Golly, she’s right about that. “See you tomorrow.” And I take off pedaling, fast — much faster than Abigail — before she can yell any more “poor you”s.
Mrs. Underwood adjusts her mirrored sunglasses and stations herself at the chalk line, whistle at the ready. All day, I’ve been dreaming about running this driveway. I’m about to find out if I can make lightning strike twice or if yesterday’s run was nothing more than a fluke.
As soon as she lets the whistle fly, good and shrill, we’re off. Once again, most of the girls take off at full speed. Not me. Past the pothole, past the teachers’ parking lot, and past the first curve, I keep a steady clip going and watch while girls drop away like dogwood petals in a storm. Opposite the band room, a girl veers off into the grass and leans over, hands to knees. Lord a mercy, she’s saying good-bye to her lunch!
Missy and Phyllis have already slowed down to a Sunday stroll. This morning in homeroom, Phyllis slipped me a real invitation on the sly, like Missy isn’t supposed to know. So I guess I am going to the party after all.
Soon, the rest of the class is a far piece back. It’s down to Belinda, Angie, Connie, and me. When Connie sees me gaining, her eyes say, “Uh-oh.” We go stride for stride past the flagpole. I can tell Connie wants to beat me in the worst way. Everything’s long on Connie: her hair, her nose, her face, and, most important of all, her legs. So it’s a heck of a surprise that I can outrun her, but that’s what happens. Next, it’s adios to Angie.
Now that I’m alongside Belinda, the time for holding back is done. Our legs and arms pump like gangbusters. She’s breathing hard. I’m breathing hard. We push down the stretch to the last curve by the ball fields and back around toward the starting line. We’re nearly at our limit when Mrs. Underwood sees us and starts hollering. My body stretches for the finish, and although I get there first, there’s but a flea’s eyelash between Belinda and me.
Mrs. Underwood goes off like a rocket on the Fourth of July. “Good golly, Miss Molly, God bless America, and the good Lord be praised! I got me some runners for next year!” She dances like ants have invaded her pants. Belinda and I bust out laughing.
On the far side of the chalk line, we pace back and forth, giving our lungs a chance to catch up. She says, “Girl, you are fast.”
“So are you.”
“Next time, I’m gonna get you.” She grins at me.
I grin back. “Maybe, maybe not.”
She keeps smiling. “Don’t count your chickens.”
“You neither.” We’re all smiley. It’s like my mouth is stuck in a goofy grin and so is hers. I like her. I really do.
Angie strides in, heehawing about Mrs. Underwood and her shimmy.
“Come on, Lu, do a victory dance with us!” Belinda says.
I shake my head. “I’m no good at dancing.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she says.
But that’s not the real problem. What’s really got me worried is crossing over a line I’m not supposed to cross, if people see me getting friendly with Belinda and Angie. I’m already on the outs as it is, being Loser Olivera and all. Seems like I can’t be too careful.
Connie arrives and plunks herself on the curb, huffing for all she’s worth. She doesn’t look at us; instead, she runs the toe of her shoe along dandelions springing up from cracks in the cement. I don’t dare speak to anybody with that sulky a face.
At long last, here comes the rest of the gang, dragging their behinds across the finish. Some fire dirty looks our way. Abigail’s hobbling. I help her back inside the locker room, where she peels her socks off, and wouldn’t you know it: a blister the size of Texas.
Of all the things I could’ve gotten from Papá, why oh why did it have to be his hair and not something better, like one of umpteen things he’s good at? At Ochs’ Fine Jewels, where he works, he clips an eye loupe to his glasses and repairs busted-up watches, left and right. He engraves silver platters with the prettiest monograms you ever did see. He’s also really good at singing and playing the guitar. Me, I’m fumble fingers and can’t carry a tune except in my head. But look at my hair: I got his porcupine quills all right. Thanks a lot, Papá.
Tonight, I sit in front of the TV with a dripping head and a towel on my shoulders, sectioning my hair off with a rattail comb. Since it refuses to curl on its own, I have to slather each section with this setting gel called Dippity-do. Next, I roll up the Dippity-do’d strand in a foam curler. According to the package, foam is supposed to make the curlers comfy enough to sleep in, but that’s a lie.
Normally I wouldn’t go to all this trouble, but tomorrow’s the international club. It’s a big deal, and Marina and I are expected to dress like proper ladies. Mamá can’t stand how lots of the older girls show up looking va-va-voom, their hair teased up into bouffants and their false eyelashes going flutter-flutter. Some of the younger girls are just as glamorous, parading around in loud dresses and high-heeled shoes.
Even if Mamá would allow it, I’m not so swift in the glamour department. In fact, Abigail thinks I need an education, so she dumped her old issues of Groovy Gal on me. They’re full of beauty tips and advice on boys. Guess I ought to be studying those things like crazy, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.
The candidates are on TV tonight. When Governor Brewer comes on, explaining why everybody should vote for him, Papá soaks it up. “There’s a true statesman. He makes Alabama look good.” I think I know what Papá means. Alabama didn’t look so hot when George Wallace had it last. Black people had to fight for every little bitty thing, like the right to eat in restaurants and sit wherever they pleased at the movies, and Wallace did everything he could to stop them. That’s just plain wrong.
By the time Brewer finishes his spiel, my hair-rolling is done. I settle down on the couch, and our cat, Ringo, takes over my lap.
Just then, Wallace comes on, and Papá changes the channel lightning fast. “I’m not giving two seconds to that scoundrel. Let’s see what else is on.”
Fine by me — the news is a big snore anyway. The other channel is running the dumbest movie ever, Tarzan in the Valley of Gold, but the fake-looking stunts make Papá and me laugh.
When the movie finishes, Ringo is so cozy in my lap that I hate to budge. Next thing I know, I’m zooming around the school driveway. The crowd is on my side. Lu, Lu! Lu — Lu — Lu! With their feet going like thunder on the bleachers, it’s no wonder that I’m flying to the finish line in record time. Then Mamá shakes me awake. “Go to bed, hija. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“You look pretty!” Abigail says as she slides into the backseat next to me.
“So do you!” We’re both in fancy dresses, and our hair is rolled and sprayed till it can’t wobble or spring loose. International club, here we come!
With Papá behind the wheel of the Sampredos’ Cadillac, we head north. Next to Papá in the front seat, Mamá and Mrs. Sampredo yakety-yak in Spanish. Mamá says it’s a crying shame that Mr. Sampredo had to work tonight. Mrs. Sampredo says, “¡Sí, pues!”
The Sampredos are my parents’ best friends. There are no other foreigners in Red Grove besides our family and theirs. We’re the Argentines, and they’re the Cubans. Papá says Spanish is the Elmer’s glue that holds us together. Plus, we’re catty-corner neighbors that borrow eggs and sugar back and forth. Mamá and Mrs. Sampredo drive up to Saint Stanislaus Catholic Church for mass nearly every weekend, and Papá and Mr. Sampredo get together to watch boxing matches on TV.
In the English-only corner of the backseat, Abigail says, “See what I brought?” She pulls a small book covered in red leatherette out of her purse.
“What’s that for?”
“For addresses and phone numbers, in case I make new friends tonight.”
Jeepers. Never crossed my mind to get anybody’s address. I flip through the book and see entries for most of our white classmates. Under the Hs, there’s Phyllis Hartley, at 46 Pecan Orchard Drive, a house I know inside out.
I keep fl
ipping through the book. I, J, K, L, M … There’s a section labeled Mc, and Sam McCorkle’s address is the only one in it: 306 Periwinkle, which is right behind his father’s church. Of course, since it’s a boy’s house, I’ve seen it only from the outside.
The ride takes us through piney woods and teensy towns. I get the bright idea to start a game of road alphabet. Abigail nabs A off some billboard. I rack up a twofer with Berean Church (B and C). She picks up D for Dairy Fresh and tries to make a case for claiming the F, too, but I say no way. “E comes next, and you’re not allowed to skip letters.”
“Wait. You got two off Berean Church. That’s against the rules.”
“You’re making that up!”
“Am not!” We’re noisy as chickens. Marina is on the other side of me in the backseat, where she turns the pages of her French novel like we’re not even alive.
“Your sister’s such a brain,” Abigail whispers.
“I know, but let’s not tell her.”
Election signs have sprouted all over the roadside, like ugly weeds. Lieutenant governor. State treasurer. Judge this, judge that. Perfect for road alphabet.
“N for Norris!” I yell out. “O’Brien — that’s an O!”
Abigail shouts, “Pearson!”
Papá chuckles. “Girls, can you quiet down a little?”
We giggle and whisper our next few calls. Signs that say WALLACE are plastered all over, and we call for W at the same time.
Abigail yelps, “Do over!” Marina glances up from her book and shakes her head, which makes us giggle all the more.
“Welcome to the United Nations of Alabama!” Papá says, walking us through the door of the meeting hall. He’s looking snappy in a coat and tie and shiny shoes. He holds his guitar case in one hand and props the doors open with the other. Inside, flags from the nations of the world hang from the ceiling, fluttering in the breeze from the air-conditioning. There’s a stage with a microphone on a stand, and scads of tables and chairs lined up in front of it. Everywhere you look, boocoodles of people mill around, jabbering all at once in who knows how many languages. Mamá and Mrs. Sampredo get swallowed up in the crowd as they carry the dishes they made to the food tables. I hear a lady say, “Ooh, Claudia, are those your famous empanadas?” Empanadas are South American meat pastries that we always bring to the club.
Mamá answers, “¡Claro qué sí!”
I think Abigail’s mouth might be stuck in the open position. “I never knew there were so many foreigners in Alabama!” When we finally make it to the buffet line, she scoops some tandoori chicken, Swedish meatballs, and pad thai onto her plate. “Aw, shoot! Your mom’s empanadas are all gone!”
I spy Irina, a girl I usually hang around with at these meetings. She waves like mad. “Over here, Lu!” She’s sitting with a bunch of other kids our age. Abigail wastes no time introducing herself, and before you know it, that little red address book is making the rounds.
We’re finishing dinner when the microphone squeals to life. A man with a beard says, “May I have your attention, please?” He’s the club president, Mr. Chandar. People hush talking and turn to face him. “Continue eating, if you wish, while we start the talent show.”
First, a troupe of dancers from Thailand takes the stage. After that come singers, piano players, violinists, and a band of Greek musicians that gets us out of our seats dancing. I lock arms with Irina on one side and Abigail on the other, and we’ve got smiles plastered to our faces that won’t quit.
After a bunch more acts, Mr. Chandar is back at the microphone. “And now for a special treat. You know this performer very well. He and his lovely wife and daughters have been a part of this club for years. Please welcome our former club president, Francisco Olivera!”
When Papá pulls the microphone closer, my nerves go all a-tingle. He strums the opening chords, and a murmur starts up. It’s “Guantanamera,” a song everybody loves. His fingers pluck the guitar strings, and his shiny black shoes tap out the rhythm. The way the microphone sends his voice across that huge room — gosh, it makes my throat feel like a big ole egg’s stuck in it.
Abigail grabs my arm. “You never told me he could sing like that!”
Irina whispers, “Luuuuu, he sounds like a record!”
All I can do is nod and wipe my eyes.
Afterward, the grown-ups drink coffee and yak about boring stuff. Soon the hallway leading out from the meeting room is crammed with kids escaping to our own world. I hurry alongside Irina. “Did you bring your Yahtzee game?”
“Yep. And Clue and dominoes and two decks of cards.”
“Oh my gosh, this is the best fun I’ve had in ages!” Abigail squeals. She and a girl named Katya skip off down the hall together. Jeez Louise, how come I’m such a turtle at making friends?
We sixth-graders end up in Room 105. Somebody with a portable record player finds an outlet to plug it into, and after that the records never stop spinning. Since Marina and I play music day and night, I can sing along with most any song you care to name. I’m sort of in love with Van Morrison right now, on account of his song “Brown Eyed Girl.” It feels like he could be singing about me.
A group of us plop down on the floor for Yahtzee. I rattle the dice in the cup and throw a straight. When “Somebody to Love” by Jefferson Airplane comes on, one of the boys turns up the volume. It’s a cool song, but not really my thing. By the time I roll the dice again, a new one has started: “Stand!” by Sly and the Family Stone. Now we’re talking — this one is really far out, and lately, Spider’s been playing the ever-living mess out of it.
Just when it feels like we’re going to do nothing but play board games all night, somebody yells, “They’re about to race!” and my ears go boing, like antennae tracking a signal. Seems like I’m thinking about racing all the time these days. I run to see what’s going on, with Abigail and Irina right behind me.
Six boys are lined up out in the hall, which looks a mile long, with nothing but smooth, waxed floor between here and the wall of elevators at the very end. “On your marks, get set, go!” someone calls. The boys bolt out of there, arms and legs a-thrashing. Once they reach the wall, they spin back around toward the finish line. It’s all over in about fifteen seconds, and all of us watching go bananas screaming.
When the noise dies down, the kid in charge says, “Who wants to go in the next round?”
I pop up like a jack-in-the-box. “Me!” Don’t ask me how I got the nerve to do that — it sort of happened before my brain figured out where my mouth was headed.
Abigail’s eyes get huge. “Are you bonkers?”
The kid in charge says, “Nope, boys only.”
“How come? Why can’t girls race?” I ask. But nobody pays me any mind. I have to watch two more races before they give in and let me run. Then I kind of wonder if I am bonkers, because it’s me against three boys, all taller by bunches. At the word go, we tear out. Well, the boys tear out. Their sneakers make easy ground on the waxed linoleum, but my patent-leather shoes can’t get traction for love or money. I come in last. Dead last. The girls rush over to me, saying I was brave to try. But I don’t feel brave; I feel cruddy.
Abigail clucks at me. “Lu, don’t worry! You can’t be expected to win against boys! Come on, let’s go play cards.”
I shake my head. “I’m racing again.”
“Lu! You’ll only embarrass yourself.”
“But I have to try again! Don’t you get it?”
“Good grief, you’re impossible.”
Before the racers line up, I dash to the ladies’ room, where I kick off my shoes and peel off my pantyhose. Now, the way that my bare toes feel on the slick floor tells me it’s going to be different this time. Sure enough, at the word go, I take off like a bandit.
The hall’s a blur. White squares of linoleum whiz by under my bare feet, just like in my dreams. I touch the far wall, spin back around, and boogie for the finish, trailing the fastest boy by only a teensy bit. And in the end, I beat two b
oys. Two boys!
Cheers echo all over. Down the hall, doors fly open and younger kids pop their heads out to see what the dickens is going on. Guess I’m lost in a victory daze, because Abigail has to jerk on my sleeve to wake me up. “Your mother!” she hisses.
I whirl around, and there’s Mamá, parked on a shiny square of white floor, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes aiming a dagger right at my bare feet. “Lu, put your shoes on right away. We’re leaving. Now.”
It’s hot in the backseat and I’m begging for air. Abigail opens the window, but only a crack. “Your hair’s gone wacko,” she tells me. “Wind will only make it worse.” What could be worse than what’s already happened? It felt like a hundred pairs of eyes were on me when Mamá showed up.
Speaking of Mamá, she’s still fuming. Mrs. Sampredo turns partway around to shoot me a look that says, poor you. It’s Papá who opens his mouth. “Lu, I’m very surprised at you. You’re much too old for playing such childish games in public — and in your beautiful dress, which your mother worked so hard to sew for you!”
My face stings like all get out. At least he says this in Spanish, although I’m sure Abigail has no trouble figuring out that he’s scolding. She doesn’t dare say a word. She just squints in the dark at her little red book. Me, I run my fingers through my hair, yanking out hardened globs of Dippity-do. Stupid hair.
After a while, Papá, Marina, and Mrs. Sampredo break the silence and get to talking about politics, halfway in English, halfway in Spanish. The more they gab, the better I feel, because it’s lots better than icy quiet. Mrs. Sampredo has loads to say about the revolution in Cuba. Papá has loads to say about dictators in Argentina. And we already know about the bee in Marina’s bonnet: she’s dying to keep Wallace out of office.
Finally, Mamá stops fuming about my running long enough to speak up. “Please, hija,” she says to Marina. “People don’t like foreigners to meddle. Please don’t try to fix America’s problems!”
“I’m not trying to fix America’s problems,” says Marina. “Just Alabama’s!”
My Year in the Middle Page 3
