Little Miss Strange

by Joanna Rose

  Jimmy Henry picked up my oatmeal spoon and dug into the jar of honey. He scooped out a glob and ate it off the spoon.

  “Well,” he said. “As long as you have a reason.”

  The kettle started to jiggle, and I turned off the fire and poured hot water into my mug, into Jimmy Henry’s mug.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he said.

  “Ride where?” Lady Jane said. “I have to go to work.”

  Jimmy Henry said, “We’ll drop you off.”

  After Celestial Tea Palace Jimmy Henry turned around and drove Blackbird out Colfax Street, away from the mountains, past the parking lots and past some rows of little houses, past a trailer court, and then another, past the other highways turning away into the wide, flat places where there wasn’t anything. He drove with one hand and smoked a cigarette with his other hand.

  I said, “Who lives out here?”

  “Ranchers,” Jimmy Henry said. “I guess.”

  Riding along, Blackbird bumping smooth and fast, quiet under the noise of driving, warm dusty smell of gas and Blackbird’s heater. It felt like smoking marijuana.

  Jimmy Henry turned off the highway at the next road that came up, and we drove over that road, looking at the sun. Same as the other road, except there was the sun.

  A sign said DEER TRAIL—POPULATION 865.

  “Deer Trail?” I said.

  Little places started to come up out of the empty flat, trailers parked way off the road, houses with sheds and cars, a leaning barn right next to the road, and then a gas station, and signs. SAM’S HARDWARE. JB CAFE. FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH—ALL WELCOME. The houses got closer and closer to each other. Jimmy Henry slowed way down and we passed a sign that said DEER TRAIL ELKS CLUB WELCOMES YOU.

  I said, “Deer Trail Elks?”

  Jimmy Henry turned into the parking lot of the JB Cafe.

  We went in through the screen door, inside to cigarettes and coffee smell and fried smell. The waitress came over with the coffee pot in one hand and two mugs in her other hand, clinking.

  She said, “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Jimmy Henry said.

  The waitress set the mugs down.

  She said, “Coffee.”

  Jimmy Henry said, “Please.”

  I said, “Please.”

  She filled each mug with a dump of coffee perfectly to the top, and she said,

  “Breakfast?”

  Jimmy Henry looked at me. I looked at him, looked at the waitress, stiff hair twisted up on top of her head, pencil sticking out, glasses, skinny, yellow blouse. White apron with a pink stain. Behind her, on the counter, there was a glass case with donuts and pieces of pie on plates.

  “Can I have a donut?” I said.

  She said, “Donut?”

  “Please,” I said.

  “Sugar or glazed?” she said.

  I said, “Sugar?”

  Jimmy Henry said, “Two of them.”

  The waitress went back behind the counter, set the coffee pot back on its place, slid the back of the case open, one long smooth move. She took two sugar donuts out, two plates, one hand, slid the back of the case shut, back out from behind the counter, brought us the donuts.

  Jimmy Henry said, “Thanks.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  She took the pencil from behind her ear with one hand, took a little pad of paper from her apron pocket with her other hand, scribbled there, tore off the page and put it on the table. She stuck the pencil back behind her ear.

  She said, “Welcome.”

  She went back and sat at the counter. There was a newspaper open at the crossword puzzle.

  Jimmy Henry sat facing the window, and he stared past me, staring out, squares of windowlight in his eyes. I turned around and looked out where he was looking, an empty lot across the street, some wood buildings out past the empty lot. A pickup truck went by. I turned back around, and Jimmy Henry was looking at me, my eyes and his eyes, and his eyes crinkled into a smile for a second.

  “Welcome to Deer Trail, Colorado,” he said.

  “Why did we come here?” I said.

  He said, “Sugar donuts, I guess.”

  There was glitter of sugar in his beard, and gray in with the long light brown and darker brown.

  “You’ve got gray,” I said. “In your beard.”

  “Gray?” he said.

  “Well,” I said. “Gray and sugar.”

  The smile came back into his eyes, and was gone again, and he smoothed his hand down his beard.

  He said, “Who’d of thunk.”

  I said, “What?”

  He said, “Who ever would of thunk that I’d live long enough to get gray.”

  “How old are you?” I said.

  “Thirty-three,” he said. “End of the line for some guys.”

  “Some guys?” I said. “Huh?”

  “Jesus,” he said. “I guess that’s how old Jesus was.”

  “Jesus?” I said. “Were you Catholic?”

  “No,” he said. “Lady Jane was going on about some Jesus freak she used to know. I don’t usually think too much about Jesus. I remember he was thirty-three when he got crucified.”

  I said, “Do you remember Fern? From Free School? Lady Jane said she was a Jesus freak.”

  “No,” he said. “I kind of avoid Jesus freaks.”

  When we were done with coffee and sugar donuts we went back outside, out to Deer Trail. Past the JB Cafe there were some more buildings, and another road. Jimmy Henry and I walked along the broken sidewalk, dead grass edging into the cracks. Just walking. Past Sam’s Hardware. Past the Conoco station. There was a little store of junk, no sign with a name, but a sign that said OPEN.

  “Let’s go in here,” I said.

  I pushed open the door. It was cold inside, and it smelled like oil, like gas.

  A table right by the door was full of dishes, different plates, a leaning stack of bowls. Jelly jars. A row of Yogi Bear glasses, Yogi Bear running around each glass with a picnic basket, and his hat flying off his head. A counter, and a long shelf went back from the counter, a shelf with tools lined up. Jimmy Henry walked along the shelf of tools, his hands in his back pockets. Looking.

  A guy came out from somewhere behind everything, kind of an old guy. Wearing truckers.

  He said, “Morning.”

  Jimmy Henry said, “Morning.”

  I said, “Morning.”

  The clothes were over in a corner, old suit jackets, weird old dresses, all on hangers on a round rack. On top of the rack, sitting in the middle by itself, there was a brown hat. It was an old guy hat, kind of wide. It was a Walt Whitman hat. I tried the hat on, and it was too big, came down warm and soft over my ears, all around my head.

  “Mirror up here,” the guy said.

  I went up and looked into the little square of mirror hanging on the wall. A perfect Walt Whitman hat.

  “How much for this hat?” I said.

  The guy said, “How much you think?”

  I took the hat off and looked at it, at the curled edges of the wide brim, the soft brown wool, the leather band around the inside.

  I said, “Four dollars?”

  “Sounds fair,” the guy said.

  I put the hat back on my head and I gave the guy four dollar bills. Then I looked back in the mirror.

  “Buy a new hat?” Jimmy Henry said.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking at the side of my head as far as I could see in the mirror.

  “It’s just like Walt Whitman’s hat,” I said.

  Jimmy Henry said, “I guess I didn’t know Walt Whitman had a hat.”

  NO ONE was allowed to wear a hat in school, which was a school rule. No hats between the third bell in the morning and the last bell of the afternoon. I kept my Walt Whitman hat in my locker, on top of my stack of books.

  Marcia Henson said, “What is that?”

  “It’s a hat,” I said.

  Marcia Henson said, “Tss.”

  Marcia Henson liked to say
words that were really just sounds.

  Sometimes she said, “Ka.”

  Sometimes she said, “Ffuh.”

  When Marcia Henson said sounds, the sounds always meant the same thing.

  I said, “This is a hat just like Walt Whitman wore.”

  Marcia Henson said, “Puh,” shaking her head, walking away.

  Talia came up to my locker. She kind of leaned on the open door and she said,

  “Where’s Elle?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Late, I guess.”

  “Nice hat,” she said.

  I said, “It’s a Walt Whitman hat.”

  Talia said, “Who?”

  “Walt Whitman,” I said. “Leaves of Grass.”

  Talia leaned close to me.

  She said, “Want to buy a lid?”

  I leaned close by Talia and I said, “Not that kind of grass. He was a poet.”

  “Who?” she said.

  “Walt Whitman,” I said.

  She said, “Well, if you do, let me know.”

  I said, “Do what?”

  “Want a lid,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” she said. “Okay you want one?”

  “Well, okay,” I said.

  “I’ll see you after school?” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  After the last bell, at my locker, Talia was there, and Elle was there.

  Elle said, “Let’s go over your house.”

  “My house?” I said.

  “Get high,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There might be somebody there.”

  I stacked up my books, took out my English book, my math book. I put on my Walt Whitman hat.

  “I have to go to Someone’s Beloved Threads,” I said.

  “You never want to do anything anymore,” Elle said. “And that is really a weird hat.”

  Talia said, “I kind of like that hat.”

  Elle said, “You do?”

  I shut my locker door.

  I said, “This is a very cool hat.”

  We went outside the school, and when we got out to the sidewalk, Talia said, “So, you want one of these lids?”

  I said, “Okay.”

  She walked next to me on the sidewalk, close, and then she put her hand into the outside pocket of my jacket, and then she stepped away, leaving the soft whispery plastic baggie in there.

  “Ten bucks,” she said.

  I got two of my five-dollar bills out of my inside jacket pocket and gave them to her, folded, secret, into her hand.

  “Cool,” she said.

  Elle said, “So, are we going to go get high or what?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have math homework. I can’t be high for math homework.”

  Elle lit a cigarette, and she walked on the sidewalk in her cowboy boots, and I walked behind her. Talia walked next to me.

  Talia said, “Where did you get that hat?”

  “At the Deer Trail store,” I said.

  She said, “Deer Trail?”

  “Deer Trail,” I said. “It’s some little town.”

  She said, “Can I try it on?”

  Elle flipped her cigarette out into the street and jammed her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket.

  “Maybe some other time,” I said. “You need a mirror to try on a hat anyway.” When we got to Colfax Street Elle said,

  “Let’s go try on some lip gloss.”

  I said, “Lip gloss?”

  “Lip gloss,” Elle said.

  She said, “See you later.”

  Talia said, “See you later, Sarajean.”

  They turned up Colfax Street together, away from Someone’s Beloved Threads, Elle right next to Talia on the sidewalk, talking to her.

  JFK CAME into Someone’s Beloved Threads, and I said, “What are you doing here?”

  He said, “Jeez, Sarajean, I came to see you.”

  Constanzia catnapped.

  My math homework was spread out all over the counter, and JFK leaned across my papers.

  “I still got that pipe,” he whispered.

  “Well, we can’t do it in here,” I said.

  “Maybe after,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hey, get your elbows off there, I have to hand that in.”

  “What time?” he said.

  He picked up the paper and smoothed out where he had wrinkled it up.

  “Six,” I said.

  He giggled. He gave me the peace sign, and he kind of scooted out the door.

  “What a weirdo,” I said, and Constanzia nodded in her catnap.

  He came back at six, and I met him outside after I turned the sign around.

  “So, you work there all the time now, huh?” he said.

  “Where should we go?” I said.

  “My house?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  I didn’t say stinky orange rugs. I didn’t say baby pictures.

  “It’s not too cold out,” I said, “It’s getting kind of like spring. Let’s go in the alley.”

  We got into a corner of a dumpster and the brick back of a building, and I pinched some of my new marijuana into the little pipe.

  He watched me.

  He said, “Got a lid, huh?”

  JFK faced the corner, out of the wind, and he lit the pipe. He held his breath and handed the pipe to me. It took four matches before I got the hot marijuana taste going down my throat.

  I said, “So, how about if I keep this pipe for a while?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Want to smoke some more first? Or, maybe want to give me a little bud or two to take home with me?”

  We walked up into the next alley, by the back doors of buildings, three dumpsters, a stack of wet magazines all tipped over.

  “Wow,” JFK said. “Look at that.”

  One of the wet magazines was lying open, out in the middle of the alley, and the picture was open to the streetlight shining on there. It was a picture of two naked women, and one of the women was lying on her back with her legs wide apart. She had her hands on her own breasts, long red fingernails. The other woman was kneeling next to her, putting her one hand’s fingers in there, in between the other woman’s spread-apart legs, and her other hand on her own butt. Long red fingernails.

  JFK said, “God damn.”

  He said, “They’re doing it to each other.”

  “Lesbian,” I said.

  My voice was a shaky whisper, and I cleared my throat and I said it again.

  “Lesbian.”

  I said, “Come on, quit staring like that.”

  I started walking down the alley, and JFK caught up.

  He said, “Wow.”

  “Quit saying wow,” I said.

  We crossed Thompson Street.

  He said, “So that’s how lesbians do it, huh?”

  “How should I know?” I said. “I don’t care.”

  Long red fingernails. Up in there.

  “Come on,” I said.

  It came out in a whisper.

  “Come on,” I said, louder, not a whisper. “This pipe won’t stay lit.”

  We walked back out on Seventeenth Avenue.

  “So how come you work at that place all the time?” JFK said, looking backward toward the alley still.

  “I’m saving my money,” I said. “I might save it for a sewing machine.”

  “Are you going to work there this summer, like all summer?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Look, where are we going?”

  “I go visit my grandma in the summer,” he said. “She lives up in the mountains. I go there for the whole summer.”

  “What about your mom?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “She has to work. She comes up when she gets two days in a row off. Estes Park.”

  “Why do you go there?” I said. “What do you do all day?”

  “Go fishing and stuff,” he said. “Hang out. I go up there o
n the bus.”

  “There’s nothing to do up there,” I said. “There’s nothing but rocks. I’m going to work all summer.”

  “And hang out and wear makeup?” JFK said in a singy voice.

  “I don’t wear makeup,” I said.

  “Lalena does,” he said. “You can see where it stops on her chin, where it’s a different color from her neck.”

  “Elle,” I said. “You’re supposed to say Elle.”

  “And Talia,” he said. “Talia puts on lips like a movie star. Big shiny pink movie star lips.”

  He smooched out his lips, and I tried not to laugh, and I had to start laughing anyway.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Is Lalena your best friend?” he said.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  At Lady Jane’s house, Lady Jane was out on her front steps, standing there by a big box. There was another box, a smaller one, already taking up the second step.

  JFK and I both said “hi” at the same time.

  Lady Jane stood up straight, and she rubbed at her back.

  “Hi, you guys,” she said.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Well,” she said.

  She said, “It’s some dishes.”

  She sat down on the top step.

  “I’m going to rent Tina Blue’s apartment,” she said.

  “The painted apartment,” I said.

  “Well,” Lady Jane said. “Yeah.”

  She tugged up the leg of her blue jeans and pulled her kneesock back up to her knee.

  “The landlady told Jimmy Henry to see if he can rent it,” she said.

  Red kneesocks with yellow stars on the side.

  “He’s going to get the electric turned on tomorrow,” she said. “He couldn’t find the key. I haven’t been in there yet.”

  She pulled the blue-jeans leg back down over her kneesock.

  She said, “It’s been like eight years.”

  “Better me than some stranger,” she said.

  “Sarajean?” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  JFK said, “Want me to help you carry some stuff?”

  He picked up a box from the second step.

  “Careful,” Lady Jane said. “The elephant teapot.”

  “I have to go,” I said. “I forgot my math homework at Constanzia’s. I have to go get it.”

  “Here,” JFK said. “Here, I’ll carry that other box instead.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Jimmy Henry’s coming over with his truck.”

  I turned and ran up the sidewalk.