, and you don’t see many like it these days. Up in that barn is the loft where Daddy stores the hay for winter, and down below is where he keeps the tractor and the baler and other equipment. I like to hang out in there sometimes, but that day I needed to see my father.

  The dairy barn is large, built of concrete blocks, and painted a pure white. The corrugated metal roof is gray, and whirling air ventilators on top keep dampness from building up inside. Plus there are plenty of windows on the south side to let in the sunlight and air.

  As I approached the barn, I could hear the whoosh-whoosh of the automatic milkers and the sound of my daddy talking with our hired man, Mr. Brett. The men spoke softly because loud noises bother the cows. If I were to yell a “howdy” to the men, one of them dumb cows would like as not kick or jump or make a poopy mess right there on the barn floor, and that would agitate the others, and they’d all do the same, and guess who’d get to help clean it up? Yours Very Truly, that’s who.

  I went through the washroom and entered the milking parlor, warm from the cows’ body heat. Big black-and-white Holstein cows stood with their necks locked loosely in stanchions and happily munched the feed Daddy had put in the trough in front of them. Daddy and Mr. Brett stood well away from the backsides of the cows. Nobody wants to get kicked, you know.

  Mr. Brett—who is very nice-looking with dark eyes, black hair, and a short black beard—saw me immediately. He gave me a grin and held up one hand in greeting. Daddy turned and saw me.

  My daddy is Mike Reilly. He is the handsomest man in all of Zachary County. He has dark brown hair and blue, blue eyes. I know nothing bad will ever get me when my daddy is around.

  “Hey, punkin,” he said as I approached him. “You just get home?”

  “Yep. Hi, Daddy. Hiya, Mr. Brett.”

  “How’s Miss Isabel?” Daddy asked.

  “She’s got a broke leg. I mean, she has a broken leg, and she’s all black and blue and purple, and she purely looks like a mess. I bet she hurts pretty good, too.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Daddy agreed.

  “Ian said she drove right off the road there at the culvert on Howard’s Hill,” Mr. Brett said. “Worst place on this entire road.”

  Daddy and I agreed with him, then I said, “Daddy, I need to talk to you.”

  He turned to Mr. Brett and said, “Would you check Flossie? She’s more restless than usual. Maybe give her a little more grain; that’ll calm her a bit.” He looked at me. “What is it, honey? We’re a little busy here.”

  “I know, but it’s important.”

  “Well then, you better tell me.”

  “Daddy, remember when I told you a few weeks ago that something was wrong with ole Myra Sue?”

  He nodded. “Sure. And there was something wrong. Thanks to you we got her some help, and now she’s eating like a normal girl again.”

  My sister had decided she wanted to be super skinny like Isabel, so she stopped eating for a little while. Thank goodness that’s all over with.

  “I’m glad you remember that because, Daddy, now I’m worried about Mama.”

  “You are?”

  “She’s all pale. I can practically count her freckles.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “And she looks tired. And her hands are puffy.”

  He just looked at me for a minute.

  “Okay, April. Thanks for telling me. I’ll check on her when I get finished here.”

  This puzzled me. I would have thought he’d forget about those dumb cows and run up to the house right then.

  “But, Daddy . . .”

  He took in a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sure she’s okay, April Grace. I know she’s not been feeling too good, but I can pretty much promise you she’s all right.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Daddy.”

  He put his hand on my head and smiled into my eyes. “I promise. Okay?”

  I knew he loved Mama as much as I did and that he would not let anything bad happen to her, either. I trusted him.

  “Okay then,” I said. “But you won’t forget to check on her as soon as you get to the house, will you?”

  “I’ll check on her. I promise.”

  And he did. In fact, he talked to her for a long time in the upstairs bedroom they had been sharing ever since the St. Jameses had been living with us. It was Myra Sue’s bedroom, and she was staying in my room with me. I hung around outside the closed bedroom door, hoping to find out what was what, and I was still hanging around there when Daddy opened the door unexpectedly.

  “So!” he said, frowning. “Eavesdropping?”

  I tried to smile. Then I shrugged. “Well, Daddy.”

  “Well, what? You know you’re not supposed to snoop.”

  “I wasn’t snooping. Not exactly. I just wanted to know if Mama is all right.”

  Mama called out to me, and Daddy stepped aside. Mama was sitting on the edge of the bed, but she stood up the minute I walked in. She gave me a big smile.

  “Honey, I don’t want you to worry. I’m fine. Just feeling a little under the weather lately.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure?”

  She kept smiling, but I saw her tiredness anyway. “I’m sure.”

  “Well, okay,” I told her after a little pause. But I was not convinced.

  That night, Ian stayed at Blue Reed General with his little woman. At home we had hot dogs and potato chips and store-bought cookies for supper.

  As soon as Mama finished eating, she looked at us girls.

  “I apologize for this meal.”

  “That’s okay, Mama,” I said. “Hot dogs are fun, and we hardly ever have them.”

  She smiled at me, all tired in her eyes.

  “Thanks, honey.” She pushed back her chair and got up. Then she added, “I’m going to bed now.”

  “Mama?” I said in considerable alarm.

  She stroked my head, smiling. “I’m tired, honey, but I’m fine.”

  No matter how many times
she said it, I still found it hard to believe. She gave us each a little kiss on our foreheads and went off to bed.

  “Daddy?” I said, looking at him and feeling scared.

  “Punkin, she’s okay.”

  “But—”

  “It would be a big help if you’ll just be a good girl, you and your sister both. Now, go do your homework, and I’ll clean the kitchen.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Trust me on this, April Grace,” he said gently. “I will take care of your mama. I promise.”

  The night was quiet and spooky without Mama, and I crept around the house like it was haunted. Seeing Daddy do kitchen duty instead of Mama, which is something she always does, gave me a fluttery feeling, too. But I finished my homework at the kitchen table, and at bedtime I went up to my bedroom, wishing Grandma was well enough that I could go see her and talk about all this. Myra Sue sat dejectedly in her pink pajamas on the edge of the bed, kinda slumped, staring down intently at her hands.

  Sharing my room has not been a joy, let me tell you. And there are a lot of reasons for that. Number one: My sister is not the neatest person in our family. Well, neither am I, but I like to have my things where I can see them or get to them easily. Myra Sue would rather spend her time staring at her silly self in the mirror. Number two: She’s so bossy you’d think it was her room. Number three: She never turns off that stupid radio she got for her birthday last year and sometimes sings along with it. And number four: She hogs the bed. You cannot imagine how awful it is to have her in my room, but it is just a burden I have to bear until Ian and Isabel move into their own place.

  “What are you doing?” I asked her.

  “I need a manicure. I have a hangnail.”

  Oh brother.

  She sighed deeply. “Poor Isabel.”

  “Isabel will be just fine,” I said. “Good grief. Just because she’s in the hospital, the world is not coming to an end.”

  She looked up. Her bright blue eyes swam with tears. Her lips started to pooch out in a pout, and the blush on her cheeks got deeper. She ran the fingers of one hand through her blond curls.

  “Instead of worrying about ole Isabel,” I told her, “why don’t you worry about Mama?”

  “Daddy said she’s okay.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what he said, but she looks funny to me.”

  “Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”

  “Not like Mama.”

  “Oh,” she said, like she understood. But I doubt she did, especially as her mind seemed brimming over with Isabel.

  A few days later, on Friday afternoon, Myra Sue and I hadn’t been home from school very long when Ian brought Isabel home from the hospital. Let me tell you, that man carried her and her crutches every step of the way from the car to the bed. Myra Sue and I followed them into the bedroom. Mama had the bedcovers pulled back, and he laid her down in it like she was a helpless little baby. He fluffed her pillow. Then he adjusted the top sheet a little. Then he patted her on the head until she snapped at him in the most unrefined way you can imagine. In fact, I thought she was gonna bite his hand.

  Ole Ian took a few steps back, sat down in the little wicker chair, and closed his eyes. As Grandma would say, that poor man looked like he’d been sent for and couldn’t go—meaning he was plumb wore out. He let out a long, long breath. Poor ole Ian.

  Isabel looked at Mama and said, “You will not believe what happened. That wretched school board president called me at the hospital this morning and told me that due to my injuries, they were going to postpone my classes until next semester.”

  “Oh, Isabel, I’m so sorry,” Mama said. “I know how you were looking forward to that.”

  Isabel sighed. “Yes. Oh yes. And now what will I do? You know I love to stay busy.”

  Oh brother. Isabel’s busyness usually involved exercising on the front porch, and it hardly ever involved any actual work.

  “Maybe you could learn to knit,” I volunteered, and received a dirty look for my suggestion.

  “I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself, lying here a complete invalid.”

  “Don’t worry, Isabel dearest,” my goofy sister said. “I’ll keep you company.”

  Isabel smiled at her. “Thank you, darling. You’re a treasure.”

  Oh, gag me.

  FOUR

  A Sunday Like No Other

  Now, I am the first to say I like Sundays.

  They are nice days when you don’t have to hang out the wash or pull weeds or scrub fly specks off the insides of the barn walls or any of those disgusting jobs every kid in her right mind hates but grown-ups seem to dearly love making us do.

  This particular Sunday morning when we got up, the wind was going crazy outside, and Mama was kinda twitchy and nervous-acting, snappish for no good reason that I could see. Maybe the wind irritated her.

  As soon as we got to church, Daddy went to Pastor Ross’s study for the deacons’ prayer circle before Sunday school, and me and Mama and Myra Sue stepped into the ladies’ lounge to comb our hair. Mama scowled at her own reflection, even when she had her hair looking pretty again. Myra nearly pulled out all her own hair trying to fix that mess. Just between you and me, if she hadn’t put so much goo and gel and spray on it when she fixed it, it wouldn’t have been so hard to put back in place.

  Finally, Mama turned to me with the comb in her hand and began a valiant attempt to tame my windblown hair. When my hair wouldn’t cooperate, Mama got frustrated. “You’re going to be late for Sunday school!” Mama hissed, as if all that mess was my fault.

  I looked at her eyes, and I do declare right here and now that my grumpy mama was almost a stranger to me.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked her, feeling tears sting my eyes.

  She stopped fussing for a moment, took a deep, slow breath, and said, “No, April Grace. I have a little headache, that’s all. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

  “It’s okay. I hope you feel better soon.”

  She smiled at me.

  “I’m sure I will, honey.”

  I just kept staring at her while she checked her hair one last time, blew out a breath at her own reflection, and sighed again.

  “Come on, girls,” she said, even though Myra Sue was still poking around with her own hair. “Now, Myra Sue!”

  “I can’t believe you’re making me go out in public when I look absolutely hideous!” Myra Sue growled. Boy, oh boy, if she’d been paying any attention at all to Mama’s sour mood, she would not have said that. But Mama just nudged her out the door and said nothing.

  We had no more than stepped into the corridor when Pastor Ross approached us.

  “Good morning!” he said, cheerful as always. He must not have been out in that wind ’cause it probably would’ve blown the good nature right out of him like it did my mama.

  I have heard some of the teenage girls at church say Reverend Will Ross looks like Don Johnson on that cop show Miami Vice. Once I heard that little tidbit, I watched the show, and sure enough, he does, but I think the way he dresses has a lot to do with it. If you were to see him during the week, he’d be wearing his hair kinda scruffy, and he’d look like he forgot to shave for a day or two. He’d wear T-shirts with his suits and have his jacket sleeves pushed up to his elbows when he’d call on shut-ins, or when you’d see him at the store. Myra Sue called him “hunky,” which I think is Totally Inappropriate when you’re talking about your very own preacher, even if he is an available bachelor.

  On Sunday mornings, though, he looked like most ministers, all shaved and combed, and wearing socks with his shoes and everything.

  “Lily, I’m so glad I ran into you before church,” he said. “I found a great play for our Christmas program this year. Now, I know it’s a little early, but I think you never err if you get started earlier rather than later. If you could come to my office for a minute, I’d like you to take a look at it.”

  For a minute Mama looked like she’d never heard of such
a thing as a Christmas play in her whole entire life, even though she directs the one at church every year. Then her face cleared, and she gave Pastor Ross her special warm smile.

  “My goodness, Pastor, time does fly, doesn’t it? Yes, the sooner we get started, the better we’ll do.”

  They moved toward the back of the church where his office was, but she paused, looking over her shoulder at us.

  “Run on to your classes. Scoot.”

  I scooted, but Myra Sue trudged. I’m sure she thought a dead toad in the middle of the highway looked better than she did right then.

  I couldn’t help but think that Lily Reilly, in her current state of health and moodiness, had no business directing a Christmas play, but I knew saying so right out loud was a bad idea.

  I entered my classroom as silently as possible because Mama had worked on our hair for so long that class had already started.

  I could hardly believe my very own eyes when I saw Melissa sitting next to Lottie Fuhrman in the back of the room, especially after the way ole Lottie had changed and acted this past week at school. Well, there was no way I was going to sit near Lottie my own personal self, so I sat down in the first empty seat I saw, which was, of course, in the very front row where no one else wanted to sit, right smack-dab in front of our teacher, Miss Chrissy Chestnut.

  I should tell you that Miss Chestnut is an elderly spinster who takes her Sunday school teaching very seriously. She looks like a prune that’s been sucking on a lemon, but if you give her a chance, she’s actually pretty nice. I believe she used to teach history at the high school, back in the olden days when Mama and Daddy were teenagers. Miss Chestnut expects her church pupils to sit still and pay attention, just like she’s a real teacher. This was my second year in her middle-grade class, which is fifth and sixth graders. I figure she’s gonna give us a pop quiz on the entire Bible someday.

  Ole Lottie Fuhrman was in Sunday school for the first time in several weeks, and not a moment too soon, in my opinion. That girl could do with a good dose of church.