Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  “No way,” Blanche is saying to Buck. “Bonn will kill me if I miss the first day of school.”

  My erratic movement catches Blanche’s eye.

  “Bonn? Bonnelyn? What’s wrong?” Her eyebrows rise. “Who’s that, Bonn?”

  “He followed me back,” I say lamely.

  Buck still sits at the bar. The pocket watch he tossed plunks against the bar, forgotten. Henry steps forward with an outstretched hand and introduces himself. I stare straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone, too in denial ’bout what just happened.

  “Hello, Henry,” Blanche says, not accepting his handshake. “Taken an interest in my girl?”

  “You could say that.”

  He’s grinning. I know it without seeing his face.

  “Are you okay with that, Bonn?” she asks me.

  I don’t answer.

  “Bonn?”

  “I…” I struggle for words. “I dropped a bottle. Broken glass,” I stammer, and weakly point behind me.

  Blanche steps forward, takes my hand. “I’ll take care of it. Say, I was ’bout to go get some clean bandages for Buck. Why don’t you go grab that for me? They’re in the closet upstairs.” She turns to Henry. “And why don’t I get you some drinks to take back to your friends?”

  I’m happy to leave, quickly zigzagging ’cross the dance floor and clacking against each stair.

  Doc Peterson’s office is dark, quiet, and a bit eerie. I hurry toward the reception area, slowing my pace to soften the noise of my heels, and enter an all-purpose room full of supplies, patient records, and a small dinette area. The far wall is nothin’ but closets, with three separate doors.

  I proceed to the first, pull open the door, find random office equipment. I go to the second, pull open the door, find a plethora of files marked with patient names.

  I step to the right, hand on the third door’s knob. I stop. The name Parker catches my eye. The name Parker, Emma.

  My ma.

  My family doesn’t see Doc Peterson. We go to Dr. Monroe in Cement City—our local physician for the trivial illnesses and injuries that have popped up over the years.

  With a shaky hand, I reach for my ma’s file. I hesitate before opening it, convincing myself that this pounding sensation in my head is an overreaction to what I’ll find to be another trivial sickness—a bad cough that Ma just can’t shake.

  But my ma hasn’t been coughing. She’s been overly tired, she’s seemed weaker, she’s seemed distracted.

  Opening the file, I start reading, and sink to the floor.

  14

  Blanche finds me slumped on the cold floor, staring at my ma’s health records. She takes me home, puts me in bed, gives me a sleeping pill she snagged from Doc Peterson’s stash, whispers that she’ll see me at school tomorrow. She pauses in the dark before she leaves, and I imagine her sad expression, mirroring my own.

  I lie there, unmoving, knowing only a wall separates me from Ma—who is sick. She’s sick, and not from a cough or a common cold. I think ’bout getting up, curling in bed beside her, but I don’t. I ain’t ready to talk ’bout it yet. Talking means it’s real.

  And phrases like “possible mammary ductal carcinoma” don’t exist in my world. My world is already too full and confusing, and that unknown phrase sounds too damning.

  When morning comes, I wring my hands and fight through the residual grogginess from last night’s sleeping pill. The clock ticks closer to the library’s opening, and I linger on our front step, debating if I should miss the first day of school and bury my nose in a thick medical book. Skipping class wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done lately. Wouldn’t even come close. But do I want to know what “possible mammary ductal carcinoma” means?

  No, I don’t. I’m not ready to know. I step out onto our porch, hugging my book bag to my chest.

  “I know I said I’d see you at school…”

  I look up to find Blanche. I was too caught up in my own thoughts to hear Big Bertha’s rumble.

  “But I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I bury myself in her arms. “Thank you, Blanche.”

  “So are you? Okay?”

  I step back, rub my forehead. “Yeah.”

  She dips her knees, leveling her eyes with mine. “You ain’t. But I read those confusing medical records, too. So here’s the deal: today is Bonn Day. We can do whatever you want. We can go talk to Dr. Peterson and demand he tell us everything. We can go see a show. Or we can get in Big Bertha and drive. Just drive, anywhere you want. The Gulf?”

  “The Gulf? Blanche, the Gulf is five hours away.”

  “Or,” she says, twisting her lips, “we can—”

  “Go to school,” I finish for her. School is part of my plan, and I don’t want to mess that up.

  Blanche slings her arm over my shoulder and leads me toward her car. “I was afraid you’d say that. But I guess that’s okay. I’m kind of jazzed for my first photography class.”

  I tilt my head. “Really?”

  “Um, should my feelings be hurt that you’re so surprised?”

  “You’ve just never expressed an interest before.”

  “Well,” she says pointedly, “I just did. Now let’s go have the best Bonn Day ever!”

  * * *

  Together, we trek up the three-tiered steps to Southwest Dallas High School. Self-consciously, I keep my head down and pull at the waistband of my new stockings, their tightness confining me. The sweater I bought with Billie feels too heavy for the early fall weather, yet I still wanted to wear it.

  I’m supposed to be strutting. I’m supposed to welcome school starting again, be ridiculously excited, ’specially now, when I ain’t feeling so poor. The problem is, I’m feeling guilty—from that kiss with Henry—and afraid—’cause of my ma’s health records—and scrutinized—from the weight of my classmates’ eyes on me. I’ve no doubt those sideways glances I’m receiving have Hazel Griffin’s name written all over them.

  And all that leaves me slumped over, studying my shoes, which are also new.

  Blanche twists left and right beside me, her school bag knocking me in the arm, as if she’s trying to absorb as much of the attention as possible. “I reckon they’re jealous of our hair,” she says. “Guaranteed, everyone will bob their hair by the end of the week.”

  I force a laugh—’cause really, bobbed hair has been popular for years in the big, big cities—and yank open the heavy door.

  “Doesn’t this feel surreal?” I ask, surveying the hallway lined with lockers, groups of students in their knee-high skirts and dresses lingering here and there. The walls are already littered with posters for an upcoming bonfire or to sign up for the yearbook staff, the debate team, the glee club, the prom committee. What? No mixology group?

  “What’s surreal?” Blanche asks, and dodges one of our classmates.

  “Going to school after the summer we’ve had at you know where.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I’m just here for my pa. That man is always raggin’ on me ’bout something. I reckon I won’t last long, though.”

  I stop, giving Blanche no choice but to do the same. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinkin’ of dropping out of school?”

  “I’m older than the legal dropout age. Why wouldn’t I?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know, Blanche … to get a diploma and have a career?”

  “Those are merely fancy words. Besides, that’s your dream, Bonn. Not mine.”

  “So, what … You’re going to leave me here all alone?”

  A girl bumps my shoulder, shouts a friend’s name.

  “Hey!” Blanche yells disapprovingly at the girl, but her voice is swallowed by a slew of our excitable classmates reuniting after the long break from school. She turns back to me, her expression no longer annoyed but sultry. “Your Roy Toy is coming this way. I best skedaddle.”

  “No,” I say, too quickly, and pull her in the opposite direction of him.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Any
thing you want to tell me, Bonn?”

  Only that I’ve double-crossed my boyfriend ’cause I’m a despicable human being.

  “Nope.”

  I’m too ashamed to admit, even to a best friend who’d shrug it off as nothin’, that I got swept up in being wanted—right into another man’s arms.

  The bell rings, and I straighten, telling Blanche we can’t be late for class.

  She shouts something at my back—probably how that don’t matter—but I’m already gone.

  The rest of my day is spent in a state of fleeing, rushing through the halls between classes to avoid just ’bout everyone: Blanche, Roy, my curious classmates. Of course, Blanche tracks me down, telling funny stories or pointing out how Mrs. Anderson resembles a walrus, but I only chuckle to make her feel like she’s succeeding in helping me have a good Bonn Day.

  Finally, one period of the day remains. World history. I slump down in a chair, exhausted, and drop my head onto my folded arms.

  I welcome the steady drone of our teacher’s voice going through this semester’s syllabus. What I don’t welcome is the “Psst” and “Bonnelyn” I hear behind me, a few minutes before my not-so-good Bonn Day is finally over. Nor am I happy, when I lift my head and find Hazel’s face, smoothed over with faux innocence.

  “How are things with your boyfriend?” she whispers. A few girls ’round her softly titter.

  I try to keep my expression blank, and turn away from her, much preferring to watch the clock at the front of the room slowly tick, tick, tick.

  Hazel’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, recapturing my attention. “I hope I haven’t said anything wrong.”

  I could growl at her sarcasm. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, but Roy and I are fine,” I whisper pointedly.

  “Roy?” she asks, her voice rising with the question. “I meant your other boyfriend.”

  She pauses and I panic, my body temperature seemingly rising to dangerous levels. She can’t possibly know that Henry kissed me.

  Hazel scrunches her brow. “Maybe it was the lighting in that restaurant, but that didn’t look like Roy Thornton’s hand you were holding.”

  Buck. She’s referring to that night with Buck.

  Hazel rocks her head left and right, no doubt enjoying the amused responses on either side. Our teacher makes a shushing noise, barely lifting her head from the syllabus.

  “I knew you were into theatrics, Bonnelyn Parker, but that looked like real life to me.”

  I lean closer, hoping the redness of my cheeks don’t betray the sternness of my voice. “What exactly is it that you’re trying to accomplish here, Hazel?”

  “Oh no, I’ve upset you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Aw, sweetie. There are tears in your eyes. I’m only looking out for you. I’ve seen Blanche Caldwell ’round town with that same boy, doing more than holding hands.” Her friends all nod their heads in confirmation, some covering their mouths as they tee-hee. “I wouldn’t want to double-cross Blanche Caldwell. Besides, I thought she was your best friend.”

  “She is.”

  Hazel tilts her head like a lap dog. “Well why would you do that to her then?”

  “I’m not.” I bang my fist on my desk. A few chairs scrape against the floor or groan with the shifting of weight. Our teacher clears her throat, peering over the frames of her glasses. I wait for her to continue reading, then pin Hazel with a glare, saying, “Enough. Stop trying to make something out of nothin’.”

  “Maybe I’ll just have to talk to Roy again, see what he has to say ’bout all of this.”

  “Again?”

  “Why yes, Bonnelyn. Roy and I are going to the soda shop together after school.”

  She smiles. I jump to my feet, my own chair making an ugly scraping noise. Once I’m standing, I’ve no clue what to do next. Throttle her neck? Slap her? Demand she stay away from Roy? My options bounce through my head while twenty pairs of eyes stare at me, while our teacher insists that I sit down.

  “Bonnelyn”—Hazel sucks air through her teeth—“you’re making a scene.”

  My brain kicks into gear. I flee.

  The final bell chimes at the same time I yank open the classroom door.

  I have one blissful second of aloneness in the hall before my classmates swarm, pouring out of doorways.

  People must think I’m crazed, the way I storm toward the exit, sobbing, zigzagging, plowing into shoulders.

  The cooler air is a godsend. I step out onto our school’s empty promenade and take a deep, calming breath before I continue my escape, walking at a near-jog toward Blanche’s car on the street.

  I yank Big Bertha’s door, but it’s locked.

  I kick the tire and curse, pleading that Blanche won’t be long.

  “Bonnelyn?” I hear behind me.

  No. Please no. Not now.

  “Bonn?”

  My bottom lip quivers and I hold back more tears.

  “Hi, Roy,” I say softly, and face him.

  He takes a step closer, running a hand through his hair. So many boys today grease their hair, but not Roy. Roy doesn’t get caught up in that stuff. Never has.

  “What’s going on?” he says gently. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

  “What are you doing with Hazel Griffin?”

  Immediately, I’m annoyed with myself. There’s so much I could say, and I say that.

  Roy’s brows scrunch. “Hazel?”

  “Yes, Hazel. Apparently you two are going out after school?”

  “Sure, but with Ruth and Shirley, too.”

  “You are going out with three girls?” I ask, even more annoyed with how my voice sounds shrill.

  Roy laughs, actually laughs. “We’re all on the paper together. Hazel is fanatical ’bout our first edition and wants to brainstorm.”

  I bite my lip. “Right.”

  Roy shoves his hands in his pockets, rolls back on his heels. As he rolls forward, he says, “Now that that’s cleared up, want to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”

  I open my mouth, close it, afraid of the lies that’ll come pouring out. I desperately want to tell him ’bout my ma. I want his arms ’round me. But I don’t feel like I deserve his comfort.

  “This Bonn,” Roy continues, “and the Bonn that snuck in my bedroom window are two very different girls.”

  I look away, embarrassed, not by how I acted then or now but by the Bonn in between.

  He nudges my chin, focusing my attention on him again. “Do you regret it? Us, together that way?”

  “No,” I say, and mean it. I touch his arm, needing to feel that contact, even if I’m undeserving. What I regret is Henry. Every single moment I’ve ever spent with Henry.

  “Good.” Roy takes my hand. “I was kind of hoping that’d happen again.”

  I laugh, needing to laugh. But behind Roy’s lighthearted comment is a tense jaw. My laugh trails off and we’re left with an awkward silence.

  “Roy,” I say quietly, noting the other students ’round us. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors—”

  “I have.”

  “Oh.” I moisten my lips. “What Hazel’s sayin’ ’bout me ain’t true.”

  “So you weren’t with someone else?”

  My cheeks flush. Henry’s silhouette from the darkened closet and the sound of breaking glass crashes into my mind.

  “Bonn?” Roy presses.

  “I was with someone, but I was with Buck.”

  He repeats the name, as if it’s a dirty four-letter word, and I quickly clarify. “Blanche’s boyfriend.”

  He sighs. “Now that’s the first thing that’s sounding like a lie.”

  “I swear it. Blanche really does have a boyfriend.” I put so much conviction into that statement ’cause it’s the truth. And lately, for me, the truth has been hard to come by.

  “’Tis true,” Blanche says, all but skipping toward us. “I’m spoken for.”

  Roy’s hand tightens on mine, and it�
��s obvious he ain’t happy to see her.

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” he says to her.

  “That ain’t my problem. Look, Roy, I get you’re annoyed Bonnelyn has been spending so much time with me, but I’ve needed her. In fact, I’m going to need her all night. You can have her back tomorrow.”

  Judging by the slow rise of Roy’s chest, he ain’t a fan of Blanche telling him what to do.

  I give his hand a squeeze. “You really should go, Roy,” I say.

  His forehead creases, probably not a fan I told him to leave, either. But it’s for the best. I’ve got work. I’ve got Blanche. And I don’t want her opening her mouth again and making Roy’s jaw any tighter.

  I watch him go. Blanche is already climbing in and out of Big Bertha to get her started, yapping ’bout something. I’m too distracted to listen. Hazel has tramped down the school’s stairs and is now throwing her arms ’round my boyfriend. Roy does nothin’ to stop her, like how I’d done nothin’ to stop Henry, and Hazel grins all vamp-like in my direction.

  “Bonn!” Blanche calls. “Get in.”

  I slam the door behind me, harder than necessary.

  “You mad? I know I shouldn’t get him riled up. But, like I told you before, he makes it so easy. Once I get going—”

  “It’s fine.” I keep my eyes trained ahead, refusing to look in Hazel’s direction again and add to her self-satisfaction.

  Blanche is quiet a few beats, then says, “Okay, good. ’Cause we’ve got bigger problems.”

  “What?”

  “Those rumors ’bout you and Buck.”

  I sigh. “Roy doesn’t believe ’em. Everything is jake.”

  Blanche purses her lips, puts Big Bertha into gear. “Whatever you say.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Roy’s hot and cold.”

  “He’s only cold with you, Blanche.”

  She snorts. “Maybe. But you know Hazel is hoping he gets hot with her. She’s been pining for him for years.”

  “She’s with Jimmy.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  I shake my head. “You ain’t helping me have a good Bonn Day one bit.”

  “You’re right. I’m done. But I reckon Roy’s not done thinkin’ it all over.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have interrupted us, then.” I cross my arms. Dallas passes outside my window. “Why’s it even matter to you, Blanche?”