“That’s your master plan?” I ask.
“My master plan is constantly evolving. But, he’s bound to forgive you, eventually. He bought you a house, which he’s paying on every month. It’d be in his best interest to patch things up so he ain’t out all that money.”
I frown. “Good rationale, Blanche. Very romantic.”
She shrugs. “If it were me, I’d have slapped ya and been done with ya. But Roy didn’t do that. Is that rationale any better?”
Buck chuckles and pulls a flask from beneath his vest. He takes a swig, passes it to Blanche. “Baby, where’re these violent tendencies coming from?”
She smiles, midsip.
“Let’s see if we can get through the night without any fights,” Buck says, pointing to his stomach. “I’m not at the top of my game right now.”
“Still hurts?” I ask him.
“Yeah, a knife wound will do that to ya.” But then he smiles. “Man, I don’t think I’ve been in a fight in years. Clyde and I threw some punches this one time over the stupidest thing.” He pauses, thinking. “These two fellas said Mickey Walker should’ve won this boxing match. But we thought Harry Greb won it fair and square. I’ll tell ya what … Clyde may be small, but he’s mighty.”
I picture Clyde in the alley, an image I’m ashamed to admit slips into my head now and again.
“Well,” Blanche says, “there will be no brawls tonight. Just good, clean fun, and hopefully some make-up necking between Blanche and her Roy Toy behind the bleachers.”
“Yes.” I curtly nod, Clyde Champion Barrow now a distant thought, ’cause he needs to be. I already allowed one man to distract me.
Blanche says, “Okay, let’s mingle. Bonn, act like you’re having oodles of fun. Roy will notice that. Guaranteed.”
“But I don’t want him to think that I don’t think what I did was wrong.”
“You’re overthinking,” she says simply.
Buck nods. “It’ll probably work.”
Blanche looks pleased. “Come on.” She nuzzles under Buck’s arm ’til she’s wearing him like a scarf. I cross my arms. I want there to be no confusion ’bout who Buck’s girl is.
We’re not even two steps onto the field when people start noticing Blanche.
There’s squealing, excitement, and, to my surprise, one of our classmates leans in close and whispers, “Do you still work at that secret bar?”
I gasp, yet Blanche whirls her tail. “I guess that cat’s out of the bag.”
Our classmate Shirley Johnson laughs, then grows more serious. “You have to get me in. Some of us tried to go the other day, but we got turned away.”
“Sorry, it ain’t up to me.” Blanche shrugs casually. Though, inside, I know she loves the attention, ’specially with Buck’s arm possessively draped ’round her.
Shirley pouts, but turns to me. “And you, Bonnelyn … People are sayin’ you went into hiding after your showdown with Roy on the street. Either that, or you ran off and joined the circus. Is that why you ain’t coming to school no more?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“Sheesh,” Buck says, drawing the attention to him. “Y’all are brutal. Leave Bonnelyn alone.” He passes me his flask. Shirley’s wide eyes follow the movement.
I take a long swig and decide that Shirley ain’t worth any more of my time. “Let’s dance.”
I grab Blanche’s hand. She latches on to Buck, dragging him along with us.
“Toodles, Shirley!” she calls as we skip away. Blanche playfully elbows me in the side. “Are you keeping stuff from me again, Bonn? How dare you not tell me you joined the circus? I know you like being onstage, but that’s a bit severe.”
“If that ain’t the definition of horsefeathers, then I don’t know what is.” I shake my head, putting that ridiculous rumor out of mind. “Doesn’t it feel ironic that everyone knows our secret ’bout Doc’s, but now we’re wearing masks?”
“Technically, that ain’t a mask, Bonn,” she says of the patch that covers my eye. “But if you want, we can rip ’em off”—she lifts her cat eye mask—“and be our true, renegade selves.”
“Renegade? Let’s not add any more fuel to the gossip fire.”
“Outlaws?” she offers instead.
Buck laughs.
“God, Blanche. That’s even worse. We’re not fugitives.”
“Stop squashing my fun.”
“Meow,” Buck says. “Blanche has her claws out tonight.”
She paws at him, hissing.
I drop my head into my hands, the handkerchief Blanche tied ’round my head shifting. “Dance,” I say. “I want to dance.”
The type of dancing at Southwest Dallas High School’s bonfire is a bit tamer than at Doc’s, at first. Apparently, we ain’t the only ones who snuck in alcohol. I hear Hazel—the sorriest excuse for a princess—bragging to someone ’bout how her older brother is in a fraternity and can get her liquor anytime she wants.
The night progresses and our teachers spend most of their time separating boys and girls. But not me and Roy. With every swirl, twist, movement I make, I search for him among the clowns, knights, and pumpkin-themed costumes dancing ’round the blazing fire.
My enthusiasm for dancing fades.
“I’m sorry, Bonn,” Blanche says, plopping down next to me on a bleacher. “I haven’t seen him either.”
I sigh. “I feel stupid. Part of me got my hopes up that he’d be here.”
Blanche opens her mouth to respond, stops.
Jimmy—Hazel’s Jimmy—is coming our way with a determined and steadfast walk.
“Bonnelyn?” he starts.
“Hi, Jimmy,” I say dryly.
“Would you like to dance?”
That question, it sets me on edge. Jimmy has always worshipped Hazel in a spineless way. But he’s here. That means something. I sidestep Jimmy, spotting Hazel with her ridiculously big cone hat with long flowing veil. She spins, clutching her hat to keep it atop her annoyingly perfect blonde head. Rather, Roy spins her.
I tear off my eye patch.
“Bonn…” Blanche says.
I swallow, my stomach on fire, staring at Roy’s satisfied expression, as he leads Hazel forward, backward, to the side.
“Bonn,” Blanche repeats. “What are you ’bout to do?”
Hazel’s big mouth is flung open in a smile, eyes locked on Roy.
I’m storming toward them. My breathing grows faster and faster, matching my pace. I grab the lace of Hazel’s veil, ripping her hat off.
“Don’t touch him!” I scream.
Hazel yelps in surprise. A few people ’round us gasp and cover their mouths. Hazel advances on me, hand raised before I can swing my own. She swipes at my head, but Buck jumps in, restraining her. The punch glasses he once held now litter the grass at his feet.
“Get off me!” Hazel screams at Buck. Her elbow connects with his gut, and he grimaces.
“Bonnelyn,” Roy roars, an orange glow from the fire flickering on his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I feel my own face burn—from anger, from embarrassment. “She’s evil,” I growl, pointing at Hazel, my outstretched arm shaking. “She’s been feeding you, and everyone else in our school, one line after another ’bout me!”
“That’s not true!” Hazel yells, and sneers back at me, struggling again to free herself from Buck’s arms.
“Don’t deny it, Hazel. You’ve been trying to get between Roy and me for months.”
“You did a fine job of doing that yourself,” Roy says to me, his brown eyes huge.
Blanche runs up, pulling me against her. She whispers into my ear, “Relax, Bonn.” She turns to Roy. “You two need to talk. And not here.”
Roy looks ’round at the openmouthed faces of our classmates. One of our teachers appears through the crowd. “Fine.”
He turns on his heels, and Blanche pushes me after him. I stumble forward and smooth my ruffled hair beneath my handkerchief, trying to m
aintain whatever teeny, tiny amount of dignity I have left.
He leads me beneath the bleachers.
I hang my head, stare at my feet. The rush of adrenaline I felt only moments ago evaporates. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Acted like a complete crazy person.” He tears devil horns off his head. “Jesus, Bonn. You attacked her.”
I press my hands against my face, stretching my skin. “Hazel makes me so angry.”
He throws his hands up before crossing his arms. “Why? She wasn’t doing anything. You can’t blame Hazel for all of this.”
Only moments ago, I saw the way she smiled at him, and how he smiled back at her. I grit my teeth. Hazel knew what she was doing, and Roy ate it up like his favorite dessert. Even Jimmy knows it, asking me to dance to finally take his own stand against her. But sayin’ that now won’t help; it’ll only make me seem more childlike, guilty.
Roy shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do, or say, or think anymore.” He uncrosses his arms, his face turning sad. “This hasn’t been easy on me, ’cause this is you. I’ve tried to rationalize things, maybe too much. I can deal with that speakeasy. But I keep coming back to the same thought: you kissed that jerk.”
I step closer, touching his arm, my stomach tingling when he doesn’t pull away. “I wish I could go back and change things. A lot of things.”
“I wish you could, too, Bonn. But it doesn’t work that way.” He steps back, and my hand slips from his arm.
I could tell him how I got a tattoo to prove my commitment to us, but with how he’s scrutinizing me, forever inking his name on my skin now seems rash, crazy. Crazy ain’t going to win Roy over. Not after I attacked Hazel. All I can do is lower my head and count the beats of silence between us, while that stupid tattoo burns between my legs like the worst sunburn I’ve ever had.
When I look up, Roy licks his lips, swallows. “As much as I want us to exist, this”—he pulls out a stained, creased piece of paper from his pocket—“doesn’t seem possible anymore. Too much has happened.”
My doodle of us together, happy, old and gray.
I knead the back of my neck, squeeze ’til it hurts.
We stand there awkwardly, the seconds ticking by.
“I’m going to go,” Roy mumbles, and steps ’round me.
I stare at the rows of shadows the bleachers cast and rub my arms. Behind me, the sound of his shoes against the gravel grows quieter. With each step, I grow panicked, frantic.
My heart pounds. My brain buzzes. A million thoughts run through my head, but none of them is how to fix this mess I made. All I know is that I can’t let him walk away. If I do, I know this will be the last time he does.
Then it comes to me, what to say. Something I know Roy won’t—can’t—ignore. Not after years of sitting at our table, climbing the tree in our backyard, dodging the swing of my ma’s hand after he let a cuss slip out, with a devilish grin on his face, identical to my brother’s.
“My ma is sick!”
I feel slimy as soon as the words leave my lips. But it doesn’t stop me from holding my breath, waiting, listening. The sound of his shoes against the gravel grows louder.
“What?”
I turn, facing Roy, but I’m unable to look at anything but his shoes. “My ma is sick,” I whisper.
With the back of his hand, he nudges my chin up ’til our eyes meet. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. Won’t know ’til after her surgery.” A tear slips down my cheek, and my breath hitches. “I’ve changed, and I’m sorry for all the bad that came with it. But we can find each other again. Please don’t leave me, Roy. I need you. I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Shh.” Roy pulls me against his chest, and I breathe in his familiar scent of Ivory soap. “I’m here, Bonnelyn. I’m not going anywhere.”
I hold on tight, a sliver of a pleased smile cracking my lips.
19
Roy squeezes my hand, most likely to check on me. I’ve been staring at the hospital’s waiting room wall for an indiscernible amount of time.
“This is taking too long,” I say to him and my brother.
Buster’s got his head propped on his hand, elbow on the chair’s arm. He looks up. “Dr. Peterson said it’d take a while.”
“I know.” I breathe out. “But shouldn’t they be done with Ma’s surgery by now? Maybe we should call Billie and Aunt Marie so they don’t worry.”
“And tell ’em what?” Buster says. “I’m sure Billie is sleeping anyway.”
“Yeah.” I recross my legs. “I guess it can’t be much longer.”
Buster shrugs and grabs a newspaper atop a stack of magazines. But I know my brother is worried too. His muscles are too tense. His jaw is too rigid. I exhale again, but it does no good. My mind drifts to dangerous places, to an operating room in Europe, where my daddy died during the Great War.
I don’t know much ’bout that day; Ma made sure of that. But I was home when the uniformed officer came to our front door. I was also secretly there when my aunt raced into town to comfort her. I sat slumped outside Ma’s bedroom door, listening to her wail.
“I can’t picture him that way,” Ma cried. “Dirty, bleeding, helpless.”
“Then don’t,” Aunt Marie said. “Remember him whole, with his wicked smile and his deep, lazy laugh.”
Ma bawled louder after that.
I held back my tears, needing to listen. But how “The surgeons did all they could” and “Henry died during his sleep” became things I regretted hearing. For months, as a seven-year-old, I was afraid to sleep, for fear of not waking. I decided, long ago, that sometimes not knowing is better.
Now I’m ready to throw that theory out of the tiny hospital window into the cool Dallas night.
I squeeze Roy’s hand back, so thankful he’s here with me, so thankful he’s on his way to forgiving me. But I need to stand, to do something, and I free my hand. That something includes pacing ’round the room. I stop to fix a crooked picture frame on the wall.
“Relax, Bonnelyn,” my brother says. “Dr. Peterson and the surgeon said the operation should go without a hitch.”
I cross the room and grab Buster’s wrist, the one without the cast, to check his watch. “I’ll wait five more minutes,” I say. “Ten o’clock. Then I’m finding a nurse.”
“Suit yourself.”
I slump back into my chair, tap my foot, clench the armrests with both hands. “Anything good in there?” I ask Buster, referring to the newspaper.
He flips ’round the paper.
STOCK MARKET INVINCIBLE. “BUY, BUY, BUY!” EXPERTS ADVISE.
“Oh, this fella at—” I stop myself from finishing my thought ’bout how Mr. Champagne Cocktail mentioned the stock market the other week. I sheepishly glance at Roy from the corner of my eye.
He rubs his jaw. “You can say it, ya know: ‘Doc’s.’ You’re allowed to talk ’bout that place ’round me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“In fact, I’d like to see this Doc’s of yours for myself.”
I smile.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that article ’bout the stock market, either,” Roy adds.
A nurse with tired eyes rounds the corner into the waiting room. “Mr. Parker, Miss Parker,” she says in an even voice. The smile disappears from my face. “You can follow me. Your mother is out of surgery.”
“How is she?” Buster asks.
“Everything went just fine,” the nurse says, still deadpan. “She’s groggy and heavily medicated, so she’ll be a bit confused. That’s normal.”
The word normal sticks with me. “Normal” should be my daddy whirling Ma ’cross the living room, dancing to music he hums into her ear. Or filling that last chair at the dinner table while Little Billie serves us more than canned beans.
Roy touches my arm. “Bonn.”
I don’t respond, still stuck in my head.
“Bonn,” he repeats.
“Yeah? Sorry.”
“I’ll
go call your aunt, then meet you in there, okay?”
“Thank you.” I tuck my hair behind my ears before following the nurse down the brightly lit hall, the hospital eerily quiet this time of night, and into Ma’s darkened room. Three sets of curtains create separate areas. With each one closed, I don’t know who’s inside or why they’re here. That unknown has my skin crawling. The nurse pulls back the third curtain for us to walk through.
Billie and Buster take after our daddy, tall and lean. I have my ma’s height. We’re small-boned, small-chested, and she’s too tiny in this giant hospital bed. A white sheet is pulled high, only her arms and head sticking out. Wires and tubes look like they’re keeping her tied down, as if she’s some prisoner of the hospital.
The nurse brings her finger to her lips, making a Shh sound, then points to the other curtains. I ignore her, saying, “Ma,” and I take her hand, carefully avoiding a tube. Her eyelids flutter. A slow smile spreads ’cross her face before she mutters my name.
Behind me, Buster stands half in the little area, the curtain propped on his shoulder. I motion for him to come closer, and his movement shifts our ma’s eyes to him. In the darkness, Buster’s blond hair appears darker.
“Henry?” Ma says, her voice cracking.
A tear slips down my cheek. Buster stops midstride.
She struggles to lift her head. “Henry, is that you? Are you back?”
I cling to her hand, not wanting to let go, and stare at her pale, hopeful face. I open, close my mouth. I’m not going to tell this woman that her husband, my daddy, ain’t here. I won’t make her relive that moment when her world came crashing down ’round her. I look to Buster, pleading for him to do something, say something. But he’s gone, the curtain settling back into place.
Confusion makes the creases along her forehead more pronounced. But then her features smooth and she smiles. “My Henry always finds his way back to me.”
I raise her hand to my lips, kissing it, and leave wetness behind from my tears.
“Ma…” My lips quiver as I search for something to say. “Little Billie says hi.”
“Sweet girl,” Ma mumbles, her eyelids fluttering once more.
“Bonnelyn.”
I whip my head toward the voice, a head poking through the curtain.
Becoming Bonnie Page 17
