by Gina Calanni
“Yes, Sahara. Now let’s get you packed up. When does that training class start again?”
“Um… on Monday. Yes, Monday morning at eight a.m.”
“Well, what are you standing still for? You’ve got more things to do than Aunt Biddy on the first day of spring and she’s canning up her vegetables for the winter. Get to it now.”
I take in a deep breath. The blood in my brain is rushing around. Like I just finished a race. But in reality it’s because I’m actually doing this. I’m leaving, and my mama is putting forth an effort to help me.
I skedaddle out of the room with the suitcase in my hand. I dig through my closet and begin filling up the case with all the outfits I think I’ll need – which is basically everything I own. Because I don’t have an armoire full of clothes, or a wardrobe, or anything fancy like that. I head back to my mama’s room. She’s got out her handkerchief and is dabbing under her eye.
“You all right, Mama?”
“Yes, of course. You done packing?”
“I was wondering if I could take the bluebonnet bell with me?” I didn’t get it from the living room where it’s sat my entire life because I didn’t want to jinx it by touching it or moving it.
“The bluebonnet bell?” My mama gasps as if I had asked if I could hitch our trailer to the back of my car and take it with me. It’s just a ceramic bell and, though it isn’t worth much, it’s something I’ve always treasured. It’s something I see like a good luck charm, in a way. Whenever I had a big test at school I would swish by it real fast and blink my eyes and sure enough I always passed my test with flying colors.
“No, Sahara, that stays with the house. If you want a bluebonnet bell you’re going to have to earn that on your own.” My mama shakes her head and pushes past me. We’re still in the same house but it seems like there are already miles and miles between us. What will it be like when I’m really gone?
Ms. Fish, that’s my manager at Dairy Queen – well, my former manager’s name – is not exactly excited to see me say goodbye. She pretends to ignore me for the first part of our conversation and then goes into the freezer and hits the sides of the ice-cream containers for at least two minutes. When she returns she takes in a deep breath and plasters a smile across her face. I nod in response, not knowing exactly what I should do except get on with this moment.
It always seemed odd to have the name Fish in an ice-cream place but she usually joked it off, saying she was a cold fish about everything except being successful. Ms. Fish would make sure a Blizzard was offered to every single customer or you would be on her Space List. She always said you could be on two lists at her store: the Fish List where you were doing everything right and were invited to the weekly fish fry (this happened on Saturday nights at her house), or the Space List. Her first name is Hailey. Of course, I would never call her by that out of respect, but it leads to her Space List like Hailey’s Comet. Every so often she would explain about Hailey’s Comet and how often it appeared and why it wasn’t the list you would want to be on. If you were on her Space List this meant you were not invited to the fish fry and the only type of annual bonus you would receive was an extra dollop of whatever you chose during our yearly meeting. Whenever she explained this to newbies, she would laugh and say that just because she spent all day in a freezer didn’t mean she was without a warm heart.
After I say goodbye to everyone at Dairy Queen I head back home to face another freezer. My mama. She has been frosty ever since I told her my news. I make my way through the house and eye my suitcase. Everything I own has been stuffed into the suitcase my mama offered to me. It had seemed so big at first and then very, very small as I zipped it up. My entire life being pushed into this vinyl case. Clothes, a few books, and zero trinkets. Not a one. I’m still bothered my mama wouldn’t let me take the bluebonnet bell. But it is what it is. There is no going back.
“Oh, well, for Pete’s sake, Sahara, that is not how you pack a suitcase. Haven’t you learned anything from me?” My mama tsks and begins dumping out my clothes and rolling them up and repacking everything. To be fair, this is the first suitcase I’ve ever packed, given that I’ve never been anywhere other than to spend the night at my friend Rachel’s house. And that was for only one night and I used my school book bag.
“All right now, there, you’re officially packed. So off you go. You best get a move on. You don’t want to be late for dinner or be driving in the dark. Heaven forbid you might get one of them flat tires or some other issues with that ridiculous contraption out front.” My mama shakes her head and taps her foot.
Poor Rontu would not appreciate these words from my mama. I know he is only a car and all, but still, it seems like he is more than a car to me. We’ve been through a lot together. He afforded me some independence to stretch my wings and make it to Dairy Queen on my own without asking anyone for a ride. Now he’s taking me out of this small town and out of the reach of my mama. My chest tightens. There is a tiny part of me that doesn’t want to leave my mama. But it’s not like I’m crossing state borders. Just a few hours’ drive away. We’ll still be under the same stars. But I’d best do like my mama says and get a move on as I don’t want to have a car failure on a long stretch of open Texas highway at night. The roads I’ll be traveling are barren. I know this for sure. There isn’t much between Mexia and Riverton. I’ve got to go.
“All right, Mama. I suppose this is goodbye for now.” I open my arms, expecting a hug in return but my mama pushes past me.
“Let me get the door for you. I suppose you’re looking for that kind of life where people open the doors for you. So let me go ahead and give you a taste of that.” My mama opens the door to our trailer and the Texas sun does not warm up the room. It’s cold. Colder than an ice-cream freezer. I rub my arms for a second, to give myself the courage to take the next step and move forward. This is it. I’m leaving. My mama wants me to go… without a hug. A lump forms in the back of my throat like a big iceberg that is cutting against my air tubes. I’m trying to breathe and move forward and hold back any kind of tears as I pass through our home. My home. But I’m moving on. I’m moving forward. I am. Onward and upward. I’m not going to cry. I need to be strong and show my mama that I can do this. I pass by her and our eyes meet. She presses her lips together and nods toward the car.
“All right, I’ll call you when I get there.”
“I might not be home. Got some appointments of my own to tend to tonight. But I suppose you can leave a message on that contraption you bought. If it’s even working.” She shrugs.
“I can go check and make sure.” I stop and put my suitcase down on the porch.
“No, Sahara. That won’t be necessary.” My mama shakes her head at me and I pick the suitcase back up and put it in the back seat. I stop once more and stare back at my mama. Her arms are crossed over her chest. She has on her nicest house coat. It’s hanging just above her calves. It doesn’t sway with the light breeze. It stands still just like my mama. No emotion. No sadness, no sorrow. No nothing.
I slide into the seat. It’s almost as though Rontu wants to hug me and tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m going to be okay and to go ahead and start the engine and this trip up. I glance in the rearview mirror. My mama is nowhere in sight. She is gone. Not even going to watch me drive away from the porch.
The sun isn’t setting in the distance but it sure is setting on the park – not like a playground park; I mean the trailer park – as I edge off the gravel and little chunks flick up behind Rontu. We make it onto paved road and I’m steering us further down the road. We’re leaving Mexia. I’m leaving. I’m leaving my mama and everything I’ve ever known. I’m driving past trees and fields and things I’ve never seen before because I’ve never left the city limits before. There was never a reason to, especially not after the Target was built, but now I’m past the county line. The further I travel, a bit more of the sadness lifts off my skin. I wish my mama would have given me a proper goodbye but maybe that’s just
not the way to handle things. Maybe the way she did it is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe she’s right. But if I were in her place I think I would break those rules and give my daughter a real hug goodbye. A little tear slips from my eye. Nope, don’t do it, Sahara. You’re about to be a professional. Showing up at Ms. Myra’s house has got to be a hundred percent professional. No tears. No silly emotions. Be a straight shooter, a yes mam, and get things done.
Yes, this is the new Sahara. The one that takes care of things. The one that reaches for the stars and builds the space ship to make it happen. I did it. I found out about Eagle Online. Listened to the fancy commercial and filled out all the forms online. I did that. No one else. And now look at me, en route to my new career. My new life. My new everything.
Chapter Two
I check my instructions once more to make sure this is the right spot. The house is bigger than our trailer. It looks like one of those storybook kinds of houses with some pretty green bushes out front and a tree plonked right dead gum center in the yard. There are little colorful flowers peeking out from every nook and cranny. This sure does look like a nice place to live. I hope Ms. Myra is okay about my being here. Given it was last minute and all.
I knock on the door and it swings wide open. The lady in the doorway has a grin bigger than the one my daddy used to wear on payday. Her hair is parted to the side and it reminds me of a sunset at the end of summer when I was wanting to stay out later and wait for the fireflies to pop up. But I wouldn’t even need to wait for the fireflies to pop up here. Ms. Myra’s eyes are sparkling like firecrackers.
“Hi, Ms. Myra?” I reach out my hand to shake and she pulls me in and hugs me into a deep embrace. And my heart flips over inside of my body. Wow. Little butterflies of happiness sail around in my arms. This woman sure does know how to hug and we haven’t even met before.
She pats down my hair. “Well, Sahara. You have grown into such a beautiful young woman.” Her smile softens for a second. “I mean, well, your mama would send me a school photo from time to time.” Ms. Myra focuses on the ends of my hair. “It’s just been a while since I’ve gotten one.”
“Oh, wow. That’s nice to hear.” I feel sillier than the day I showed up to school with my pajama bottoms on instead of pants like everyone else. I made it all the way to school without realizing I had my gingerbread cookie pj’s on. It only took another silly Sahara move a few months later to replace the name of Sahara Cookie to Sahara Sundae.
“Yes, well, come on in now. Let’s get you settled.” Ms. Myra reaches for my bag but I don’t release it. I know manners are manners but I’m younger. I should be carrying my own bags.
“Thank you, Ms. Myra. I can carry it.”
“I suppose my hands aren’t what they used to be.” She waves me into her house and takes a deep breath. “So this is the living room area. Your room is right this way.”
I follow behind her down a small hallway and take a right into a bedroom comparable to the one I had back at home. A single bed is laid out with a purple bedspread and some sort of crochet or yarn blanket over the end of it. Along with fluffy pink pillows held together by a big lacey bow. It’s so pretty.
“This is really nice. Thank you for taking me in. With the short notice and all.” I lay my suitcase down on the bed and take in Ms. Myra. She appears a bit older than my mama but much thinner. Not in a work-out-too-much way. But in a frailness way, like she might blow away if even a hint of a strong Texas wind came through.
“You bet. Now, we must go over some rules. Weekday curfew is eleven p.m. And Friday and Saturday nights you can stay out till midnight but not later. I talked to your mama about a chore list. So I made one up for you. It’s there on your dresser.” Ms. Myra points to a piece of white, lined paper.
“Yes, ma’am, and I’m happy to help with the cooking, too. I can’t make anything fancy. But it’s edible. At least that’s what my mama always says.” I let out a slight laugh. A bit of nervousness really, and I’m hopeful that she doesn’t think that was disrespectful to say.
“We can take turns. Now, I’ll let you get settled.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me, too,” falls from my lips and, as the words make it to my ears, I begin to appreciate this is actually true. Being in this house is nice and different. Ms. Myra leaves me alone in the room. My room. Temporarily. But yet it seems like something more than a temporary situation. The hug from Ms. Myra is still doing me in over all the emotions of leaving my house and my mama. And forcing myself not to cry. It’s best I take a shower and clean everything from me. Maybe washing away some of these emotions will help.
Ms. Myra is up before me and has a nice breakfast laid out. I do my best to eat as quickly as I can as I don’t want to be late on my first day. Then I hustle myself to the creamery and try dialing my mama a few times. It is possible that she hasn’t left for work yet herself. The phone rings and rings on an endless loop of “I’m not going to pick up for you, Sahara.”
I put my phone back into my purse and scurry my way into the building. My shoulders slump and I raise them up. She probably thinks there is nothing to talk about. Definitely, there’s nothing my mama could say that would change my mind. I’m here. And I’ve had a warm welcome and everything. I don’t know why I’ve never heard of Ms. Myra but it seems to me she knows a lot more about me than I do about her. Which is really about as much as a mosquito knows after they taste their first bit of blood and then die.
Course, my mama wouldn’t want me pondering about mosquitoes, or as she would say, Sahara, you just got to smack them skeeters and keep going. Ain’t nothing the matter with leaving the screen up on the windows. You just have to go to sleep. And then I’d wake up itching and scratching. There is a different kind of itch inside me now. The one to succeed. I want to be better than the little girl waking up in the middle of the night itching the bites. I want to take a bite out of this world and be somebody. I’m ready for this. I love my mama with all my heart. But I can’t scoop ice cream for another day in my life, at least not for a job. No, my path is being paved with flavors and samples, no more scooping for the masses.
Or so I thought. I stare up at Mr. Flints. He’s an average height guy, missing most of his hair, and he’s got a pair of glasses on with a mustache underneath his nose that makes it all look like a costume for Halloween or something. Even though I’m sure it’s not. I don’t think Blue Ribbon Creamery would allow their managers to wear costumes every day.
I’m ready to take down notes on whatever wisdom about Blue Ribbon Creamery he is going to tell us. I heard from a few other girls in the ladies’ room that he has worked here for longer than he can probably remember. I giggle for a moment. Shoot, I don’t want him to think I’m not taking this training seriously. I most definitely am. This is the most important class of my life. Even more important than my high-school education, as this one is going to land me with a job as an associate product developer. I imagine the flavor-developing spot is filled with baskets of fruits, nuts, cakes and candies.
“Now, new recruits, everyone that works for Blue Ribbon has to go through six weeks of our intensive training course in order to move on to the position you were hired for.” Mr. Flints taps on his paper. “The first thing you will learn is how to properly scoop ice cream.”
I scrunch up my eyes. Sure, I thought I was done scooping ice cream when I was offered a position as a product developer, but now I have to learn how to scoop properly? What does that even mean? I’ve been scooping ice cream at Dairy Queen for the past six years. I’m sure if anybody in this room knows how to scoop ice cream properly it’s me.
“Miss.” Mr. Flints is staring at me. Oh shoot, I hope it didn’t seem like I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.
“Yes, sir?” I raise my eyebrows at him. I’m sure now I appear to be paying full attention.
“It says here on your resume that you have worked at Dairy Queen for the past sev
eral years. Why don’t you come up here and show us how they scoop ice cream at Dairy Queen?” Mr. Flints’ voice changes a bit when he says Dairy Queen, almost as if saying those two words makes him sicker than a dog after digging through a dumpster. I don’t know why that would be; Dairy Queen is a nice establishment with good food. Ha, well, good-tasting food. That’s what my mama always says. Not everything you eat has to be healthy, Sahara. I sure do miss her. I hope she’s okay. When I left it didn’t go over as I had hoped it would. She barely put her knitting needles down long enough to let me hug her goodbye.
“Miss?”
Uh oh, Mr. Flints is waiting on my response. I stand up. My hands are a little shaky. I need to remedy that before I begin scooping. I stroll my way to the front of the class like I’m all alone walking in a field of bluebonnets.
“Yes, sir.” I stand next to him in front of the class. There are about thirty other recruits in the room. And all sixty eyes are on me. Me, Mr. Flints, and the ice cream. A stack of bowls is next to the ice cream and several white plastic spoons. I figure I’m supposed to dish up ice cream for the class.
I bet my friend Sally Jane would be in a hysterical fit of giggles right now, knowing I left Dairy Queen because I didn’t want to scoop ice cream anymore only to show up on my first day at Blue Ribbon and have to scoop up ice cream.
“All right, here is the ice-cream scoop. Show us how you folks do it at Dairy Queen.” Mr. Flints nods at me.
“Yes, sir, will do.” I pick up the metal scooper and lift off the ice-cream lid. I try and think of some fancy way to impress Mr. Flints and the class, but my mind, as usual, is empty.
I dig into the ice cream and round the vanilla as best I can before dropping it into the Styrofoam bowl.
