The Queen of Kentucky

by Alecia Whitaker

  “It’s awful hot out, Clark,” Momma says, fanning herself like she’s suddenly stepped into a sauna.

  My mother and I fight—a lot—but at this very moment I love her more than chocolate, new shoes, and MTV (which I have only seen twice).

  “There’s the bus!” my little brother squeals.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. I get butterflies in my stomach and I feel the throw-up sensation again.

  My dad tosses his old jacket back in his truck and shrugs his shoulders, his pride stung. “Same bus you’ve taken since first grade, Ricki Jo. Exact same bus,” he says.

  I climb on the first step and wave at my folks. Then, up two more steps and to a seat in the back. “Different destination, Daddy,” I say to myself, looking at him through the window. “Different destination.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  “Meet you after school,” Luke says as we split at the front door. We’ve ridden the bus together our whole lives, but I always got dropped off before they made the high school rounds. I wonder if I’ll have classes with any of the other kids on our bus, and I really wish I had homeroom with Luke. At least then he could introduce me to some people; but it’s all divided alphabetically, so I’ll be with the W–Z’s and he’ll be with the E–G’s.

  The hallways are a jumble of high fives and how was your summers and giggles and hugs and community. I weave in and out of the throng, offering up weak smiles and weaker excuse mes. In Mrs. Wilkes’s room, however, there is quiet. I take a seat at a table for six and wait for the bell.

  Hi! I’m Ericka, I practice. Ericka Winstead, yeah, hi! Nice to meet you.

  The bell rings and the doorjamb seems to stretch wide as bodies squeeze through and my classmates take seats all around me. Two girls sit at my table and continue a conversation about somebody’s possible hickey from somebody else’s possible boyfriend. They don’t speak to me, but I listen, looking for a space to introduce myself.

  One of the girls, Kimi, is grown-up. Seriously. She has an enormous chest and broad hips, yet her waist pinches in just right, so that she’s not exactly pinup material but doesn’t look heavy, either. In contrast to her body, her facial features are sharp. She has a tall forehead and a straight nose and high cheekbones that perch beneath almost black eyes. Her jet-black hair is cut in a short bob, the kind that’s longer in the front by her chin and angles up in the back. She is the most interesting person I have ever seen, not drop-dead gorgeous but intriguing, like you don’t want to look away.

  She’s talking to Sarah, who actually lives way down the road from me. I really only know of her. Her folks have a horse farm and go to Keeneland meets every fall and spring and are fixtures at the annual Kentucky Derby. If I had to be a farmer’s daughter, that’s the way I’d rather go. Their Thoroughbreds are gorgeous and they live in a mansion down a long, gated blacktop driveway. She’s not necessarily prettier than I am, but she’s tall and toned, and… well… rich. She’s obviously a gymnast; her build is almost masculine. Her brown hair hangs limp to her shoulders, but she keeps blowing her thin straight bangs out of her eyes and then straightening them across her forehead again, which would drive my momma crazy. I think that as far as friend material goes, she’s in my league… except for the whole millionaire thing.

  “Hi. My name is Mackenzie. I’m new.”

  I jump. I’ve been staring at Kimi and Sarah so fiercely that I didn’t notice the girl with movie-star looks who sat down next to me.

  “Oh! Hi! I’m Ericka,” I say. “I’m new, too… sorta.”

  Mackenzie looks exactly the way I want to when I grow up… which I’m hoping will be any day now. She is the perfect all-American girl. Her eyes sparkle blue and her smile is perfectly symmetrical, spread across straight white teeth. Her hair is not too thick or thin, but kind of looks like she may have come straight from a salon. I don’t know if the blond is real, but it’s definitely not dishwater.

  “What do you mean, ‘sorta’?” she asks.

  “You’re Ricki Jo Winstead, right?” a girl asks on my other side. It’s Laura Wagner, another face I recognize and someone I’ve actually hung out with a few times before, though not since she started wearing so much makeup. She has long auburn hair and a friendly round face; she’s the kind of person who nods her head a lot when you talk. We both have chipmunk cheeks and she’s considered short, too, although she still has a few inches on me. Our parents play Rook together every now and then, but she obviously didn’t get the memo that I’m trying to reinvent my image here.

  “Um, yeah. Ericka, actually,” I reply. Laura smiles and makes what I thought would be an awkward moment really easy.

  “That’s cool. I’m glad y’all are finally integrating. Your class size just went from—what?—five to two hundred?” We both laugh, although Mackenzie seems confused, and I’m feeling good about my first day. Laura may be popular and a master at smoky eyes, but she also seems really down-to-earth.

  “This is Mackenzie,” I say.

  “Yeah, her folks are members of the country club. Wasn’t that end-of-season pool party last night totally lame?” Laura asks.

  Mackenzie nods and giggles. “ ‘Pool Olympics.’ Ha! Your dad was great in water aerobics, though.”

  Laura fake gags and puts her head down. I feel like genuinely gagging and crawling under the table. I’m second string to a true, actual, just-moved-here new girl. Mackenzie’s from Minnesota, says her O’s in a really weird way, and already has more friends than I do.

  “So you’re new but you already live here?” she asks.

  I tell her about our little Catholic school and how the rest of the kids have kind of been together their whole lives. Laura tells her that even the four boys from my school joining PCHS is a mega way to enlarge their dating pool. We laugh and Mackenzie tells us a little about her old school. She cheered, and so does Laura, and of course this bit of information is enough to pull Kimi and Sarah from their intense who-gave-whom-which-hickey conversation. They all babble on about “state” and “formations” and “tumbling” while I smile and nod. When in doubt, smile and nod.

  “Good morning, lovely ladies.”

  I turn my head and feel my smile falter, my heart skip a beat, and my breath catch in the back of my throat. I have never seen him before, but I am convinced that the boy grinning at us from an arm’s length away must have materialized directly from my head as the ultimate man of my dreams.

  “Girls’ table only, Wolf,” Kimi says, flirting; she clearly wants him to stay.

  “That’s why I’m taking the last seat. I am your sheik and you all are my harem.” The other girls giggle and roll their eyes, but I focus on bringing my lower jaw up so that my mouth can actually close.

  This guy, “Wolf,” is already my boyfriend… in my head. He’s about a foot taller than I am and moves like liquid, smooth and sure. He’s lean, too—probably has a six-pack. His skin is like that of a bronzed god, and you can tell it’s that way all year long. His short dark hair spikes up here and there as if he doesn’t style it at all, but he probably worked on it for at least fifteen minutes. He makes lookin’ good seem effortless. Like, he lives in that lookin’-good zone. I think I’ll wear a long white gown and a short veil, and he and his groomsmen will wear sharp charcoal tuxedos. We’ll get married on my farm and—

  “No, it’s Ericka. She doesn’t want to be called Ricki Jo anymore,” I hear Mackenzie remind Laura.

  Oh, god. Wolf is looking right at me, wearing a lopsided, perfect, melt-me-into-a-pool-on-my-seat grin.

  “Hello? Erick-y Jo?” he teases, waving a hand in front of my face, breaking me from my trance. The girls laugh and I flush a deep red, feeling it all the way to the tips of my massive ears. I giggle a little and open my notebook absentmindedly.

  Then I take a deep breath, will my head up, force my eyes in his direction, and choke out, “Hi. Sorry, my name’s Ericka Winstead. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m David Wolfenbaker. And it’s really my pleasu
re,” he says—and he winks. He winks at me!

  I somehow control the impulse to squeal in delight. Instead, I look at Kimi and Sarah and introduce myself the same way. It’s so weird because we recognize one another, but we don’t know one another.

  “So, girls,” Wolf says, leaning back in his seat. “Which one of you will end up being my date to homecoming?” We all giggle, and as I look around, I realize that I’m not the only one under his spell… but I am surely the least likely to win him over.

  As Kimi finds some excuse to show him her new belly-button ring, I doodle on my notebook and pray for the bell to sound. I want to die or be trapped on a deserted island with David Wolfenbaker. One or the other, but I’ve got to get out of homeroom.

  “It was awful,” I tell Luke at his locker. It’s on the other side of the hall and I really feel like the air is cleaner over here or something. I almost suffocated trying to stuff my book bag into my own locker, squeezed right between Kimi and her voluptuousness and Wolf and his sexual-awakening-me-ness.

  “Is everything at this school gonna be alphabetized?” I complain.

  Luke smirks at me and shuts his locker. “What’s wrong with a little order?”

  “The girls in my homeroom are gorgeous. Way outta my league. They’re all cheerleaders, and every one of them wears makeup and name brands. I gotta talk my mom into taking me to the mall in Lexington.”

  “Why? You wanna be like those girls?” Luke asks, looking over to where Mackenzie, Laura, Kimi, and Sarah stand huddled around Wolf’s locker.

  “Well, yeah! I mean, they’re popular, they’re beautiful—”

  “They’re stuck-up,” Luke finishes.

  “Not all of them,” I say defensively. “I mean, Mackenzie’s new—from Minnesota new—and she’s really nice. And that girl Laura is cool, too.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m just saying that the Fabulous Four looks to be assembled already.”

  “You don’t think there’s room for a fifth?” I ask.

  We head down the hall toward first period and I suddenly feel all their eyes on us. Oh, god. Did they hear me? The four girls stare at us as we pass and then start to giggle. I feel my face flush, hoping they aren’t making fun of me.

  “Hi, Luke!” Laura calls. The whole gaggle of girls cracks up and the blush Laura’s wearing seems to intensify. I slow down so Luke can talk to her, thinking he will, too.

  “What’s up?” Luke asks, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he continues down the hall. I sort of stand near the girls, watching them watch him as his lean frame ambles through the throng of students. Whereas everyone else is dressed up, wearing their best for the first day, Luke is totally comfortable in a pair of deeply worn-in dark jeans, a white V-neck, and cowboy boots. The only thing mildly fashionable on his whole body is the thin leather bracelet that he never takes off. He turns back, realizing I’m no longer at his side, and gives me a head jerk, a kind of let’s-go signal that makes his sandy blond hair flip over his forehead. I give the girls an awkward wave and hurry to catch up.

  Once I’m at his side again, he drapes his long tanned arm on my shoulder, easy and comfortable. I start to feel better.

  “Why do you care about girls like that, anyway?” he asks.

  “They’re cool,” I say. “I dunno. I’m the new girl and I’m nervous and I wanna fit in.”

  “You wanna fit in with some kids in our class or you wanna fit in with those specific girls?” he asks.

  I think about it. What do I want?

  I want a boyfriend. I want a date to the homecoming dance. I want a first kiss—one with tongue, one that is not decided by the spin of an old Coca-Cola bottle. I want to be cool.

  “Those specific girls,” I say. I affirm. I make my goal. Ericka Jo Winstead is on a mission to become popular. So it is written.

  “You’re on your own, then. See ya at lunch!” And just like that, Luke heads into a classroom and fist pounds a couple of guys. I watch him fold his tall body into a desk, see how his long face lights up around his old friends, and envy the sparkle in his blue eyes, how easy his first day of school is. Squaring my shoulders, I look for room 124 and hold tight to my smile-and-nod method.

  “It’s so cool that you’re going to our school now, Ricki Jo!” My friend Candace, from the 4-H Club, is in my Spanish class, and I’m so happy to see a familiar face that I don’t even mention the Ericka thing. After a long day of standing up, period after period, stating my name per new-girl fashion, I’m just glad to be talking to someone I really know. Candace and I shared bunk beds at 4-H camp and bonded over that week of basket weaving, hiking, and campfires. She’s a little rough around the edges, lives in the trailer park over behind the nursing home, and has the thickest country accent I’ve ever heard, but she’s smart and has a really good heart.

  “Yeah, my dating pool just went from four to four hundred!” I exclaim, stealing a bit of Laura’s humor. But it’s true. Today, I’ve gaped and gawked at every turn. From freshmen to seniors, my head has been on constant swivel mode, though no one has compared to Wolf.

  “From the looks of your folder, I’d say you’ve got your eye on a particular freshman who just happens to be in this class,” Candace says, pulling her frizzy red hair into a giant puffy ponytail. I look up to see Wolf enter our classroom and strut toward the back, cocky and fascinating. “I’d rethink the heart-shaped D.W., Ricki Jo. Not a tough code to crack if he sees your notebook.”

  I touch his initials and grin. “He’s pretty cute, right?”

  “Cute.” She shrugs and leans back in her desk. “And knows it.”

  “Confident,” I say.

  “Arrogant,” she replies.

  Señorita Jones brings our class to attention and goes over our syllabus. She tells us that we need to pick our Spanish names and turn them in by the end of class. I want my name to be something really exotic sounding. Candace and I flip through our Spanish books and look at English to Spanish translations. Henrietta—Enriqueta. Mary—María. Alice—Alícia. I see a picture of two gorgeous Argentine sisters, dressed in sexy black lace gowns, demonstrating a passionate tango. I can’t decide between the two and choose both names for myself: Rosa Juana.

  “What’s up with you and double names?” Wolf asks from behind me. He turns in his name at the same time—Davíd, real original—and follows me as we head back to our seats. I am very self-conscious as I step over the backpacks strewn in the aisle. Do not fall. Do not fall.

  “And from now on, class,” Señorita calls, “we’ll be sitting in alphabetical order by last names.”

  I stop, stunned, and look back at her. Seriously?

  Wolf smiles down at me. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Rosa Jo.” I barely feel him squeeze past me. David Wolfenbaker will be sitting directly behind me the rest of the school year. I struggle to understand the nausea in my gut, but find my wits quickly enough to sit down and scribble out his initials. We’ll probably talk every day now, maybe sneak notes during class. I look up to God and whisper a little gracías. I’m going to need perfume, lip gloss, and a new notebook ASAP.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  School is out! I survived the first day. I run from the bus and up my driveway, excited to drop my books and head over to Luke’s. We’re off the hook for the next few days as far as work is concerned, so I’m taking my bike over and drilling him about anything and everything he knows about David Wolfenbaker. I trade out my dress for shorts and a T-shirt, get my bike out of the garage, and take off.

  Luke lives right over the hill, but it always feels like miles. Why? Because between my driveway and his driveway is the Gumbels’ driveway… which is often guarded by their pack of wild dogs. There are at least five of them, and the leader of the pack looks like a big black bear. My dad says to avoid eye contact and continue on in a steady manner, so as not to show fear. He says animals smell fear. I sniff and get a little whiff of sweat and deodorant, but no fear. Not yet.

  Up, up, up the road, past the small
creepy cemetery, and I hear them barking. Please be chained up today. Please be chained up today. At the crest of the hill, I see them running at me, full speed. No fear, Ricki Jo. No fear. I try to pedal steadily, but they circle around me and I’m afraid I’m going to run over one the way they keep darting everywhere. I wish a car would come. I glance down and see the leader, mouth foaming, teeth bared, and lose my balance, swerving my handlebars and crashing into the shoulder of the road.

  As I lie there shielded underneath my bike, they circle around me, barking low and loud. I shout, “Get back! Get back!” but they only get more excited. Two of them dart toward me at the same time and then start to fight each other. I try to get up, but the leader jumps on my bike, effectively pinning me beneath him.

  I scream. I cry and scream and scream. All I hear is barking and my own screaming, and I can taste my tears. I feel like I’m going to die.

  Then I hear another voice, not screaming, but yelling. The voice is angry. The dogs forget me for a second and I hear yelps. I crane my head up and see Luke running down the road toward me, throwing rocks at the dogs and cussing them out. I know they can’t understand, but I appreciate his filthy admonitions. I release the huge breath I didn’t realize I was holding, let my head drop back into the ditch, and weep.

  “I hate those dogs,” I mumble, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my shirt.

  Luke nods, rolling my bicycle into his yard. “I hate their owners. No leash? Irresponsible morons.”

  We go inside Luke’s house and his momma props me up on her kitchen counter with a wet rag for the back of my neck and a cold Coke for my nerves. I’ve been coming over here since I was a little girl, my momma and Luke’s being good friends from when they went to school together. She’s the nicest lady, always treating me like one of her own.

  “Took a pretty hard spill,” she notes now, as she picks the gravel from my knees and hands and pours peroxide on my scrapes.