Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  Eight

  SAMANTHA

  STOMACHS FULL OF SUGAR, we escape to his room. My lot of presents fans out on the floor around where I sit cross-legged at the foot of Mazric’s bed. Carrie Lynn doesn’t have much in the way of money but the gifts she provided mean everything. She has seen me read plenty so her addition of books isn’t surprising, but her insisting I step away from factual and venture into the land of fantasy is shocking. Three books about a kid named Harry Potter, bearing a used sticker in the corner, tempt me more than they should. I’ve seen girls at school reading these but until the cartoonish covers sat in my hand, I hadn’t given them much thought. Further encouraging I stray from my norm, she requested on the seventh night when Maz and I can’t agree on a movie, we read to each other from one of the four R.L. Stein Goosebump novels she gave me.

  Her reasons are her son needs the practice with words and I need to move from my comfort zone. After scanning the synopsis on the back covers, I’m intrigued. Add in the bonus of helping Mazric and I’m a happy girl.

  Pappy grumbled through my gratitude for his gift. Five very girly, pastel colored shirts guaranteed to fit better than my baggy grease-stained ones. His only requirement is for me to never wear them to work in.

  How do these people know me better than my father?

  I hate how Daddy polluted my day with Jackson. Part of me knew I would have to tell Mazric about how we are in the same grade and admit my vehement detestation for the confining walls of the bully allowing public school system. I’ve grown used to the way I’m treated by my supposed peers, but I hate revealing the vulnerability to my best friend.

  When I readied for kindergarten, my teacher warned I was too advanced for her class. Daddy got scared and had me tested. While we waited for the results, his jouncing leg and nail biting told me he expected the worst. He is a simple man but far from dumb and can break down, repair, and rebuild an engine better than anyone in three counties. Have a rumble or shake in your engine? Johnny Gentry can hear it before the owner even realizes there is a problem. But a daughter with an eidetic memory and an IQ of 170 is challenging.

  At age five, kids prove they can tie their shoes and recite the alphabet while showing their skill with a pair of safety scissors. I read through all of Dad’s mechanic books, could rebuild a carburetor, and explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, though to those around me I was troublesome and talked too much.

  Daddy argued for me to stay with kids my age and won. For ten long days I had nothing better to do but tell my teacher all the wrong ways she taught the class. Mundane letter recognition and enunciation we’re far below the level I needed. When Mrs. Eiler reached the end of her tether, she demanded I skip a few grades. Further testing put me at high school level, but Daddy refused to allow a five-year-old to matriculate with teenagers. Principal Self suggested homeschooling or private tutors but couldn’t fund it. Johnny Gentry makes an acceptable living repairing cars, but the wolf of debt frequents our door and my education isn’t a priority.

  He allowed me to skip to second grade, claiming if I needed more, I could teach myself. The one hurdle I haven’t been able to leap is my insatiable desire to do things the proper way. Or what Daddy refers to as ‘adding my two cents’ worth.’ I’ve tried to turn away, bite my tongue, and pretend everything is fine but the words seem to fall out unbidden anyway.

  If I see you crossing the street outside the crosswalk, I’ll make sure you know you’re doing it wrong. When Dad makes my Kid Cuisine and doesn’t follow the directions to the letter on the box; he is doing it wrong. Betty Lou down at the Piggly Wiggly is forever bagging the cold food with boxes, putting cleaning supplies in with edibles, and she is notorious for squishing the bread and threatening the eggs. I inform her each week she’s wrong but she waves me off. When Pappy disrupts my daily chore routine, throwing off my checklist, I’m doing it wrong and I tell myself so.

  Some days I can’t stand myself but stopping my mouth from shooting off is futile.

  The potential of starting this school year with an honest to God real friend excited me until I read the disdain in Mazric’s face. Admitting my inability to make nice with the boneheads in my class brought storm clouds to my mind.

  A part of me applauded his anger at the injustice of my treatment but my expectations are low for anything to change. Mazric Vortex is my best friend but when faced with the harsh pecking order of fellow ten-year-olds, I’ll become a casualty.

  Mazric stumbles in the room, tripping over a sock hanging half off one foot. His hair wet from the shower soaks his Power Rangers pajama shirt and his black basketball shorts stick to his damp thighs. “Mom says you have to wash the lake off too.”

  I grab my frizzy ponytail cringing at the fishy stink. Cradling a pair of shorts to match his and a plain T-shirt, I shuffle to the bathroom across the hall. When I finish, I’m fresh with strawberry-scented hair and Irish Spring clean skin. A rollaway twin bed opened and draped with a patchwork quilt sits in the spot where my beanbag sat. All my new books spread out on the mattress.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “I dug it out of the attic,” Pappy says from the open door. “Figured if you’re gonna stay here, you might as well have a comfortable place to sleep.” He places a kiss on my forehead. “Happy Birthday, Sammy Lee.”

  Daddy steps in next, raising an eyebrow at my new sleeping arrangements. He mumbles his displeasure while wrapping me in a quick hug and telling me goodnight. Carrie Lynn comes in last, pulling me tight to her chest she pats a hand down my damp hair.

  “Smrphy mrphf.” I speak, but I’m suffocated between her boobs and the words muffle.

  “Ma, you’re killing her with your chest,” Maz chuckles.

  “Oh.” She giggles, loosening her grip and I gulp in air. “You’re gonna be just fine, aren’t you, Samantha Lee.” She poses her words as a prideful statement not a question. I see what I think is love in her eyes, but since I’ve never seen it before I’m uncertain. “Don’t stay up too late,” she calls as she closes the door.

  “What cheesy eighties movie are we watching tonight?” Mazric asks.

  Thumbing through my books, I respond, “Your mom recorded Charmed. We could watch it or Friends instead.”

  “I don’t understand Friends and Charmed is too girly.”

  “What, you don’t think Piper, Prue, or Phoebe are hot? And come on they kick demon butt,” I argue.

  His nose crinkles and he glares at me as though I’ve sprouted two heads. “Hot? Eww. No way. Pick. A. Movie.”

  “Fine,” I sigh, “I was saving this one but might as well watch it now.” I hop off my new bed, grab the tape, and pop it in the player. As the screen comes to life, an aluminum foil ball hits me in the side of the head. “Ouch,” I grumble, grabbing it off the floor I draw my arm back to bean him with it.

  “Wait. Don’t. It’s your present from me.” He chuckles covering his head with his arms.

  My feet pad on the carpet across the narrow space back to my cot. The ball rolls around in my palm.

  “Sorry about the wrapping. Ma used all the paper she bought on those.” He points to the books. “So I improvised.” His cheeks tint pink.

  Excited I ease open the stiff foil. When I reach the center something black flops on the quilt. I pick up the thick leather shoestring I recognize from one of Paps’ work boots. My fingers smooth down until a small flat onyx rock rests in my palm. In the overhead light and the flicker from the television, golds and greens swirl across the surface. It’s fastened to the string with an intricate coiling piece of gold. Together the pieces fashion a necklace.

  He plops in front of me, grabbing the string. “Remember last week when we were talking about wishes? I asked what you would ask for when you blew out your candles and you broke down all the reasons wishes are bogus and never work?”

  Reading his intent, I sweep my hair to the side as his hands move toward my neck. “This is your very own personal wish. A physical, touchable object t
o remind you what you dream is possible. Pappy helped me melt down one of Mom’s rings and mold it to make the harness and the rock is us. You and me. It represents all of us. You don’t get one wish for your birthday; with this you have a lifetime of them.”

  Tears mist my vision. The last piece of me I sent into the universe was a wish for my mama to come home. She didn’t and I studied the science behind the secretive yearning, deeming it useless. Mazric gave life to my pause. A warmth blooms in my chest, beating a pulse of unknown but not unwelcome adoration for this boy.

  With the ends knotted around my neck the stone warms where it rests near my heart, I look away to hide an escaped tear. The wheels on my cot roll backward with his leap from my bed to his. “Geronimo!” he bellows. I twist in time to see he misjudged the distance. Arms and legs spread, a girly scream precedes his belly flop. Face red he climbs on his bed, grumbling for me to start the fracking movie. Blankets over my mouth to hide my laughter I hit play and we settle in to watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

  Nine

  MAZRIC

  THE REST OF SUMMER vacation disappears in a flash and the first day of school arrives. Nerves make me wish I’d ate toast instead of cereal to prevent the curdling hurricane nauseating my gut.

  Mom agreed to drop Sam and me at the door for today, claiming after we’d be bus bound. The small stipend she receives from the government combined with Paps’ farm struggling under the unrelenting Kentucky dryness prompted her to take a part-time checker position at the Piggly Wiggly.

  With Sammy and me in school all day, she decided it was time to stop watching her hips grow from eating all the sweets she bakes. She made Sam happy by promising to bag the groceries properly.

  Last night, after she sent Sam home to sleep in her own bed, she lectured me for an hour on first impressions and how I only get one chance to make a good one.

  Two weeks ago, she took us school shopping at Kmart in the next town over. I got three new pairs of shorts, a handful of graphic tees, and a shining black pair of Air Jordans. Mom pushed Sam toward the girls’ section begging her to buy a few dresses, but my best friend refused, citing multiple reasons the swishing skirts didn’t work for her. Carrie Lynn Vortex doesn’t give up and while she relented, she refused to buy Sammy any more outfits from the boys’ section.

  My Splinter argued better than a politician with a cause but lost. Watching a grown woman negotiate with an eight-year-old about the merits of dressing female bored me to tears, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy Sammy Lee wouldn’t be wearing the same clothes as me. Mom used Pappy’s feminine shirts as leverage to talk her into jean shorts with flowers on the thigh and a new pair of denim summer bibs. After she added a few more pairs of cuffed shorts to Sam’s pile, we called it a day.

  Out the kitchen window I see Sammy skulking slow as a sloth across the pasture. Dressed in washed-out Levi bibs, with a hot pink shirt, she shuffles closer and closer. Ma paces on the old wood porch, worrying her thumbnail about us being late and wondering if Sam has eaten breakfast. I see a blurred figure in the distance watching her move through the grass. At least Johnny saw her off.

  “Stand over there and let me get a first day picture,” Mom says and smiles, waving a disposable camera.

  We strike a pose, side by side. She removes the camera from her eye, blinking at Sam’s messy ponytail. “Sammy, do you want me to tame your hair?”

  I angle a ‘what are you trying to do’ brow at my mom. Her unruly black spirals bundle in a mass at the back of her neck, with wild springs sticking out here and there like every other day, but for once she resembles a girl and the pink of her shirt shows off her tanned skin.

  “Uh, what do you mean tame it?” she asks, nibbling on the edge of her lip.

  “A French braid or some Dutch braids. We could add gel to help hold it down and stop the wild.” Ma cocks her head to the side, tapping the yellow Kodak box on her thigh. Sam fidgets and for once is at a loss for words. “Nah, never mind, pretty girl. Now scooch together and let me get this photo before you two are late for your first day.”

  When Mom’s sure she has a good one, we load in the cab of Paps’ 1978 blue Chevy Cheyenne. The loud pipes echo off the trees lining the driveway as Mom speeds toward town.

  Each mile we close between Double V and Seven Mile Forge Elementary, Sam’s leg bounces faster and the knuckles of the fisted hand holding the strap to her Rugrat’s backpack turns ghostly white. The old truck sputters and backfires when Mom slams it into park, killing the engine in the drop-off line. Horns honk and others, waiting to deposit their children, yell from their windows.

  A syrupy smile raises Mom’s cheeks and she waves a hand with her middle finger more prominent than the others, “Don’t get your panties in a wad, geesh,” she gripes. She pulls us both to her chest for a quick hug before placing a palm on each of our cheeks. “Knock ‘em dead, kids. Have a wonderful day and learn something.”

  I pull away. “Ma,” I complain through a sigh, but Sam leans farther into Ma’s hand. Her eyes closed and nostrils flared, I watch her throat move with a large swallow. Wetness blankets her lashes when she opens. A shadow of sadness slumps her shoulders forward and angles her head down, she mumbles goodbye and turns toward the school. At a loss, I look to Mom.

  Carrie Lynn wears her emotions like a badge. Her inability to hide anything saves me from many a spanking. Right now, she’s on the verge of dragging Sammy Lee back to the vehicle and wrapping her in a safe Mom-cocoon. Her fretting eyes twist to meet mine and one of her worrying hands grips my shoulder. “Remember your promise, Mazric Jason.”

  My spine straightens and my head rises. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She squeezes one last time and pushes me toward the entrance where Sam tries to make her body blend with the brick building.

  Curious eyes track our movement through the hall. Raucous chatter fills the air along with the static hum of first day excitement. No matter how many times I slow my progress, Sammy stays a large step behind the entire way to our classroom. Despite the shoving and sounds of new shoes squeaking on the tile floor, I stop forcing her to stand beside me. “Where’s our room?” I whisper.

  “Last one on the right,” she responds.

  Needing her smile, I grab her wrist. “Come on, Splinter. Let the death of summer begin.” Her grimace tilts a fraction on one side. Not what I wanted but it’s a start.

  I enter the room, blinded by sunshine from the bank of windows on the far wall. A tall, broad-shouldered man stands writing on the chalkboard. Long brown tables, with six chairs at each, make rows to the back of the white room.

  Kids of every shape and size clutter our prison for the next nine months. I thought Sammy’s more girlish clothes would keep her from standing out, but unless she’s buried in pastel poofy lace with shiny black shoes, coiffed curls, and a swishing skirt, she won’t blend.

  These females look like they belong in a debutant pageant. No wonder Sam stands out with her skinned knees, grass-stained shoes, and wild hair. These girls look like the toilet roll doll in Pappy’s bathroom.

  One Barbie-ish chick spots me from across the room. After whispering behind her hand to several friends, hyena cackles overtake the air. The snickering draws attention from the boys and they join the glare.

  I’m trapped in a room of cookie cutouts with no escape. I swipe behind to ground myself with Sam, but my hand meets air. She hovers in the doorway staring glassy eyed at the room. A guy way shorter than Sam slams into her back, propelling her into my body.

  “Get outta the way, Spam,” he taunts, smirking to the three boys behind him who laugh and comment, “Good one, Jackson.”

  My pack slams to the floor in the scramble to keep her from falling. The gaggle of morons fan around, with the lead assface shocked to find Sam still upright. He sees my hands locked on her elbows and his face morphs to pure disgust. “New dude, didn’t see you there. Careful touching Spam, don’t want her fake meat jelly getting on your clothes.”

&n
bsp; Fiery rage heats my face. Protective instincts tighten my insides as I nudge Sammy behind me. “Don’t, Maz. It’s the first day. He’s not worth it,” she pleads.

  This dumbass sees my protective stance and still has the nerve to keep talking. “Steer clear of Spammy Gentry. She’s like the meat we named her after. Fake, salty, spoils everything, and belongs nowhere. The he/she of the fifth grade.” He holds up his palm expecting a high-five, but the only five he will get is my knuckles meeting his teeth.

  Our teacher, Mr. Boyd, looms behind Sam. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he asks, “Gentlemen, is there a problem here? Samantha, you all right?”

  I can’t speak because my teeth swim in obscenities. Jackass turns on his smarmy charm, complete with an innocent smile. “Nope, Mr. Boyd. Just welcoming the new kid.” He extends his hand. “Jackson Mills.”

  Ah ha ha. Yessss. I slap my palm against his, squeezing until his bones crunch, knees wobble, and a sissy whimper gasps free. Sam might be taller than me, but spending the summer chucking hay bales made me twice as bulky as her and three times larger than Jackson. “Mazric Vortex,” I seethe through a locked jaw, breathing through lips split open in a twisted smile. Jackson recoils rubbing his reddened fingers.

  Mr. Boyd pulls Sam aside. After a few hushed words, he encourages us to find a seat for the reading of the announcements and the pledge, ending with an assurance he has assigned us spots so don’t get too comfortable.

  A secretary’s voice drones through the school news and lunch menu from a speaker overhead. Before our teacher nails us to a permanent seat, he asks me to introduce myself and tell one interesting fact. I swallow my nerves and rise from my chair. Mouth open to speak, I’m cut off by a woman walking in with a girl who she announces is another addition to our class.