My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  When I get to the store, my worst prediction has come true: Dearfoams bedroom slippers in Mamá’s size are gone, sold out! Didn’t I tell Marina this would happen? Now I’ve got to figure out something else to get. Sure, there are other slippers, but they’re not as nice as the ones Marina and I decided on. I roam the store looking for other ideas. There are Mother’s Day displays everywhere — fondue pots, spray colognes, lacy handkerchiefs with fancy monograms — but nothing seems right for Mamá. After tearing around in a tizzy, I circle back to the shoe department. One of these other brands of slippers will have to do. I look high and low and finally find a pair in baby blue, size six. At least they’re on sale.

  Now for Phyllis’s gift. A saleslady asks, “Can I help you find something, hon?” I explain that I need a birthday gift for a girl my age. “Oh, we’ve got scads of stuff for girls.” Her syrupy smile makes her eyes crinkle. “I’d start in the accessories department.”

  In the hats and scarves section, two ladies are at the mirror, trying on beach hats. Sixth-graders don’t wear stuff like that. Scarves neither. This is old-people stuff.

  When you get down to it, everything about Landon’s is old-timey. The floor is made of planks that go creak. The ceilings are about twenty feet high, and the light fixtures that hang from them are dim on account of forty years’ worth of dust. And Mr. Landon, who I’ve seen wandering the aisles sometimes, fits right into this place. He’s somewhere around two hundred, and a stiff wind could blow him clear to the next county.

  Somebody taps my shoulder. “Hi, you.” It’s Belinda. She’s carrying a blue shopping bag that could only be from Myron’s, the bookstore.

  “Hi, yourself. What you got there, more books?”

  “It’s a Mother’s Day present. My mom, she eats up books.” I guess that’s where Belinda gets it from.

  “So does my sister.”

  Belinda cocks her head at me. “So what’re you doing here?”

  “I just paid for my mom’s gift. Now I’m looking for a birthday present for a girl our age. There’s this party I have to go to.”

  Belinda lifts an eyebrow. “Weird! I never heard of having to go to a party.”

  “It’s for somebody that’s kind of a friend and kind of not. I better not say who, but I need something extra good.” I’m not about to explain to Belinda what’s been going on with Phyllis, Missy, and Loser Olivera. Or blab about a party she’s not even invited to!

  Belinda doesn’t ask any more questions about that. “Well, earrings are always cool. Does she have pierced ears?”

  After searching the jewelry racks, we decide there’s not a pair of cute earrings in this store. Or bracelets. Or necklaces. In the bargain bins, though, we dig up a plastic wallet with zippered compartments. It’s hot pink, very mod, and just what I’d love for myself. But then I notice a tear in the plastic — dang it!

  A few minutes later, Belinda comes up with a green purse made of imitation alligator hide. It has a long, adjustable strap and silvery buckles. “Ooh, let me see that!” I sling the strap over my shoulder and twirl around a couple of times. This will do it. This is the perfect gift!

  But then I check the price tag. Rats! The purse isn’t on sale, and I don’t have enough money.

  Belinda can see from my face what the problem is. “Come on, Peewee. Don’t get mopey on me.” She shoves me in the direction of hair accessories. There are two revolving racks loaded with barrettes, combs, ponytail holders, and headbands. “We’re going to find something here — I just know it,” she says.

  And bingo, there it is: a headband that matches the alligator-hide purse to a T!

  We’re both smitten. Belinda even says, “Mind if I try it on?” She wiggles her ponytail holder off and lets her hair loose, then smooths it down with both hands. Then she slips the headband around her neck and cinches it to the top of her hairdo. I peek from behind while she checks herself in the mirror.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s beautiful on you!”

  “This is for Phyllis, isn’t it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You said she was a kind-of friend. You want her back on your side, don’t you?” She slips the headband off and hands it to me. “Get both of them — the purse, too. I’ll loan you money.”

  “Nooooo, I can’t let you do that!”

  “You can’t stop me.” She stuffs a five-dollar bill in my pocket. I whip it out and stuff it in her pocket. With grins on our faces, we “squabble” for a few minutes until I give in. I’m counting on there being enough quarters in my piggy bank to pay her back, although it might take extra chores and a loan from Marina, too. But when Phyllis sees this gift, it’ll be worth it.

  On our way to the cash register, we pass the misses’ dress department, where I spot two prissy mannequins wearing summery dresses and holding straw purses. One of them has a reddish-brown wig styled in a flip. “Does she remind you of Miss Garrett?” I ask.

  “Sure does,” Belinda says. But then she takes a closer look. “What’s wrong with her hands? The fingertips are all crumbly!”

  “Something’s been chewing on them. I bet rats are all over this store, come nighttime.”

  “Eww! I hope not!”

  “Nah, they’re just old as dirt, like the rest of this store,” I say. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” I lead her over to a display of gloves. We sneak two pairs back to the mannequins. No saleslady or customer is looking in our direction — we make sure of that. I slip a pair of Sunday whites on one mannequin’s hands, while Belinda puts long, silky evening gloves on “Miss Garrett.” We giggle nonstop.

  Soon, Mr. Landon’s rickety voice comes over the PA system: “The store is closing in ten minutes.”

  “Oops, better go pay for your stuff,” Belinda says.

  I hurry toward the cash register and set the headband and purse on the counter. It’s the same saleslady as before, only now her syrupy smile is wiped clean off. “Well, well. I’ve been standing here waiting for you.” Heart attack! She saw us with the mannequins! But she jerks a thumb toward Belinda, who’s poking around in a rack of pantsuits. “Is that her? The one you’re buying this headband for?”

  “No, ma’am. She just helped me pick it out. Why?” I chew my lip.

  “She tried it on, that’s why. Stuck it on her head. I was watching y’all.” The way she holds the headband by the edges, you’d think it was a snake. Oh, Lord, I’m finally catching on, and it’s a scary, sinking feeling, like quicksand under my feet. She flings the headband into a shopping bag. “If I was you, I wouldn’t give it to nobody else after she wore it. But you do as you will.”

  My heart hammers. How can anybody on God’s green earth be so mean? “Ma’am?” I hear myself say, in a teensy, breathless voice. The lady barely glances up, and somehow, much to my surprise, I keep going, because this is my friend she’s talking so mean about. “Excuse me, ma’am, but that’s kind of — uh — rude.”

  “I beg your pardon!” She slams the drawer of the cash register. “The store is closed,” she says in a loud, irritated voice.

  Belinda is too far away to hear anything — or at least I hope she is. I make like a bullet for the door. Out on the sidewalk, Belinda jerks me to a stop. “What was that woman saying?”

  “Nothing.” My ears go thrum-thrum with a sped-up pulse.

  “Didn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me.”

  I shrug. “She was crabby because of … Mr. Landon.”

  Belinda narrows her eyes at me. “Humph. I could’ve sworn …”

  “Thanks for the loan — you’re a lifesaver! I’ll pay you back on Monday.” I pray my chirpy voice will squeeze a smile out of her, but no such luck. Golly bum, I hope she’s not mad at me now.

  Marina is in the kitchen, stapling flyers. In a furious whisper, she says, “What in the thunder took you so long? I was at the point of calling Papá!”

  “What for? I was shopping, like you asked me to!”

  “You took forever! I have enough on my mind withou
t having to worry about you.”

  “Jeez, you’re not my mother!” The nerve of her to send me on a shopping trip and now give me a hard time about it!

  “Shh, keep your voice down. Mamá has a bad headache.”

  “Oops. I forgot.”

  She glances at the kitchen clock. “They’re expecting me at the campaign. It’s going to be another long night.”

  “How come?”

  “Because every voter in the county needs to be contacted before the runoff.” And here I thought she might be giving up on Brewer after the antiwar protest, but I’m sure she can’t forget that Wallace is far worse. She sets the stapler down. “Let me see the slippers.”

  “Okay, but the Dearfoams were all gone.” I’m suddenly nervous that she won’t like the ones I picked out.

  And I’m right. When she opens the shoe box, her face falls. “Oh, Lu, what happened?”

  “They sold out! I had to get a different kind!”

  She slaps a hand to her forehead. “Now I’ve got to come up with something else for Mother’s Day!”

  “Are you kidding me? There’s no more money!”

  “No, I’m not kidding! These are El Cheapos! If you want to give them to her, be my guest, but leave me out of it.” Boy, she sounds like she could bite somebody’s head off. Now I feel like bawling my eyes out. She shoves the stapled flyers into a tote bag, and I blink back tears.

  After a long sigh, Marina says, “Lu, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. No excuse, but I’ve had a horrible day.”

  “That’s okay. Mine was sort of horrible, too.” I’d like to tell her about Belinda and the saleslady, but I stop myself. She’d throw a conniption fit about justice and stuff. “Go ahead. I’ll check on Mamá while you’re gone.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. Thanks, Lu.”

  After she leaves, a stack of mail catches my eye. Along with the ho-hum stuff, there’s an unopened letter from Argentina, addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting. Strange that Mamá didn’t rip it open the second it arrived. I tiptoe to the master bedroom and listen at the door. I knock softly and push it ajar. Mamá’s stretched out on the bed with a towel covering her eyes and an ice bag on her forehead. She reaches for my hand. “Mi amor,” she whispers.

  “Hi, Mamá. Are you going to be okay?” She nods and pats my hand. “Here’s a letter from Abuelita,” I add. “You didn’t open it.”

  “My eyes hurt too much. Will you read it to me?” It’s slow going because I’m not so good at reading Spanish, but it’s nice to hear all the things Abuelita writes about our cousins and aunts and uncles. She even mentions her little dog, Fifi, who goes to the market with her every morning. Mamá interrupts my reading. “I don’t know what you’ll eat for supper.”

  “We’ll manage. Just stay here and rest.” I prop the letter on her dresser.

  “I can’t rest much longer. The dress …” Her eyes go to the closet, where the wedding dress hangs, zipped up in a garment bag. Today no sewing got done, and the deadline is getting close.

  Pobre Mami. Her rosary is on the dresser, hanging from a pedestal. I unhook it and slip it into her hand. “Maybe you need this.”

  She smiles. It’s just a tiny smile, but it makes me feel better.

  In the kitchen, the appliances stare at me with cold steel faces. I’m starving, and nobody is fixing supper. There’s a tub of pimento cheese in a back corner of the refrigerator, begging for somebody to notice it. Your wish is granted, pimento cheese. I slop spoonfuls of it on crackers.

  An hour later, I’m at the kitchen table fiddling with my corkboard when Papá comes in, carrying a bucket of fried chicken and a bag from the pharmacy. It’s Mamá’s medicine.

  “What a day! Seems like the whole town needed something repaired.” He sets the bags down and loosens his tie. “Want some chicken? There’s mashed potatoes and coleslaw, too.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not that hungry.”

  He pauses to get a better look at the corkboard. “What’s this? Something for school?”

  “No, sir, this is just — I don’t know — stuff I like.”

  “Oh? In that case, let’s see what kind of stuff Lu likes.” I feel a blush coming on. He chuckles at a crinkled picture of Van Morrison that I stuck on the board. It’s the only one of him I could find, in a beat-up magazine Marina was throwing out. Then the sports-page clipping catches his eye. “Ah, Madeline Manning. I’d forgotten all about her.”

  “She got a gold at the Olympics.”

  “I know, but I’m amazed you remember her, after all this time.”

  “I really like running, that’s why.”

  “Well, you’ve got a mighty long wait till the next Olympics comes on TV — two years.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Papá …” I’m trying to figure out how to say it, that it’s not only watching track events that I care about, it’s doing it, for real, with my feet, not just my eyes. But all at once, it feels like a whole bunch of nervous bees let loose inside my head. All I can think about is how stern Papá got the night they caught me racing at the international club, even though that’s not how his eyes look right now. “I mean, you know — I like doing running — me.”

  “Is that a fact? Let me take these pills to your mother. We can talk about it later.” After he leaves, the nervous bees start to settle down a little, figuring Papá will be back in a few minutes to talk. But a long time goes by without the door opening at all. Maybe Mamá is feeling worse. That gets the bees stirred up again. Scary bees.

  And to think, all I got her were some stupid El Cheapos.

  At the playground, Belinda and I stow our bikes in the azaleas and start our Saturday run. The toughest part is the big bad hill. Every time I tackle it, my leg muscles moan and groan and my ticker pounds like it’s going out of style. But we can’t slack off. Field Day is coming.

  “I bet the girls”— huff huff —“from County aren’t”— huff huff —“running up hills,” Belinda says. Every time we reach the top, we walk in circles to catch our breath. A few minutes later, off we go, down the hill and back up.

  Afterward, we’re a couple of good-for-nothing rag dolls who flop down on our behineys on the playground swings. We laugh at squirrels that chase each other around tree trunks and dive from one branch to the next.

  Then Belinda says, “Hey, I want to show you where I like to go sometimes.”

  “Okay!” I don’t even ask where.

  We hop on our bikes and start pedaling. She leads me to the end of the street, where we hook a left. A bunch of corners later, we’re in a part of town I’ve never seen. We pass a beauty salon, a church, a fruit stand, and a corner grocery mart. I follow her through a neighborhood of pink, blue, and yellow houses, where every person on the sidewalk or standing in a yard with a garden hose is black. They wave at us. We wave back. I’m beaming because nobody here seems to think it’s strange that two girls, one black and one not, would ride bikes together.

  Finally, we come to a big sign that arches over the road. It says OAKWOOD CEMETERY. We drop our bikes by the gatepost and head down the gravel driveway on foot. There are graves all around, but in the plain sunshine, it’s not scary at all — it’s like a park full of beautiful trees. Belinda skips. I skip behind her. Ahead, there’s a tunnel of oak trees that begs for girls like us to run through it. So we do. When we reach the farthest point, we’re in a shady cave made of leaves. Birds twitter over our heads, and the smell of honeysuckle is thick as can be. “Gosh, it feels like heaven in here!” I say.

  Belinda’s grinning. “I knew you’d like it! Come here, let me show you my favorite part.” We reach a park bench tucked under a tall cedar. “This is where I go to read a book sometimes.”

  “I hope birds don’t doo-doo on you.”

  “Don’t jinx it, Peewee.”

  Then I remember what Marina said about Belinda. “My sister said to bring you by the house. She’s got some books you can borrow.” I’m sure it’s okay to invite her because Mamá
woke up feeling all better today.

  “Cool!”

  We lollygag for the longest time, plucking the ripest honeysuckle blooms we can find and slurping up their tiny drops of sweetness. I decide to tell her about the invitation with “Loser” written on it. She tells me about a friend that did her dirty. I ask her if she likes anybody special, and she says sort of, but he lives in Montgomery and she hasn’t seen him since Christmas. “You like somebody, don’t you?” she says.

  “A little bit.”

  “Well, pretty soon, it’s going to be a lot!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ha, wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she locks her lips with an invisible key and folds her arms across her chest. Begging doesn’t work, so I throw acorns at her, but all she does is laugh. We run in circles through bushes and graves, pelting each other with berries and pinecones, till my shirt’s sticking to my back and my throat’s parched like nobody’s business.

  “Want to go to Handy’s for soda and a snack?”

  “Good thinking, Peewee.” It being Saturday, most stores close at noon, but Handy’s is open all day long. After we get our snacks, we prop our bikes against a lamppost and stroll down the empty streets, mostly window-shopping. By the time we’ve finished our Dr Peppers, she’s got half of her candied peanuts left and I’ve got half of my Junior Mints. We swap candies and park ourselves on the steps of the courthouse. The bronze Confederate soldiers on the lawn don’t seem to care that we’re friends, but two old geezers passing by give us nasty looks.

  “I hate when people do that,” I say.

  Belinda eyes me. “Like that saleslady?”

  Uh-oh. I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. “You heard what she said?”

  “Not really, but now you’re going to tell me.”

  “I didn’t want you to hear it!”

  “Tell me,” she says. “Now, Peewee. Now.” Yesterday on the sidewalk in front of Landon’s, her eyes had fiery little sparks in them, and now those sparks are back. So I tell her. She says, “That’s what I figured. Exactly what I figured. I’m never going back to that store.”