Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

by Cutter, Leah

  Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

  Leah Cutter

  Copyright 2012 by Leah Cutter

  All rights reserved.

  Published 2013 by Knotted Road Press,

  by arrangement with Book View Café

  www.KnottedRoadPress.com

  www.BookViewCafe.com

  ISBN: 978 1 61138 310 2

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Cover design by Knotted Road Press

  Dedication

  To Mom, Dad, and Claire. Though they’re not here anymore, I have no doubt they’re proud of me.

  Chapter One

  Francine waited and waited and waited all through supper. She didn’t ask Aunt Noella to stop telling stories about the crazy white lady she sewed for, or tell Uncle Rene to stop asking for another round.

  Normally, she loved eating with all her cousins, aunts, and uncles all squished together in the kitchen, everyone scooted up close to each other, but today was her birthday.

  Presents wouldn’t come until after everyone was done.

  Though Francine wasn’t supposed to look, she’d still managed to stand on her toes and peek at the brightly wrapped packages on the table out front. The soft squishy one she knew was from Aunt Lavine, maybe another T-shirt from her store, done up in pink and white rhinestones. The big plain bag probably held another hand-carved wooden puzzle from Uncle Leroy.

  But in her quick look she hadn’t seen the long package Mama and Papa had been fighting about last week; the one she knew had to be hers.

  She was old enough, a whole five now. It was what she wanted most of all.

  Finally, everyone had their fill, though Uncle Leroy did tease about making coffee first. Mama hushed him and they all strolled into the front room.

  Francine felt like a princess with her court assembled: all her aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered in a circle around her. Papa sat in his big recliner, smiling at her like she was his sun and his moon.

  Mama handed Francine each present. She carefully opened it and then always jumped up to hug the giver. She’d guessed right about the shirt and the puzzle. There were also coloring books, games, school clothes, and a tiny silver bear from Uncle Rene.

  But nothing from Mama and Papa.

  When Francine looked at Mama, expectantly, Mama just looked at Papa.

  “Charles,” she drawled, sounding a little impatient.

  Papa tried to look like he didn’t know what Mama was asking for.

  Francine could see a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth.

  “Papa?” Francine asked.

  “Very well,” Papa said.

  He reached down beside him. The package had been hidden there—long, sleek, and black.

  Francine reverently took it from his hands, running her fingers across the nubby grain.

  “Now, you know what this means?” Papa asked seriously.

  “We get to play together!” Francine exclaimed as she finally opened the case and looked at her first fiddle. It was just her size, with gleaming metal strings and softly glowing wood.

  Everyone laughed, but Francine didn’t mind. The dusty smell of the instrument caught her. She rubbed a finger along the smooth veneer, tracing the scrolled cutouts.

  “It’s so pretty,” she breathed.

  “It’s not a toy,” Papa warned.

  Francine gave him an exasperated sigh.

  “I know that, Papa.”

  She looked at his empty hands.

  “Where’s the bow?”

  Uncle Rene cleared his throat.

  Francine turned toward him expectantly.

  He bowed and pulled it out with a flourish from behind his back.

  Francine had never seen a bow so white. Papa’s was worn to beige with age and use.

  “Made this special, just for you,” Uncle Rene said, handing the bow to Francine in the same way a king would give a knight a sword.

  “The hairs are from a horse’s tail. I plucked ’em myself on midwinter’s eve, in the cold and the dark, without a light shining.”

  can’t

  Francine took the bow cautiously. It was so pretty. She held out her finger and balanced it carefully, finding the middle point exactly where it should be.

  “Thank you so much,” she whispered, entranced. She couldn’t wait to learn how to play with it properly.

  “Can we start now, Papa?” Francine asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the best gifts she’d ever received.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised.

  And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: Francine heard in her head what Papa was really saying. They’d be making music together, every day, for the rest of her life.

  * * *

  Francine stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed over her chest, her toes dug into the thick brown rug. The smell of warm toast and coffee floated from the kitchen, remnants of what had been an anxious breakfast for Francine.

  “Won’t go back,” she said stubbornly, as she made her stand against her papa.

  She’d spent all night sitting by her window, casting wish after wish on the moon, praying for it to stop in its tracks so morning would never come. She knew Mama would be shocked by her blasphemy, but Francine didn’t care.

  She was never going back to that private academy. Even if the local high school wouldn’t actually teach her anything about music. She’d learn on her own.

  “Yes, you will,” Papa said, still standing in the kitchen doorway. His voice cut through the room, flat and cold, bouncing off the wooden walls. He glared at Francine; even without coming closer and looming over her, the power of his stare pushed against her like a summer storm.

  When she’d been little, those storms had made her hide her head under her blankets. Now that she was fourteen, they just riled her up more.

  “We jumped through more hoops than you can imagine to get you a scholarship to a good high school so you’d have a chance of a better life. You will be going back.”

  Francine shook her head.

  “You didn’t hear what those kids called me,” she said, trying to make her voice hard like Papa’s, but it came out with a quiver.

  “Gator-bait. And that I had swamp stink. And muck growing between my toes. They even said I’d marry my brother. I told them I didn’t have a brother, so they said I’d marry my cousin.”

  While the words had hurt, the looks had stung more, like Francine was worse than the swamp she lived in.

  Mama appeared beside Papa in the doorway, wiping her hands with a dishrag.

  “Now, Francine, do you not like your teachers?”

  Francine bit her lip and looked down at her bare toes. She actually did like them. If pressed, she’d also admit to liking her classes, particularly her music class. While Papa had taught her to play fiddle, and Uncle Rene had taught her zydeco and the blues, blowing his sax, this class had opened up new worlds of music to her. Her old school had nothing like it.

  “Charles, you and Francine are going to Uncle Rene’s on Saturday, right? So Francine can see her relations and learn more fiddling?”

  Papa couldn’t hold his glare against Mama’s hard look.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “So, Francine, if you go to school for the week, Papa will make sure you get some fun on the weekend. Does that sound fair?”

  Francine shook her head.

  “That’s four whole days
,” she complained.

  Four days where she’d spend hours in the afternoon on a stinky school bus instead of in the woods out back, the only place she felt like she could breathe these days—that was, when she wasn’t making music.

  Mama looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “I’ll pack cornbread in your lunch every day,” she said.

  The offer tempted Francine. If this had been the regular high school, the one down the road and not the private one miles away, she would have been able to trade that cornbread for just about anything at lunch. The kids she’d grown up with knew her mama baked the best cornbread in Pointe Coupee parish.

  These kids, though, bought their lunches. They’d called her a charity case because she brought a packed meal every day.

  “And Papa will pick you up at least twice this week,” Mama volunteered.

  Even though Francine was still mad at Papa for making her go to the private academy, time alone with him was precious.

  “Deal,” she said, grinning. That also meant she’d get home early enough to spend time with the trees out back.

  “Deal?” Papa grumbled.

  Francine knew enough not to be bothered by his grumbling. Mama sometimes called him a big old bear ’cause he growled like one.

  “It’s only fair, Charles. Your daughter is giving up some of her time for you. You should give up time for her, as well,” Mama pointed out reasonably. Then she told Francine, “You know what you should do? Get Aunt Noella to sew a gator patch to your bag. Then tell those kids that anyone who messes with you is gonna get bit.”

  Francine giggled. While the kids might tease her for being from the woods, even they knew better than to mess with swamp magic.

  Papa pressed his lips together like he didn’t think that was a good idea, but he still nodded.

  “Fine.”

  “Now, since you’ve already missed the school bus, and since I owe you some cornbread, come back into the kitchen and help. Charles will drive you in later.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Francine said, relieved that she didn’t have to ride the bus again. It was always better when Papa took her to school.

  Before Francine could join Mama in the kitchen, Papa stopped her, laying a warm hand on her shoulder.

  “You study hard,” he told Francine. “You need to learn more than just fiddling music. Want you to do me proud.”

  “I will, Papa,” Francine promised. She’d do just about anything for him.

  * * *

  Francine felt a slight impact on the back of her head, as though someone had tapped her lightly with their fingers. But no one stood beside her.

  Mainly, she heard the wet splat.

  With a hesitant hand, Francine reached back and brushed the slimy mess with her fingertips.

  Bewilderment filled her. Why would someone spit at her? In her hair? How could someone do that?

  Anger slammed through Francine, washing away the confusion. Damn them. Damn them all.

  Francine shoved herself out of her desk and stalked toward the group of smirking boys sitting at the back of the classroom. Without warning, she slapped Billy McGyvner as hard as she could. His head snapped to the side with a satisfying crack.

  After a second of shocked silence, Billy’s pals started laughing and hooting.

  A rush of white noise filled Francine’s head. She felt as though her blood literally started to boil. Billy’s friends all laughed, some giving her grudging congratulations. Billy’s face grew red as he surged to his feet.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he promised as he launched himself at Francine.

  Francine howled in return and reached for Billy as well.

  However, instead of aiming for her face, he hit her in the tits, which hurt so much it shocked a yelp out of her.

  As well as made her furious.

  Francine clawed at Billy’s face, his arm, any part of Billy she could reach, her hands curled like talons. She scored his cheek, but then he punched her in the stomach hard enough to make her double over and stagger back, her breath gone.

  Francine struggled to straighten up before Billy hit her again. Then hands were pulling her back. She tried to throw them off, but they held on.

  Finally, Francine heard Mrs. Sinclair yelling, shouting both her name and Billy’s.

  With an effort, Francine drew herself up. She shrugged her arms and the people holding onto her let her go. She smiled a tight smile as she drew herself up straight, at least a head taller than the kids surrounding her.

  Mrs. Sinclair appeared beside them. “What happened here?”

  “She just attacked me!” Billy proclaimed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Francine looked at Katy and Sue, Linda and Keesha, the girls who were at least friendly to her.

  None of them would meet her eyes. No one said anything.

  They knew—they all knew. However, none of them stood up for her.

  “He spit in my hair,” Francine said. She turned to show the teacher the wet mess still there, still obvious against her black hair.

  No one seconded her claim.

  “Wasn’t me,” Billy said stubbornly.

  “You were sitting directly behind me,” Francine pointed out.

  “Spit’s just attracted to you.” A couple of Billy’s friends laughed quietly.

  “Enough,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “You both have detention.”

  “What?” Francine said. “He should be suspended for bullying!”

  “We’ll talk about it in Principal Martin’s office,” Mrs. Sinclair said smoothly. “I’m escorting both of you there. In the meantime,” she added as she cast a frosty glance over the rest of the class, “straighten up these seats and be ready to discuss section ten. There may also be a quiz.”

  The other students groaned. Francine nearly joined them. Her hands shook with the release of her adrenaline. Her stomach hurt, and the other places Billy had hit were making themselves known.

  As Billy walked out of the classroom, he threw a look at Francine so venomous it made her stumble.

  It suddenly occurred to Francine that not only had she fought him, she’d humiliated him in front of his friends with that first slap.

  No matter what happened, Billy McGyvner would never forgive Francine for that.

  And he’d make her life a living hell forevermore.

  * * *

  “What’s that?”

  Francine barely heard the words over the clatter of lockers and students making their way from one class to the next. “What’s what?” she asked, turning around.

  A dark-skinned girl with tight braids stood midstream—a newcomer, Francine figured—kids pushing around her on both sides.

  “On your shoulder,” she said, pointing.

  Francine twisted, trying to see her back, afraid that Billy or Laura had taped something to her (again) or that maybe someone had drawn on her. She didn’t have time to make it to the bathroom and then upstairs to her English class.

  “No, that scar. On your shoulder.”

  Now Francine twisted the other way. All she saw was her birthmark, high on her left shoulder.

  “This?” she asked, pointing, relieved.

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  “I was born with it,” Francine said, running her fingertip along the crescent-shaped mark.

  She’d wondered about it herself, standing with Mama’s hand-mirror in one hand, examining it in the bathroom mirror behind her. It looked like a hoof-print to her, though Uncle Rene had said it was more like a sliver of the moon. Both Mama and Papa swore it was a birthmark and not a scar, though it was still shiny and smooth, like new skin.

  “Oh,” the girl said. She looked up and down the hall before shrieking, “It’s a swamp stamp!”

  A group of kids—including Billy and Laura—burst out laughing at the end of the hall.

  Francine felt punched in the gut. She’d been tricked, yet again. She pushed down on her shame and let her anger rise.

  “You think so?” she
said, making her voice low and mean. She took a pair of scissors out of her bag. She’d spent the previous night at her cousins’ house, and Aunt Noella had given them to her to give to Mama.

  When Francine walked toward the girl, she stopped giggling and backed away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Gonna take a braid of your hair,” Francine said. She opened and closed the scissors twice, the slicing sound clear in the crowded hall.

  “Gonna put a curse on you so it all falls out.”

  Aunt Noella had told her that if they were teasing her about being from the swamp, she might as well use it to her advantage.

  “See? I told you she was swamp scum,” Billy said, coming up to protect the girl. A tight knot of kids formed around them, all watching, wondering what was going to happen next.

  Francine knew better than to hope that any of them would protect her.

  “You better watch yourself, too, Billy McGyvner,” she warned. “Or toads are going to start falling from your lips. Your mama’s already sick.”

  That made Billy pause.

  “Don’t you talk about my mama,” he hissed.

  “Your mama’s done spit on the crossroads,” Francine said spitefully. The way his face paled made her feel powerful for once.

  “When she dies, it’ll be the horseman taking her away, not the angels.”

  The circle of kids surrounding them stood shocked-still. No one ever wished someone’s mama to Hell that way.

  “You take that back,” Billy said, moving just an inch away from Francine, looking up at her, angry and quiet.

  All the hairs pricked up on the back of Francine’s neck.

  “Or what?” she asked, raising the scissors.

  She already had to sit at the back of the class so Billy and his pals wouldn’t spit on her, she’d had to put plastic over the vents in her locker to stop them from spraying oil on her books, and she couldn’t count the number of times she’d been knocked down or over. She’d only ever fought Billy the once, but she’d be happy to do it again, right here, right now, her anger boiling up.

  “What’s going on here?” Mrs. Beaumont’s strident tones carried over their heads. She was Principal Martin’s secretary. No one messed with her. Papa called her the real power at the school.