by Amy Sorrells
“You okay, Wynn?”
Her shoulders rise in an exaggerated, annoyed, sigh. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing,” I press.
She looks up and stares hard at me. “It’s none of your business.”
“No, but I can listen.” The constant pain in my stomach pulls into a burning knot, one I’m pretty sure she shares.
She shakes her head in disgust, rolling her eyes before focusing on her lap again. “No thanks.”
I let her alone after that. I know her kind, kids who think girls like me will never give them the time of day, whole black-clad gaggles of them moving through high school hallways like amoebas. They smoke in the bathroom across from the lunchroom, the one with burn marks covering the seats. Even the teachers overlook the plumes that are so obviously not Aqua Net floating out the door, like they know smoking’s all those kids really have besides each other.
Her mama pays me without leaving a tip, and Wynn leaves without looking at me again. I don’t blame her. I don’t want to look at myself either.
And yet I wonder what life might be like if we all knew the pain that lay beneath each other’s sleeves.
Avan ou ri moun bwete, gade jan ou mache.
“Before you laugh at those who limp, check the way you walk.”
CHAPTER 19
Anniston
On Saturday, Princella left for the cotillion hours before we did, so nothing stopped me from sliding down the banister to answer the door when Jed rang it. He smoothed his hair down from the wind messing it up on his way over. Despite all my arguing that Mama’d be happy to pick him up, he’d ridden his bike here.
“Anni? That him?” Mama called from her bedroom.
“Yes, Mama!” I felt my face turn red as I hollered at her over my shoulder. A new nervousness turned my belly as I turned to him. “Sorry about that.”
“You sure are beautiful.” Jed looked as nervous as I felt.
“Akeyi. You must be Jed.” Ernestine burst into the hall, tropical dress blowing like butterfly wings behind her.
“Jed, this is Ernestine.”
He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers, he held it to his lips and kissed it. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Rete isit la tande.” She swept herself back to the kitchen as fast as she’d arrived.
I shrugged my shoulders at her sudden disappearance.
He smiled, and my nerves simmered down a bit.
“Why, hello, Jed. So nice to finally meet you,” Mama said, coming down the stairs toward us. “Anniston, you may invite him in.”
“Oh, yes.” I giggled, pulling the door open wider and stepping aside. “Please come in.”
Jed stood straight as ever and held his hand out to Mama. “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am.” He kissed her hand, too. Mama might’ve blushed harder than me.
Ernestine ran back in to the front hall holding a pair of brand-new white men’s gloves and a small box in her hands. “Jed’s boutonniere.”
“Want me to help you pin it on?” Mama asked me.
“I think I can do it.”
“Don’t poke me, Anni.” Jed winked.
I pinned the pink flower on his navy-blue suit jacket, then smoothed down both sides of his lapels before I realized I was actually touching him and pulled back quick.
Jed fiddled with a box of his own. He opened the lid and pulled out the prettiest corsage I’d ever seen—three white magnolia flowers with baby’s breath tied up with a blue ribbon that matched the one around the waist of my dress.
“Hettie said to get you one of these to fit your wrist so we don’t mess your dress up with a pin,” he said, slipping the corsage’s elastic band over my fingers and settling it on my left wrist.
I hate to say it, but everything went downhill from there.
Mama dropped us off at the entrance to the Bay Spring Resort Hotel. I wished for my thick gym socks in the worst way as I wiggled my freezing, prickly-feeling toes in the ends of my stiff and shiny new shoes. Shoulda worn my sweater like Mama suggested since yet another spring cold snap seemed here to stay.
No parents except selected chaperones were allowed. Someone’s father, dressed in a tuxedo, bowed toward me and handed me a pink rose. Jed never attended formal cotillion classes, so I’d filled him in on the most important things, like what to wear, how we’d have to link arms and hold hands.
The dancing didn’t worry me, either. Thanks to Princella’s decades of involvement in the Bay Spring Cotillion, I’d been taking ballroom dancing since kindergarten and knew the dances by heart, like the fox trot, waltz, and polka. I even knew how to do the tango, so I assured Jed I could lead and show him steps, and no one would know the better.
“Don’t worry. I do know some moves,” Jed said when we discussed the details last evening by the creek. “A crooked hip don’t keep me from dancing.”
Red carpet runners and signs pointed the way through the lobby to the ballroom, which we would’ve found anyway, following a long line of kids from school leading into its great, dark mouth. We could already feel the thud thud of the band’s drums and vibrating of the bass guitar. We barely recognized some classmates, they were so shined up and polished.
Most of the girls wore peach, white, pink, powder blue, or other pastel-colored dresses and tights. Tights or pantyhose were mandatory. All the girls wore white gloves and black patent-leather shoes. And all the girls carried a crisp, cream-colored dance card. Some fidgeted with them, and others showed off their growing list of signatures to their friends. Sally Roberts held hers out like a fan.
“Would you look at that?” I said to Jed, elbowing him in the side and nodding toward Sally.
“What about her?”
“See how she’s waving her dance card around so everyone can see it’s chock-full to overflowing with requests?”
“I won’t be signing it.”
We both laughed as we walked inside the ballroom.
“Would you like some punch, m’lady?”
“Why, I’d love some, sir.”
Jed walked over to the punch table, upon which a giant swan ice sculpture sat and eyeballed the crowd. I found a seat on the other side of the ballroom, far away from where Princella, Faye Gadsden, and the adult chaperones gathered and chatted. Folks considered Faye Gadsden, cochair of the Bay Spring Auxiliary, one of the most cultured women in town, next to Princella. Her husband, Miles, served as the town judge, which I knew from all the stories in the Bay Spring Banner Sentinel about him sentencing folks to jail. Luckily, Princella hadn’t seen me come in yet, so I wouldn’t have to introduce her to Jed and have him be introduced to her friends.
The live band had their name spelled out on the bass drum: Muddy and the Flaps. I saved a seat near the stage, one of many in a long row of chairs circling the dance floor. Boys and girls who were members of the Bay Spring Junior Cotillion but didn’t bring dates sat on separate sides of the floor. The boys sat all proper, feet flat on the floor and white-gloved hands on each knee. The girls crossed their feet at the ankles, folded their hands, and rested them on empty dance cards on their laps. Some girls wore pink or white corsages on their dresses. Many wore them on their wrists. But no one wore magnolias like I did.
A few of the girls new to cotillion wore red roses, which I knew from Mrs. Gadsden was a huge, what she called, faux pas. “Red is for true love, and it’s simply not possible for a single one of you at your age to know what true love is. If someone offers you a red corsage at your age, you are to refuse it graciously and not wear one at all.” She talked to us like explaining such obvious things bothered her more than swatting flies off a table at a church picnic.
Some kids stared at Jed as he made his way back to me with our punch. He stopped and said a few words to the band members, who paused between songs to prepare f
or the introductions and kick off the big dance numbers. The three men wore light-blue, bell-bottom tuxedos and Buddy Holly glasses like Solly’s, and the lady singer wore a matching blue, lacey cocktail dress. All four gathered around Jed, smiling and patting him on the back and shaking his hand.
“Do you know them?”
He sat down next to me. “Yeah. They played up in Tuscaloosa all the time at street dances. My old foster dad there played guitar with them on occasion. They’re pretty darn good.”
“If you call the waltz and the fox trot good.”
“It is when they play it. Their classical stuff is almost better than their rock and roll. Heard ’em at a couple of weddings more formal than this, and even the old people joined in the dancing.”
“Oh, great.”
“What?”
“Here come Mrs. Gadsden and Princella.”
Princella wore an all-red dress covered with sequins on top and flowing chiffon on the bottom. Mrs. Gadsden wore a lace-covered, powder-blue dress, also floor-length. Both of them wore dyed-to-match shoes and white, over-the-elbow gloves. Standing next to each other, they looked like a glob of Aquafresh toothpaste.
Princella scanned the room. When she saw me, she turned her gaze to Jed, scanned him up and down, her eyes stopping first at his hair, which grew over his ears, and then at his shoes, which were sneakers on account of his bad hip. She scrutinized him up and down again, then turned her eyes, brewing like a dark bay storm, on me. I focused on the dance card in my lap, folding it up like a tiny fan.
Mrs. Gadsden tapped the microphone, sending thuds of noise echoing across the ballroom. I jumped, and everyone stopped talking and moving around. “Welcome to the Fifty-Third Annual Daughters of the Confederacy Cotillion and Bay Spring Auxiliary Auction. A lot of hard work and hours of preparation have gone into this spectacular evening, and we can’t wait for everyone to have a splendid, splendid time.” She paused like she expected folks to clap, and a few chaperones in the back did. “First, I’d like to introduce Princella Harlan, president of the Bay Spring Ladies Auxiliary and grand hostess of tonight’s gala event.” Mrs. Gadsden paused for a moment, apology in her eyes as she glanced at Princella. “Despite recent family tragedies, she worked tirelessly and without pause to bring you this year’s event. If you aren’t already aware, Mrs. Harlan graduated summa cum laude from Alabama Southern with a degree in elementary education. She married Mr. Vaughn Harlan and devoted her time to her beautiful home and children. Now, in addition to her service to this auxiliary, she donates her time and gifts to the Alabama Southern Football Booster Club, acts as a chapter advisor to the Kappa Alpha Omicron sorority, and participates in various duties with the Alabama Pecan Growers Association.”
Mrs. Gadsden handed the microphone to Princella. I’d never seen her nervous before, but sweat glistened on her forehead and upper lip. “Thank you, Faye. It’s an honor to be here, as it is every year. And now, I’d like to introduce to you Mrs. Faye Gadsden, wife of Judge Miles Gadsden, two of the most devoted members of Bay Spring society.” She faltered, then fished around in her beaded handbag and pulled out a note card. She adjusted the microphone, her hair, and her dress, and cleared her throat. She covered the microphone with her hand and whispered something to Mrs. Gadsden, who laughed nervously and patted her on the shoulder.
A screech of feedback cracked through the air, and Princella’s face turned about as red as her dress. I wondered if she’d have been near as flustered if Mrs. Gadsden hadn’t brought up Daddy and Cole.
She cleared her throat. “Since 1972 Mrs. Gadsden has single-handedly brought an impeccable level of etiquette and high-level ballroom dancing to this cotillion program, thanks to her award-winning background. Why, last fall, Mr. and Mrs. Gadsden were crowned three-time Southeast Regional Champions of the Ballroom Dancing Association of America, in both the Smooth and Rhythm categories. She is an advocate for children’s issues on local and state levels and sings soprano in her church choir. She wishes for me to read this message to everyone.” Princella paused to clear her throat—again. “‘I was raised in a home where manners are very important. This came naturally to me, and I thoroughly enjoy passing them along to the next generation of society.’”
Princella stepped aside and handed the microphone back to Mrs. Gadsden.
“Thank you, Princella. And now we’re almost ready to begin. Let me take a brief moment to remind everyone that although we trust you are an exceptional group of young adults, you are expected to maintain rules of the dance, including rotating partners according to dance cards. And now, on with the dance!”
The lights dimmed, and the disco ball above the wood dance floor dropped lower and spun slowly. Pieces of light fell across the room like snowflakes, and Muddy and the Flaps played “Moon River”—a pretty good waltz to start off with. The drum brush swished like the dancers on the floor.
One-two-three, one-two-three …
Warm shivers I’d never felt the likes of before moved up and down near the bottom of my belly as I held on to Jed and he held on to me.
One-two-three, one-two-three …
We laughed and poked a little fun at some of the other couples and generally made the most of it. Luckily, no one else signed my dance card, so we stuck together every time the song changed.
After about a half a dozen songs, I had to use the bathroom. Princella caught me on the way out of the ballroom.
“Who’s your friend?”
“His name’s Jed, ma’am. He’s new to town.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Tuscaloosa.”
“You do realize he’s completely wrong for a place like this.” She leaned in close to my ear, and I tried to back away. Her breath smelled like strong cough medicine. “I would’ve expected something more for you, Anniston. Someone who at least looks like they’re from good breeding stock. Someone who at least looks normal.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“At least he minds his manners.”
“Yes, ma’am … well … I have to go to the bathroom.” I turned and skirted away from her before she could say anything else.
Good breeding stock? Someone who at least looks normal?
Her words stung and squeezed into a hard knot inside of me. I hoped I could avoid her the rest of the evening. As I walked out of the bathroom, relief opened up my lungs enough to breathe when I saw her leaving the lobby to go outside—probably for one of the “fresh air” breaks she often took at church or other public events. She’d be out there a while.
When I returned to the ballroom, Jed was talking to the band members again, who were preparing to play another song. He’d taken off his navy-blue blazer and was rolling up his shirtsleeves as I made my way toward him on the dance floor.
The lead singer winked at him. “This goes out to our friend Jed, who’s new in town and wants to show y’all how it’s done.” The lead singer hollered into the microphone. “A one … a two … a one … two … three … four!”
The guitarist plunked out a string of notes, and Jed danced like nothing I’d ever seen before, making his arms do a wave back and forth, slow at first, then catching up to the beat of “Sweet Home Alabama.” He moved across the floor in what looked like Michael Jackson’s new style of break dancing, and sure enough, before long, Jed turned in circles and moved in all sorts of fancy ways with his arms and on his back, spinning on the floor. Soon, other kids got up and circled around him, and we swayed and grooved like a hot crowd at a street festival.
I glanced around at the chaperones, who didn’t act like they minded one bit. Either that or they were so busy talking about grown-up stuff they weren’t paying any attention. Princella was outside, and Mrs. Gadsden busied herself straightening up the punch table. The next song pounded out rock and roll harder than the last one. More boys flung their jackets across the room. A few girls kicked off their shoes, so
they could spin and slide on the hardwood floor.
The guitarist moved up to the mic for the next song, a new ballad by Air Supply, “All Out of Love.” As soon as the music slowed, Melinda Sue O’Malley and Tommy Sharp pressed their bodies together closer than two oysters in a halfshell. They broke every rule of touching in cotillion, including the one about boys keeping their hands off girls’ behinds.
Good God in heaven, were we ever gonna get it.
And sure enough we did.
A shimmer of red streaked across the side of the ballroom. In an instant, Princella yanked the microphone from Muddy. The guitars and keyboards wheezed a long, sad sigh as their musical vibrations trailed off into the silent, heavy air. Princella’s smooth beehive hairdo stuck up all over her head, windblown, fuzzy, and fried. For what seemed like forever, she clung to the microphone and stared at all of us, her eyes like the spotlights used at store grand openings, shooting into the mess of us and announcing the gravity of our behavior. The chaperones, some of whom danced right along with us, fixed their eyes on their shoes or the ceiling and moved in close.
Finally she spoke. Growled, really. Maybe even howled.
“Exactly. What.” She lifted her head higher and sniffed. “Is going on here?”
No one dared answer.
Even Mrs. Gadsden looked a little astonished by Princella’s sudden interruption.
A few girls found their shoes and gloves.
A few boys found their jackets.
They pulled them back on as if shielding themselves from the trouble about to explode.
Princella didn’t look flustered anymore. Far from it, in fact. “Anniston Harlan!”
My spine burned like someone threw boiling water down the back of my dress, and everything in the room between me and her turned black. I couldn’t hear or see a thing except her curled-up lip and eyes cutting deep and hard into mine.
“Come up here this instant, and bring your retarded friend with you.”
