| A la dad Country Girls Old? Never. Dirty (4th grade) Dancing A Note About Your Daddy Big Women Ricki Jo, 2.0 Alecia's Blog |
(Young adult novel - an excerpt) CHAPTER 1 “When we get to high school, I want you to call me Ericka.” As I make this announcement, I'm bent over, hacking at a tobacco stalk and in an exceptionally bad mood. I stand up with the martyred stalk and heave it onto the tobacco stick between my legs. “Umph! No more Ricki Jo. It's Ericka, got it?” My best friend Luke stands up in his row and does the exact same thing, except he stabs three stalks at the same time and moves on. My pathetic stick is barely standing up on its own; it needs a few more leafy gems before it'll stand diagonally into the sun. Luke's twice my height, but every bit as skinny and still has no problem cutting tobacco. Cutting tobacco really is the pits. I mean, nobody likes spending their free time working with their dad, little brother, and dirt covered men of varying ages. But cutting? A nightmare. First of all, Kentucky in late August boasts temps in the mid 90s and 100% humidity, so, yeah, it's kind of hot. Secondly, the tobacco is at full size, meaning each stalk is weighed down with sticky, green leaves every bit as long as my arm and wide as my hips. Bent over, my shoulder swipes with the knife, my back hefts the seven pounds up, and my whole body heaves it onto the stick which my shaking legs are holding in place. Body. Aches. Usually, I get to drop sticks. But this morning, my dad decided that my little brother Ben is now “of age”, so he's been hauled to the fields for tobacco initiation. His task is to haul as many splintery, inch squared sticks as his eight-year-old arms can carry from the trailer hitched to the tractor and drop them intermittently through each row, so that when we “fieldhands” get to them, we can chop six tobacco stalks at their base and spear them onto said sticks' pointy little heads. When a little black garter snake slithers out in front of me, I shriek, do a completely involuntary yet spastic dance of horror, and throw my tobacco knife into the dirt. Hands on sweaty forehead, breathing totally out of control, I walk around in place until it slips away. I am – officially – over it. “Ugh! I hate this job! I hate this job!” “Then go drop sticks with your lil' brother,” Luke calls back. “Cuttin' is man's work anyway.” I glower at him, pick up my knife, and endure. At Luke's farm, I'm the lone female, since his older sister Claire got pregnant last fall. We used to gossip non-stop to pass the time, but her brothers aren't so chatty. I really could've used her this summer, since I'm starting high school tomorrow and basically freaking out. And the farmer's tan on my upper arms sure isn't helping. It's five o'clock in the afternoon and the sun has not quit. I'm red from its rays, I'm red from slapping at bugs all over me, and I'm red from my temper. Even this doggone tobacco is taller than me! Even tobacco has hit puberty! “I don't see why we're helping y'all out anyway!” I complain to Luke. “We don't farm anymore. My dad took a factory job. This sucks!” A low voice growls too near. “We didn't ask for your charity.” I turn and see Luke's dad standing over me, his face a mean scowl. I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see Luke step into my row, alert. The father and son couldn't be more different. Both tall, Mr. Foster has that man weight on him that at fourteen, Luke just hasn't grown into yet. Luke is dirty, wearing muddy boots and jeans and a once white tee-shirt; I probably look exactly the same. But his dad... coveralls stained from chew and dip, no shirt underneath, an old flask sticking out of one pocket and a faded handkerchief out of the other. Basically, Luke's clothes were clean when we met at the barn this morning, and his dad's weren't. “We're happy to help,” my dad says, coming to the rescue. Mr. Foster grunts, spits, and ambles off. Luke cuts a couple of stalks by me, mumbles an embarrassed 'sorry', and finishes off my stick. I roll my eyes and shake my thick, blonde ponytail, annoyed. “Yeah, real happy,” I mumble. My dad's hand lands firmly on my shoulder and I look up. “Watch that smart mouth, young lady. I can always lower it to five dollars an hour instead of six,” he threatens and walks toward Ben, who looks like a terrified tight-rope walker balancing four long sticks across his little forearms. Why are we even out here?! My dad farmed his whole life, but this winter, he got a job at the new Toyota plant in Georgetown about a half hour away. With the government buy-out and outrageous lawsuits against Big Tobacco, farming isn't a stable way to make a living in Kentucky anymore. I see lots of land vacant nowadays that used to thrive; “a man's gotta provide for his family,” my dad says, so he gave it up. A lot of guys think he sold out, but when he first told us, I was happy as a lark! We'd still have cattle, a garden, and a small orchard, but no more tobacco. It meant he'd have to work nights, but he'd get a steady paycheck, no matter what the market did with the price of our state's cash crop... and, more importantly, it meant that I was permanently off the hook from planting, pulling, setting, suckering, topping, cutting, housing, and stripping tobacco. Deliverance! Or so I was led to believe. Yet here it is, August, and although I'm getting paid now, I'm like the tobacco fairy, flitting around the county on grudging wings. We've helped the Taylors, the Fischers, the Moores, and the O'Caseys. My dad is “too old to start sleeping during the day” so he catnaps here and there and zombies himself from farm to farm, dragging Ben and me along in his shadow. I don't know if he misses the farming itself or the idea of being a farmer, but I really wish he'd get over his identity crisis. Get a porsche! A toupee! A tattoo! If you're gonna do a mid-life crisis, do it right! I swing at the base of stalk after stalk, pushing each of them over like Godzilla storming through Tokyo. I hate – swipe! hate – hack! hate – cut! hate my life! CHAPTER 2 “You have the most adorable freckles,” my momma tells me that night as I sit on the floor between her legs and she rolls my hair. With a day out in the Kentucky sunshine comes a splatter of freckles all over my nose and cheeks. Not something I love, but not something I hate either. My big ears, I hate. Freckles, I can live with. “Yeah, too bad they came from a day of work instead of a day at the swimming pool,” I say. “You don't even like swimming! You can't jump in without holding your nose,” she points out. True. But if I were at the Country Club with the other kids my age, I would glide in from the shallow end or just plain jump in and drown. At least I'd die cool. “Can you still smell the lemon juice?” I ask her as she combs my wet hair over my face. It's naturally wavy, but I want true curls for the first day. “Nuh-uh. You excited for school tomorrow, baby?” Humph. Talk about your understatements. I've been counting down the days til high school all summer long. I try to nod, but she's holding strong to the next strand of hair to be wrapped and snapped in pink sponge. I guess I'll be a new kid, but really, I've lived in this town all my life. And it's a small town. One movie theatre that plays one movie all week long. A Wal-mart (though not Super) and a Fashion Bug boast our town's biggest shopping centers. And we've got a McDonald's, Hardee's, and of course KFC. Yeah, we've got a few stop lights, but I personally think they're just for show. Stop signs usually do the trick. Breckenridge, Kentucky. The epicenter of Nowheresville USA. The reason I'm “new” is because I've gone to private Catholic school since first grade. Our town is a big Southern Baptist kinda place to grow up, but there is our one little cathedral and our one little K-8 school. There are a few other kids from my school that'll be going to the high school, too; but other than that, everybody else will already know each other. When you've got just one public school for the whole county, the student body pretty much knows each other since finger painting in elementary and staring at each other at junior high dances. Everybody knows everybody. And starting tomorrow, I'll be an everybody. “Your hair used to be straw yellow,” Momma sighs. I pass up another roller and think about what I'll wear tomorrow and who I might already know. A few girls I know from 4-H. It's one of the few social clubs I'm allowed to participate in as a non-public schooler, and I love going in to town for the monthly meetings. I crochet and sew, although I'm not talented, but I love modeling my scarf/sweater/oven mitt creations at the County Fair every July. “Now it's just that dishwater blonde,” my mom continues as she snaps the last roller in place. I get up and kiss her on the cheek. Dishwater? Seriously? Way to build the self-esteem before the most important day of my life, Momma. “Read your Bible!” she calls as I head down the hall to my room. Right. It feels like I just went to sleep. The sun is up and the air is electric. It's the first day of school. I feel like I'm gonna throw up. After strewing my entire wardrobe all over my room last night, I now wade through the mess and stand in front of my full length mirror. My skin looks pretty tan against the simple white summer dress I chose and my toenails are a pretty pink in simple brown sandals. The dress isn't new, but the training bra is. I smile at my reflection. Preston County High School. I'm in high school. Agh! My younger brother and I stand on the front porch for obligatory 1st Day of School pictures. Momma arranges us on the swing, in front of our flag pole, and at the bottom of our driveway where we wait for the bus. I oblige her scrapbook-in-the-making enthusiasm, but we made a deal that once the bus rounds the bend, the camera disappears. “Ricki Jo!” my dad yells out from the road in his 4x4 Dodge. Ben and I scoot back into the grass as he pulls into the gravel driveway, making it home from 3rd shift at the factory just before the bus comes. He parks, but leaves it in idle, diesel engine gurgling, and I know he must be in a hurry because that's such an out-of-character wasteful gesture. (The gas money, not the fumes.) With a huge smile on his face and a gleam in his eye, he heads over to where I stand, navy blue denim jacket in hand. “Look what I found.” I look. “It's my old FFA jacket! Look at the embroidery. Clark Winstead – FFA President, 1968.” I look. His face goes from excited, to expectant, to confused. “I thought you might wanna wear it today. Talk to Mr. Holland about joining FFA. You'll fit right in.” I gape. FFA – Future Farmers of America. I'm fourteen, I'm 4'11, I weigh 89 pounds, I have no boobs, no period, ears that don't fit my face, and to tell the truth, I've got a plantars wart on the bottom of my left foot. This is the first day of high school. And my father thinks I might wanna wear his FFA jacket. “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. Butterflies in my stomach, I feel the throw up sensation again. My dad tosses his old jacket back in his truck and shrugs stung pride off his shoulders. “Same bus you've taken since first grade, Ricki Jo. Exact same bus.” 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 3 “Meet you after school,” Luke says as we split at the front door. We've ridden the bus together our whole lives and I wish we had homeroom together. 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 summer”s and giggles and hugs and community. I weave in and out of the throng, offering up weak smiles and weaker “excuse me”s. In Miss Wilkes' 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 door jam is stretched wide as bodies squeeze through and 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 girl, 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 pin-up material, but doesn't look heavy either. In contrast to her body, her facial features are sharp. She's talking to Sarah, who actually lives way on down my road. 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 gated, long blacktop driveway. She's not necessarily prettier than me, but she's tall and toned and... well... rich. “Hi. My name is Marci. 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 that sat down next to me. “Oh! Hi! I'm Ericka,” I say. “I'm new, too... sorta.” Marci is exactly what I want to look like 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 kinda looks like she may have come straight from a salon. I don't know if the blonde 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, a nice girl I've met a few times before. 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 Marci seems confused, and I'm feeling good about my first day. Laura may be popular and know how to work a perm, but she also seems really down-to-earth. “This is Marci,” 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. Marci 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. Marci's from Minnesota, says her o's in a really weird way, and already knows more people 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 kinda 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 Marci tells us a little about her old school. She cheered, 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 to see freshman perfection of the male species take a seat at the end of our table. I am convinced that he materialized directly from my head as the man of my dreams. “Girls' table only, Wolf,” Kimi flirts, although 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 me 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 – like you can tell that it's that way all year long. His short, dark hair spikes up here and there like he doesn't style it at all, but probably did for at least fifteen minutes at home. He makes lookin' good seem effortless. Like, he lives in that lookin' good zone. I think I'll wear a long white gown and 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 Marci remind Laura. Oh god. Wolf is looking 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 him, breaking me from my trance. The girls laugh and I flush a deep red, feel 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 pleasure,” he says... and he winks. He winks at me! I somehow control all reflexive impulses to squeal in delight. Instead, I look at Kimi and Sarah and introduce myself the same way. “So girls. Which one of you will end up being my date to Homecoming?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. We all giggle, and as I look around, I realize that I'm not the only one under Wolf's spell... but 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. |
