by Helen Ellis
Every time Nicole looked up, her father seemed to sense it. In a split second, he would move his eyes from the field or his fans to her red-and-white uniform in front of the crowd.
After each game, Mr. Hicks praised her banana jumps and Flying Dutchman. He told her that the elocution lessons were really paying off, the cheerleaders had conquered their Southern accents, every word was crystal clear.
As Mrs. Hicks held out sweatpants for Nicole to step into, Nicole would watch the other cheerleaders scamper to the fold-out back door of Mrs. Summers’s station wagon. Mrs. Summers always had Cokes and Rice Krispies Squares, cookies that were never burnt, sometimes root beer, sometimes gum. By the time Nicole brought her attention back to her parents, Mr. Hicks invariably wore Memory Lane like a scarf.
“Did you see County High’s quarterback dodge that tackle? I’m telling you, Rick could have buried him alive. Remind me, when Rick calls, to tell him that his old team is getting soft.”
“Sure, Pop.”
“That Rick . . . he was a star out there.”
Wrapping a jacket around her daughter’s shoulders, Mrs. Hicks would lean forward and whisper, “You could be too. If you’d only try harder.”
Try, try again. In the eyes of Mrs. Hicks, being good was never good enough.
This was nowhere more apparent than in after-school study sessions. Every day, after cheerleading practice, Mrs. Hicks would check her daughter’s homework. She would use Wite-Out to correct mistakes and fill in the right answers copying Nicole’s loopy cursive. Nicole was a below-average student who, under her mother’s charge, was pushed into a B-slot.
Sarina Summers was right there with her.
After Mrs. Hicks’s many failed attempts at demand and supply (Memorize these vocabulary words and you can wear that skirt I hate . . . Do these multiplication drills and I’ll give you a lowfat Eskimo Pie), she accepted the fact that her daughter would not advance without her best friend. So, when Mrs. Hicks held up a flash card, she had to make a game of it. Nicole and Sarina would sit across from her and slap the mahogany table when they knew the answer.
Smack! “Argentina!”
Smack! “George Wallace!”
Mrs. Hicks often made the girls switch seats. If Sarina beat the table in one place for too long, Mrs. Hicks had to remind her it was not good for the wood.
Nicole’s mother was the Great Reminder. Stand up straight. Don’t chew on your nails. I’ve already salted that. Could you smile, at least?
Mrs. Summers never uttered anything close. When Nicole stayed over, Mrs. Summers let her do as she pleased. If she wanted, Nicole could eat a whole bag of dill pickle–flavored Golden Flakes. She could pour ketchup on pot roast. Skip brushing her teeth. Mrs. Summers never asked Nicole how school was going, how her teachers were treating her, how she intended to spend the rest of her life.
Sometimes, Nicole would show up when Sarina wasn’t at home. Mrs. Summers didn’t mind. She’d let Nicole watch TV in her bedroom. Turn off the light and keep the volume down low. Serve her warm milk. Often, not wake her when Nicole nodded off. More than once, Sarina had come and gone while she slept.
Mrs. Summers’s response was always the same: “I’m sorry you missed her, but she’s gone. Go on home.”
“Where’d she go?”
It could be a number of places. To this girl’s house, to that boy’s house, out for a car ride, back to school to paint posters for pep rallies or plays. Mrs. Summers apologized no matter what. “You’re such a sound sleeper, I forgot you were here.”
Despite the regularity of such unfortunate mishaps, Nicole found herself going back for more. The Summers’ house was such a haven. Mrs. Hicks never knocked, came looking, or phoned.
Unlike at home, where Mrs. Hicks’s voice ran rampant and cold.
When Sarina talked Nicole into double-dating (at least once a month), Mrs. Hicks would always bring it up at the breakfast table. “Why don’t you let me do your makeup? You’re so much prettier than that Summers girl.” She’d hold the butter knife to Nicole’s eye like an eyeliner. “With a little Clinique, I could bring out your color.”
“Her eyes are fine,” Mr. Hicks would interrupt.
“But dear, it’s hypoallergenic.”
“They’re brown and she’s beautiful.” Sometimes, he would pick up the ends of her hair and playfully swat Nicole on the nose. “Do you know what the women down at the station pay to look this natural?”
“Nicole is not a forty-year-old weather girl. She is a teenager and this is the South. We roll our hair and we wear lip gloss.”
When Nicole showed up at the Summers’ house before their dates, Sarina would gasp, “Oh my God, Nic, you’re so much prettier than me. I hate you,” she’d laugh. “I really, really hate you.”
This sort of reaction made Nicole have to pee. She’d go to the bathroom, then wash off her mother’s paint-by-numbers. Sarina never said a word, but when the dates arrived and both complimented her, she gave her approval by saying, “Nicole looks nice too.”
With Sarina, Nicole made an effort to play down her beauty. She didn’t powder her nose. A zit was like a door prize that she’d never try to hide. Who cared what her date thought? Not Nicole—one single bit. Her unfinished face put Sarina at ease. When Sarina was at ease, she was more attentive to Nicole. She accompanied her to the rest room, to get popcorn, refill their drinks. Anytime Nicole could steal Sarina from her date.
When Nicole got home, she’d find her mother waiting up for Mr. Hicks, who was wrapping up the late local news. Nicole guessed that her mother attributed her blush-free cheeks to a heavy makeout session with Joe Half-Back or Lenny the six-foot-four shortstop. Mrs. Hicks wanted her daughter to be socially toasted, so Nicole never argued with her suggestive smiles or took down the Dear Abby articles about birth control taped to the fridge.
The truth was, Nicole did not care much for the boys they went out with. They droned on about sports and stereo equipment, other couples, and who had done what with whom and how soon. They wore too much aftershave. They thought passing their driver’s test earned them a hand job. Nicole did not know why Sarina was so interested, but she was. And she asked Nicole to stay with her, so she did. Every double date ended the same. Nicole in the front seat, Sarina in the back. Nicole ignoring her date’s awkward advances, making sure the boy with Sarina did not go too far.
Nicole wished she had been in Stewart’s car this night. If she had, she wouldn’t be suffering so much. She would know what had happened, what or who had gone down, if Sarina’d bailed on their elopement, if Mrs. Summers had sucked out the life that boy’d made inside her.
But with daylight approaching, Nicole had a more serious matter to consider.
The weekend before sophomore final exams and Sarina’s sweet-sixteen party, Mrs. Hicks sat down to help the two girls study. She’d chosen bright pink flash cards to liven things up. She wore her Tri Delta pendant from that afternoon’s brunch.
“First question: what body of water joins the Alabama River to form the Mobile River?”
Smack! “Tombigbee!”
“I’m sorry, Sarina.” Mrs. Hicks flipped the card around. “That would be the Mississippi.”
Nicole said, “But Mississippi’s in Mississippi.”
“Nicole,” said her mother, “try to keep up.”
Sarina readied herself, her palm shaking slightly over the Pledge-polished wood.
“Next question: capital of Alabama.”
Smack! “Montgomery! Hey, hey, Montgomery!”
“While I admire your spirit, Sarina, the answer is Mobile.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“Alabama history, your first period exam.”
Sarina said, “I’d swear it’s Montgomery.”
Mrs. Hicks said, “They both start with M. I can see why you’re confused. Mobile,” she repeated. “Think automobile. You need an automobile to get to the capital.”
Sarina whispered, “Automobile.”
“It’s on the card.”
“Card, schmard!”
Mrs. Hicks pointed to the hallway stairs. “Maybe you’d do best with some study-alone time. Your friend seems to be the only one interested in bettering herself.”
“But Mom!”
Mrs. Hicks pointed and Nicole went to her room.
Through the vent, Nicole could hear Sarina slap the table. Over the course of an hour, the slaps became fewer, her loud answers far between.
At five o’clock, Mrs. Hicks let herself into Nicole’s room.
“Mom, what the hell were you doing?”
Mrs. Hicks held up two sets of flash cards. “The white ones are for you. The pink ones are for that Summers girl.”
Nicole examined the cards as her mother seemed to shoot to the ceiling like a beanstalk grown from pride pills. She had written in all capital letters. She’d made cards for every subject. Except for their color, the stacks seemed identical. Until Nicole flipped them over. Her answers were right. Sarina’s were wrong.
Mrs. Hicks said, “We’re bringing her down a notch.”
Nicole said, “We who?”
Mrs. Hicks wrapped her viney arms around her daughter. “We—you and me, of course. Let’s get that mother/daughter spirit right this time. Let’s show those Summers not everyone gets a free ride. That woman rode her husband into this neighborhood and now that girl is trying to ride you. It’s time we show this town what you’re made of. It’s your turn to shine.”
“But I don’t want to shine.”
“Too bad. It’s your turn.”
Mrs. Hicks sat down on the bed beside her daughter and scratched Nicole’s back like she liked when she was little. Her voice, dull as a lullaby, made Nicole want to sleep. “Your Second Best routine ends today, little one. You’ve got to do better. Better than everyone. Better than her. Next year, you’re a junior. Grades are important. You’ve got to stand out.”
“Shine,” said Nicole.
“You want to drive, don’t you? You want to be able to stay out till twelve.”
Nicole nodded and thought of the places that she and Ree’d go.
“If you help me do this, I’ll give you anything you want. When I say she’s wrong, pretend that she’s wrong.” Mrs. Hicks stood and looked down at her daughter. “Otherwise, we’ll have to get you away from that girl. Your father can be convinced to take another job. He gets offers every day. He’s an excellent broadcaster. How about watching him on the Louisiana News? Would you like to finish school in the Ol’ Bayou? Catch an alligator bus? Make friends with the Swamp Thing?”
Unaccompanied, Nicole took the pink cards into the bathroom. She sat on the toilet with a large pair of scissors and proceeded to cut and flush, cut and flush. Alligator bus. Her mother was crazy. Like she would really give up Tri Delta and T-town. No way, thought Nicole. No way. No freaking way! But she would ride piggyback until Nicole finally collapsed. The days leading to exams would be the trampoline revisited. Her mother would hound her and ground her to keep her closely in check. No more oxygen for Nicole, just her mother in her face. And what of Sarina when this effort failed? No pink cards, no pink slip. Mrs. Hicks wouldn’t quit. She’d bring out the big guns. God, thought Nicole, what are her big guns? She bet her mother had a complete collection of If This Doesn’t Work, then This Will, then This Will. Her mother would keep slinging until Sarina was reduced to a notch on her belt. Shit. What if her mother was a Texas Cheerleading Murdering Mom? What if she was worse? No way. Oh, it could be. Way, she thought. Way!
After about ten cards, the bowl backed up. The water drained endlessly. Soon, Nicole knew, her mother would question the noise, pound on the door, and push her way in with a cereal spoonful of Maalox. She’d be furious at the bowlful of all her hard work. Having to call a plumber would piss her off more.
Nicole turned the scissors on herself. She traced her life line and her smarts line and, with just enough pressure, cut a trail along her love line which stopped short halfway width-wise across her palm. The blood felt warm and stung her dry skin. It was an excuse to make a fist. She squeezed and felt the wetness push in between her fingers. She watched the blood drip into the toilet and saw her future come apart in the crimson.
During that last week of school, Nicole failed every sophomore exam.
Now report cards were due to be mailed. The principal was sure to call, and Nicole wished Sarina would call her first. She wanted to tell her that flunking out wasn’t as bad as it seemed. She wasn’t stupid. Everything would work out okay. Sure, they’d be in different classes with different kids, but they’d still live across the street. They could see each other after school. Do homework. Still be best friends.
To stay friends with Sarina and relieve the pressure of competition Mrs. Hicks so actively sought, Nicole had cast off her mother’s wet blanket, soaked with maliciousness, poison, and lies.
The morning after Stewart rendevoused with Sarina, Nicole and her mother stood outside the two wide steel doors of Central High West. Principal Jessup had called and the two hurried right over.
Mrs. Hicks looked at her daughter and said, “How the hell are we going to get out of this one?”
Nicole shrugged. She stepped aside as her mother pushed open one of the doors and cut a path to the principal’s office. Mrs. Hicks did not wait for her daughter. Her high heels echoed in the dark empty hallways. Her soles left scuff marks for the janitor to mop up.
Mrs. Hicks’s voice ricocheted off the lockers. “You’re lucky I didn’t call your father first.”
Mr. Hicks was in Birmingham on special assignment. A zookeeper, distraught over the sudden loss of his arm during the crocodile rat toss, had unlocked eighteen cages before authorities arrived. There were lions on the highway. A gorilla in the midst of Little Five Points South. As last seen on TV, Mr. Hicks was on the trail of a snowy egret last spotted in the parking lot of the Mount Royal Retirement Center.
Nicole followed her mother at a very slow pace. She knew by the time she caught up Mrs. Hicks would be waiting outside principal Jessup’s office, tapping her foot, pulling loose hairs from her over-the-shoulder ponytail, which, with the help of Sun in a Bottle, was the same natural color as Nicole’s.
Nicole looked into classrooms. The blackboards were clean. The seats lined in tight, perfect rows. She knew what it would be like to repeat the tenth grade. It would be hot. Unless you counted the box in the principal’s office, there was absolutely no air-conditioning at Central High West.
Central High East was cool and refreshing. It had water fountains on both floors. It had bigger classrooms, bigger everything. Left over from Alabama’s Separate but Equal clause, the high school was divided into two campuses, West and East. The younger kids on the black side of town. The eleventh and twelfth graders on the white.
Nicole rounded the corner to find her mother right where she expected.
“Stand up straight.” Mrs. Hicks manipulated Nicole’s shoulders so that the blades were almost touching. “You could at least try to look the part.”
“What part, Mother?”
“Don’t get smart with me.” Mrs. Hicks rapped her knuckles on the opaque window. “You’re not stupid. Just follow my lead. I’ll think of something.”
Principal Jessup opened his door. He was tall and thin, but moved like his suspenders supported a barrel. He was known as a strong and silent type. He kept a paddle and a hair pick where his wallet ought to be. Principal Jessup held his door open for the Hicks and, once they were seated, put his hands on the back of each of their chairs. This was not the first time Nicole had been in trouble at school. Due to the elementary school science-fair incident, this young lady had a record.
Nicole said, “I failed. That’s all.”
Principal Jessup moved between the Hicks. He crossed his arms and sat on the edge of his desk next to the sharp bronze nameplate he forced delinquents to polish with a sock and saliva whenever they mouthed off in clas
s. Nicole could see the warped reflection of her bangs and brows. Principal Jessup stretched his legs out in front of him. “That’s all?”
Mrs. Hicks said, “Just what are you suggesting?”
“Mrs. Hicks, when a girl like your daughter does this poorly this fast, a red flag goes up and questions have to be asked.”
“What questions?”
“Questions like, drugs, feminine issues, is everything all right at home?”
Nicole shifted her weight in the waxed wooden seat. She imagined the trampoline in the city dump yard. Her body pinned to the mat. Her mother’s eyeliner pencil like a knife driven straight through her heart. In Principal Jessup’s nameplate, she noticed the golden reflection of her skin. She tried to recognize her father’s favorite brown eyes.
“Well, answer the man,” said Mrs. Hicks, stamping an exclamation point at the end of her sentence by picking up her chair, turning it away from Principal Jessup to face Nicole, and pushing it into the floor with all 108 of her pounds.
Nicole refused to look at her mother. She would not be bullied. No way. No damned way.
Mrs. Hicks said, “I’ll tell you what it is.” She put her hand on the arm of Nicole’s chair. “Go on.” She gave the chair a shake. “Show him your arm.”
Principal Jessup leaned forward and Nicole didn’t move at all. She was astonished. Her mother was about to fold up all sense of decorum and whip out their dirty laundry.
“Don’t dillydally.” Mrs. Hicks snatched her daughter’s arm and twisted it so that the palm faced up. “Look at what she’s done to herself.”
Besides the damage she had done to her hand, there were two skinny scabs connecting her wrist to her watchband. Rust-colored lightning bolts. Nicole remembered how she’d put them there when Sarina didn’t call. She’d used her mother’s cuticle clippers and flushed the blood in the bathroom sink.
