by Lisa Patton
Mamaw looks up at my new multistory home. “Wonder what floor you’ll be on?”
“I don’t know; let’s go find out.”
Since I’d been accepted into the Barksdale Honors College, I could have lived in a nicer dorm with bigger rooms, but I chose Martin. Because Martin is primarily a sorority dorm. Most every girl who lives here will be going through Rush. That’s another dream of mine. Not only have I longed to be an Ole Miss Rebel, I’ve had my heart set on sorority life. But one of my obstacles—and there are many—is that I don’t know anyone who belongs to a sorority. Blue Mountain girls do not Rush.
As we walk the long stretch toward the dorm, amidst an army of luxury cars and SUVs parked every which way, I can’t help noticing how most of the girls are dressed—extra-large T-shirts and workout shorts with fluorescent Nike tennis shoes. Why do they dress like this, and how do they all know to do it? I have on a pair of cutoffs and a cute top. I look down at my Nike tennis shoes with gratitude that I had found them on sale only a week ago. But those T-shirts. They look so … big.
The line to check in is out the door and down the sidewalk. Girls, accompanied by their parents, brothers, and boyfriends, are standing in the extreme heat with all their personal belongings. It strikes me as funny as I eye the crowd. Couches, headboards, chairs, rugs, boxes, suitcases. It looks like a long line of high-class refugees.
I can tell this tries Mamaw’s patience. There are no lines in Blue Mountain, Mississippi, and she’s lived there her whole life. As for me, I couldn’t care less. Nothing about this experience is going to rob me of an ounce of happiness. Papaw suggests that she go inside and sit down while he stays in line with me. He escorts her in and I hold our place. As hot as it is, I’m still getting chills at the thought of which girls will become my friends and possibly sorority sisters.
While waiting for Papaw to return, I text Jasmine for an update. Originally, she had planned to be here by now, but her last text said she was still a couple of hours out. We’ve been texting all week and I can’t wait to finally meet my new roommate. Jasmine won’t be going out for Rush. But I understand why.
Papaw and I while away the time, talking with the other girls and parents. Mothers seem to be in charge, barking orders like military sergeants. Dads, waiting patiently for their next assignments, are talking to one another in line. Two girls in front of us see each other and scream at the top of their lungs. They throw their arms around each other and dance out their hug. Papaw rears his head back and holds his ears. He does stuff like that to be funny. My grandfather has never met a stranger.
*
When we finally open the door to my room, three scorching hours later, all the way up on the ninth floor, a tidal wave of excitement floods through my veins, out my pores, and pops into goose bumps all over my arms and legs. Standing in my own dorm room, looking around at the khaki-colored walls, linoleum floor, even the tiny closets, exhilarates me beyond my wildest dreams.
I dash over to the bare window to peek at my view. With my hands gripping the sill I can’t help but gawk at the gargantuan sorority houses directly across the street, imagining myself walking up to one of the front doors as a member. But when I remember something that happened last fall I retreat back, slumping my shoulders. It was a Saturday afternoon. The Daisy Tree gift shop where I work was super slow that day. Two ladies from Memphis had stopped in to look around. They were passing through Blue Mountain on what they called “an antique treasure hunt.” While I was checking them out I overheard them discussing Ole Miss Rush. So I perked up my head and eavesdropped on their conversation.
One lady asked the other if a certain girl had a pedigree. The other replied, “Of course she does. She wouldn’t be able to rush without one.”
I wanted to stop her right then and there and ask her to please tell me what she meant. Because I had no idea you needed a “pedigree” to belong to a sorority. And to be perfectly honest, I had no idea a pedigree had anything to do with a person. I consider myself an intelligent human being, but this was news to me. My best friend Rachel’s mom always bragged about having a “purebred pedigreed Pom.” And she took it for granted that everyone in America knew that Pom was short for Pomeranian.
Try saying it out loud. Purebred pedigreed pom. How’s that for a tongue twister? That’s exactly how Mrs. Smith referred to PomPom. “PomPom, my purebred pedigreed Pom.” PomPom’s American Kennel Club certificate was framed, like it was a college diploma, and hung in their den. That’s how I knew it was true.
When I looked “pedigree” up in the dictionary that night the third definition read: “distinguished, excellent, or pure ancestry.” That’s when I got it. My birthright does not include a pedigree. For the first seventeen years of my life, it didn’t mean doodly squat. But now I’m not so sure. My family is not, well, we’re certainly not prominent or even conventional. That’s for darn sure.
After a minute or so I pull away, climb up on one of the beds, and lie down on my back. Pushing away worry, I close my eyes, tasting sweet freedom and independence for the first time. When I blink my eyes open, my grandparents are standing side by side, gazing down at me.
“You are a picture, Cali Watkins,” Papaw says. “Look at our pretty baby, Marge. She’ll be president of the student government one day. You wait and see if I’m not right.”
“Well she certainly has the potential.” Mamaw’s bitterness, that sour pill she swallowed when my mother ran amok, gets the best of her sometimes. “Let’s get started, Charlie. We don’t have all day.”
I see him close his eyes and slump over slightly. He never says anything back, just chooses to forgive every snarky comment she ever makes.
Mamaw gets right to work. As a going-away present, she bought all my college linens. It was especially meaningful because she wanted to save the money and sew everything herself. If it had been up to her, she would have made the curtains, the pillow shams, the duvet covers, and the throw pillows, for both Jasmine and me.
I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I thought about how to break it to her for weeks. Jasmine and I had talked about it over the phone and both of us loved the pink-and-gray linens from dormitup.com. They had everything we needed to have the cutest room in Martin, all in one box. A comforter, sham, matching sheets and towels. A curtain, a throw pillow, a hamper, a shower caddy, a desk lamp, and a trash can—every single thing coordinated perfectly.
In great detail Jasmine and I had discussed all of the other things we would need for our room and divided all the extras between us. A friend of hers was giving away a futon sofa. It was a little soiled, Jasmine said, but we had planned to throw quilts on top to hide the stains. She also found matching desk chairs and I found a microwave, a full-length mirror for the door, and a small refrigerator on Craigslist.
The rug we ordered through the University is already in the room. Although we could have chosen from a variety of colors, we chose gray to make sure it coordinated with our bedding. It’s fairly small, so it doesn’t take long for the three of us to roll it out in between the beds and desks.
An hour later, we hear voices in the hall. “Here it is, Mama,” a girl says, followed by a loud knock.
I nearly trip over a large box hurrying to the door. Because of Instagram, I recognize her the second she walks in. “Jasmine!”
“Cali Watkins! I finally get to meet you.”
“In the flesh,” I say, and we embrace. There’s no awkwardness at all. We’d talked many times over the summer after learning the University had matched us together.
Jasmine puts her hands on her hips, looks around. “This room is not bad. Is it, Mama?”
“Unh-uh. I like it.” Jasmine’s mother, who, I have to say, is rather plump, plops right down on the other bed. The sound of a screeching frame fills the room.
“Y’all, meet my grandparents.” I squeeze in between them and put my arms around their shoulders. “Charles and Margaret Watkins.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Watk
ins,” Jasmine says. “And this is my mama, Devonia Crawford.” Everyone shakes hands, but Mrs. Crawford keeps her seat. I get the idea it’s too hard for her to move once she sits down.
Jasmine glances around. “It’s small, but it’ll do. You’ve already made it look nice, Cali.”
“It’s all my grandmother.” I grin, gesturing toward Mamaw.
“You have the touch, Mrs. Watkins.”
“Why, thank you, Jasmine.” When Mamaw smiles it’s nice to see.
Papaw slides over and wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You should see our home. My Marge is quite the decorator.”
“Oh, Charles, stop. I’m not, either.”
Jasmine laughs. “You’re just being modest, Mrs. Watkins. Cali, I like the way you’ve got your bed up high, by the way.”
“It was already lofted when we walked in,” Papaw says. “I’d be happy to loft yours. We wanted to let you decide.”
About that time, a guy walks in carrying a box with dormitup.com printed on the outside. Jasmine, who I’m sure notices him, continues talking to my grandparents and doesn’t interrupt their conversation.
“Ahem,” the guy says after a couple minutes. “Will I have to stand here all day or are you gonna tell me where to put this box?”
“I’m sorry, baby. Put it down over there.” Jasmine points to an empty spot in front of the closet. “I’ll take that closet. Okay with you, Cali?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug.
He obligingly puts down the box, turns to my grandparents and me. “Don’t mind Jasmine.” He stretches out his hand. “I’m Carl Joyner. It’s a pleasure to make y’all’s acquaintance.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s Carl.”
“I need help with the futon. Are you okay to help me with it, Mr. Watkins? It’s down in the lobby.”
“Why sure, son. I’ve been waiting for something else to do. I’m ready when you are.”
“Do you need to wait on the elevator or are you okay to take the stairs?”
“He can take them down, but not up,” Mamaw says, rather sternly, while peeking around from the closet door.
Carl doesn’t seem to mind. “No problem. We’ll take the elevator.” Before leaving he taps Jasmine’s mother on the shoulder. “Can I bring you anything from downstairs, Miss Devonia?”
“I’d think I’d like some lunch, please, Carl. Soon as you get a chance.”
We have a C-store in the lobby, but Mamaw had packed sandwiches, enough for a small army. She steps toward Mrs. Crawford. “I packed plenty of sandwiches for all of us. Chicken salad, egg salad, and ham and cheese. Do you have a preference?”
Mrs. Crawford raises a hand to her chest. “No, ma’am. I’ll be happy with anything you give me.”
“We have plenty of drinks, too.” Mamaw moves over to the cooler and lifts the top. “May I hand you one?”
“Why thank you, ma’am. I’d love a Co-Cola. If you have one.”
“Sure I do.” Mamaw hands her both a sandwich and a Coke and offers one to Jasmine, who declines. Then she turns to Carl. “How about you, son?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll wait till I get back. Then I might want two or three,” he says, making a silly face. Crossing his arms, Carl surveys the room. “Now, ladies, I want to see this place perfect by the time we get back.” I watch him give an exaggerated wink behind Jasmine’s back.
“I’ll show you perfect,” Jasmine says, spinning around to face him. She strikes a pose with her hip cocked and chin lifted.
“Mmm-hmm,” Carl responds. “Perfect in every way.”
“Go on with your bad self.” Jasmine pushes him out the door and Papaw follows behind.
Jasmine is tall. Must be close to six feet. And since I’m only five two, we look like Kanga and Roo standing side by side. She had told me she had been a high school basketball player in Greenville, but had not been offered a scholarship on the Ole Miss team. That’s one of the things we have in common. We’re both athletes. I was on our high school cross-country team all four years.
For the next couple of hours we unpack a little and talk a lot. It’s fun for all of us to get to know one another. Mamaw and Mrs. Crawford seem to be getting along famously, talking about growing up in Mississippi. Even though the Crawfords are from the Delta, it seems things aren’t that much different from Blue Mountain. Small town life in Mississippi appears to be the same no matter where you live.
The only thing left to do, besides unpacking the rest of Jasmine’s boxes and suitcases, is hang the curtains. With Carl’s help, Papaw installs the rods, on the window and closets, with the peel and stick strips that are allowed. Mamaw had packed her steamer and expertly steams away any wrinkles once the curtains have been hung. Sweet Mrs. Crawford, who moved over to the chair once Jasmine’s bed was lifted, has been slowly folding Jasmine’s clothes into neat piles.
Around four o’clock Papaw backs up to the door and lifts his arms, taking it all in. “Well, girls, it looks like we’re finished.”
Mamaw crosses her arms, nods her head. “This has to be the best-looking, most stylish room in Martin Hall. Even if I didn’t make it all myself. You girls should be proud.”
“I am very proud,” I say, hiking up on my bed. “We only need one more thing. Stepstools.”
Jasmine pats the top of her mattress. “Speak for yourself, shorty.” She hops up with ease and turns around, jutting her chest toward me. “Our room is dope. I guarantee you nobody has our sense of style. What do you think, Cali?”
Before I can answer, Carl scoots over, puts a casual arm around her shoulder. “My baby has excellent taste.” Then he winks and laughs at himself.
Jasmine looks at us, shrugs her shoulders. “I’m no dummy.”
“And neither am I,” Papaw says. “Cali, I think I better get your Mamaw home. I can tell she’s pretty tuckered out.”
*
When we get down to Papaw’s truck, I can tell he’s the one who’s tuckered out. His Blue Mountain College T-shirt is damp and wrinkled. He reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and wipes his brow, then offers it to Mamaw. Her temples are moist and her blouse is stuck to her plump middle.
Papaw is about to cry. I can tell by the way he’s sucking his bottom lip. Whenever I see him cry, even at a movie, it breaks my heart. Mamaw, on the other hand, rarely gets emotional, but I still know she cares. My mother has caused them enough pain for three lifetimes. That’s probably why I was always such a good girl and stayed away from trouble.
Leaning over the side, he peeks into the truck bed. “Well. She’s empty.” My grandfather is stalling. I know him so well.
“Come on, Charles,” Mamaw responds in a frustrated voice. “I’m hot and ready to get on the road.”
Never one to react, he ignores her, then turns to me. “Cali. Have I told you how proud of you I am?”
“Only a hundred times.” I grin, bat my eyelashes.
“Well, that was number one hundred and one and I suspect I’ll get to a thousand before I kick the bucket.”
“Here we go.” Mamaw rolls her eyes. “The ol’ death bit again.”
Papaw plays like he didn’t hear her, but I know he did. He simply keeps his eyes focused on me.
“Why don’t you save the other nine hundred until I become governor?” I say.
“I’ll try, but don’t count on it,” he says. “Got your prayer stone?”
I dig inside my pocket, pull it out to show him. “Right here.”
With her eyes on the stone, Mamaw wraps her arms around me, pulls me in tight. When she lets go she manages a smile. “I’m proud of you, too. You know that, don’t you?” She rarely hands out compliments, so I know she means it. But she raises a cautionary finger. “Make sure you stay out of trouble. You’ve worked hard to earn your big scholarship and you don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.”
I take a step back. No one knows this more than me.
“I’m expecting nothing less than a four point.” Piercing eyes lock on
to mine.
Her expectations ruin the process. I’m the one wanting to make the Dean’s List. I don’t need her telling me to do it. The massive expectations I’ve put on myself are enough to kill any kind of social life I might have in mind, much less sorority life. But I am determined to do both. And find a job on campus to pay for it.
As if he’s reading my mind, Papaw says, “She doesn’t need you hassling her, Marge. Our Cali will be running our state soon. She knows what she needs to do.” Before Mamaw can object, he beckons us with both hands. “Come here, you two.” He puts his arms around both of us and my grandmother does the same.
I know what’s coming.
“Your Mamaw and I want to pray over you, Cali.” They bow their heads.
I freeze. Not here. Not in front of all these people. “Will … will y’all pray for me on the way home? It’s just … there are tons of people around.” The sight of all of us huddled together would draw tons of attention. And there’s no one else doing it.
Papaw’s face droops. Mamaw looks up with narrowed eyes, but she holds her tongue. Immediately I want to take it back. But I can’t help the discomfort I feel. So I hug and kiss them both and watch as Papaw opens the door for my grandmother. He pushes it to with a gentle hand, making sure she’s safely tucked inside. That’s who he is. Gentle, kind, protective.
I watch him stroll around to his side. Before he opens the door he glances up, then points to his right eye. He makes a gentle fist with both hands, crosses them over his heart, then points at me. I mimic his gesture, as I’ve done hundreds of times before, and watch him duck into the truck. My heart is stinging and I feel awful about not letting them pray for me. It was such a little thing, yet it meant the world to them. But I’m bound and determined to keep a low profile. Then no one will care enough to pry into my past.
Papaw backs out of his parking spot. Through the glass I watch him turning the steering wheel. He waves before moving his truck forward, then slowly drives out of the Martin lot. Resisting the urge to run after them, I stare blankly at the taillights of the truck while my grandfather makes a left onto Rebel Drive in the direction of home.
