I had Mrs. James whose personality
was about as opposite of mine as you can get.
She was calm, old, and, in my mind, nondescript. I think she liked me. I think I'm rememberin’ that right. But I still harbor a little resentment over
the fact that I was not in the top reading group, the tire-sitting group, 1st
grade’s first class. The best readers
got to luxuriate on a gigantic black tire with deep treads when they were
reading. I was in the economy section of
reading groups, and I did not like that.
I wanted more tire time and more books in my hands. They got to do extra reading while we had to
do math or take a nap. I hated takin’
naps or rather tryin’ to lie still while everyone else did. But I loved makin’ sock puppets for a play called
The Three Billy Goats.
Mrs.
Williams seems nice, too. Julie is lucky
to be in her class. I like her classroom
with the pretty green carpet, but she’s really, really old. She has white hair. Nah. I
think Mrs. James is better than Mrs. Williams.
She reads us The Boxcar Children.
I don’t know if Mrs. Williams reads The Boxcar Children.
In kindergarten, I had a crush on
Jon Burrow, but he did not have one on me.
He had cotton blond hair and bright blue eyes like a miniature version
of Luke Skywalker. Just looking at him
thrilled my five year old soul. He was
sooo cute. But he just wasn’t that into
me.
In first grade, there was a new kid
in town, Allan Samp. He was a Yankee
from Michigan, and his smile could light up the world. He had beautiful brown skin, dark brown eyes,
and jet-black hair. I wanted him to like
me. At naptime, I would watch him walk
out of the cloakroom with his mat and hope he would lay it down next to mine. But Donna or Chastity always got to him first. “Come lay by me,” Chastity would tell him,
and my heart would sink as he dutifully followed her, like a puppy, across the
room and away from me. The next day it
would be Donna Green. “Allan, come over
here. I saved you a spot.” When he went to sleep by her, I felt deep
pangs of jealousy. Why does he like them instead of me? They’re
so bossy. I want him to lay by me.
“Here,” he says as he smiles and
extends his right hand forward with a closed fist. I’m in line behind Allan
Samp at the water fountain. “I have
something for you,” he says. I stare at
his hand and open mine, palm facing up.
He places a tarnished gold ring in my hand. Smiling, I look up at him. I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t phase
him. He’s proud of himself. So he flashes me a huge grin, takes his turn
at the water fountain, and walks away. I
take my turn at the fountain, making it last a little longer than you’re
supposed to, because I love cold water and could stand there all day. Then I pull my head up, wipe my mouth with my
right sleeve, and step away from the line to get a better look at the ring. With my back to my classmates, I uncurl my
fingers just enough to get a good peek.
Ooh. Yuck!
It’s ugly. Why did he give me an ugly ring? I don’t want it. I make sure no one is lookin' then I try it on
each of my fingers, because I like the feel of rings. It’s
too big. Way too big. It doesn’t even fit on my thumb. The corners of my mouth turn down. I’m disappointed. The ring is useless to me. I curl my fingers back over it and don’t know
what to do other than hold it in my hand. I don’t want it. I don’t like him anyway. He never lays his mat by me. Maybe he does like me, but he also likes
Donna and Chastity. And I’m definitely not into sharing. It’s
not even pretty.
It’s not my style. At age six, I have no idea what my style is,
but I do know this isn’t it. I’m more
into bright colors and shiny. I like my
mom’s rings that are fourteen karat gold and new looking, and I like the ones sitting
on pretty green velvet in the case at Goldbro’s that I get to try on when we go
to Birmingham for Christmas shopping.
When
I get a little bigger, Daddy says he’ll buy me a real ring. I want one with my birthstone it in. A ruby. For now, I get by on the colorful plastic
rings that he lets me pick from any time we are at his dental office and whenever
Peggy cleans my teeth.
I mill around in the hall with my
classmates who are looking at the artwork on the walls from Mrs. William’s
class. They are so lucky. We never get
to paint in our classroom. The most
fun thing we’ve done so far is trace our hands on construction paper and turn
them into turkeys for Thanksgiving.
I linger in the hall as long as I
can then reluctantly go back in the classroom, sit down, and listen to Mrs.
James read to us. I wonder if there is a boxcar in the woods behind our new house? I’d like to live there and drink water from
the creek out of beat up tin cups like Violet. The thought of living in the woods utterly delights
me. I
like the name Violet. I bet she’s
pretty.
“Children, line up by the
door. It’s bathroom time,” says Mrs.
James. I get in line still holding the
ring. Now my palm is sweating. Maybe
I’m not supposed to have this. What if Mrs. James can tell I have somethin’
in my hand? What if she asks to see what
it is? She might get onto me. She might be mean. She already made me throw up. I told her I didn’t like green beans, but she
didn’t listen.
Standing over me in the lunchroom, Mrs.
James had ordered me to just try the mushy
dark green beans on my plate. They made
me gag. Instantly. I hate
green beans. I’m so glad my momma packs
a lunch for me. She and Granny and
Lesia are the only ones who know how to feed me. What will Mrs. James do if she
sees me with this ring? My heart beats
fast as I casually slip my hand into my scratchy wool pants’ pocket.
We file out of the classroom two by
two and walk all of ten feet past the water fountain into the industrial green girls’
bathroom. The second to last stall’s
door is open, so I go in and close the door behind me. Click goes the lock. I turn and stare down at the cold black seat
and the shiny silver handle for flushing.
I can just flush it down the
toilet. I don’t want it, and I don’t
wanna get in trouble. So I do.
I let the ring fall from my hand into the commode. There’s a pleasant tink as it hits the bottom
of the hole, and I like the powerful sound of it being wooshed away. But as it disappears, I feel a mild sort of
dread, a wave of relief mixed with regret.
I hope he doesn’t ask me what I
did with it. I’ll just have to lie. I can tell him my mom won’t let me wear it to
school.
It’s Wednesday, so that means
Mission Friends. My mom picks me up from
school late, but I don’t mind. I’m
standing on the cracked red dirt by the concrete sidewalk chatting away and watching
the other stragglers stir up fire ants with a stick. The ants are goin’ crazy. I lean in to get a good look then back
away. I’ve stepped on fire ants barefoot,
and it hurts Bactine bad when they bite.
I cried when they bit me and then again when my mom squirted the cold Bactine
on my foot.
“Sorry I’m lately, Honey,” Mom says
as I crawl into our bright orange Dodge Colt that she hates. There is a gas crunch on, and my dad bought
it for her without asking her opinion first.
She cried when he brought it home.
“Take it back,” she had said. “I
can’t,” he told her then tried to reason with her. “Orange is the safest car color, Niki.” Like that would matter to her. She thinks it’s ugly as sin. I don’t think it’s that bad. I kinda like the bright color, but the black
vinyl seats burn my legs in the summer, and I don’t like that at all.
“It’s ok,” I say with a smile. She asks me about my day, and I tell her
everything except the stuff about the ring as we drive a few blocks to
church. I’ve already forgotten about it. She happily deposits me at the playground
where all the other kids are. I hop
outta the car, run to the merry-go-round, and jump on as it slows down just enough
to get on. I love the merry-go-round. The
wind feels good on my face. Our teacher
grabs the metal rails and swooshes us around.
“Faster,” I yell with my friends.
“Faster! FASTER!” we scream,
giggling as we get louder together. She
makes it go faster. I hold on a little
tighter, but I love every minute of it.
Next, the boys play with yellow
dump trucks in the sand box while the girls scale the tall rectangular house of
monkey bars. I go on the slide a few
times then we all take a break for red Koolaid from tiny paper cups and butter
cookies, the kind with the hole in the middle that look like pretty flowers. “Hey look,” I say as I playfully put one on
my pinkie finger and chomp a petal off.
The other girls follow suit. It
takes practice to keep them from breaking before we can bite off every petal
and leave the ring. Yum. “These are so good,” I say.
We go inside and sit in colorful pint-sized
plastic chairs with cold metal legs.
Mrs. Sharp tells us a story about baby Moses. She says his mom wrapped him up in a blanket
and put him in a basket so he could float down a river to safety. Moses has a big sister that gets to watch him
float and follows him to a princess and a palace. “He’s found in the bulrushes,” Mrs. Sharp
says. I thrill at the sound of that
grown-up word, and say it in my head. Bulrushes.
I imagine really tall grass and cattails like the ones I’ve seen by
the pond at the municipal golf course. I’d love to float down a river in a pretty basket. My mom loves
baskets.
We are always shopping for them.
I’ve already had great experiences
with floating at Smith Lake in a yellow polka-dotted dragon float with my older
cousin Adrian whom I revere. And I float
in the pool at Continental Condominiums in Panama City Beach, mostly in pastel
plastic rings with cartoons on them. I love
floating. So far, it’s a top ten
experience in my life. My momma and daddy
even take me out in the ocean, where it’s over my head, on long skinny floats. We float over the small waves together for
what seems like hours. If I didn’t have
to wear yucky Nosekote, it would be the first grade version of heaven.
Baby Moses’ story is sweet and exciting. It has a baby and a big sister. As luck would have it, I just got a baby
brother who I absolutely adore. I try to
imagine Momma putting Steve in a basket and sending me to run after him. That
would be so much fun. Steve would
probably love it. He loves the beach and
the water. We can leave him in the
playpen underneath the umbrella all day long. It seems like a very happy story. Moses went on an adventure, grew up to be
famous, and got a lot of attention.
“Who wants to learn how to make a
basket?” Mrs. Sharp asks. I do.
I do. I raise my hand high as
other hands shoot up around me. Out comes the construction paper in long
thick strips, and we get to choose our own colors. The basket in the picture is brown, but brown
is ugly. I like green. So I choose long green strips for my
basket. We learn to weave by
criss-crossing the strips and end up with baskets that remind me of the ones at
Granny’s with the holes in them that hold all the peaches, except these have
staples and a paper handle. I try to
write my name on mine, but it comes out crooked, and it’s hard to read, because
I used a green crayon. I look at it and
sigh then make the best of it. Oh well.
It’s still a pretty basket. “Good
work, Shannon,” says Mrs. Sharp. “Thank
you,” I say beaming back at her.
At night, I crawl in my twin bed
with Lamby, a stuffed lamb who is big by the stuffed animal standards of 1978. I’ve had Lamby since I was a baby. He was a fixture in my nursery. He used to tower over me when I put my arms
around his floppy neck. I’m just now
outgrowing him and his dingy white fur now flattened by love. I love Lamby. I put my arms around his
neck and give him a tight squeeze.
“Goodnight, Sweetie,” Mom says as
she walks into my room to tuck me in. “I
wanna glass of water,” I say. “Ok, I’ll
get you one.” She heads toward the
bathroom, the wrong direction. “No, I
want kitchen water,” I yell after her. She
sticks her head back in. “Are you just
stalling because you don’t want to go to sleep?” she asks. “No, I’m really thirsty,” I say. “Ok, but then you have to go to sleep.” I hear my mom’s footsteps as she walks to the
kitchen and then returns with a small glass of ice water. I take one big gulp and put it on the
nightstand next to me. “Sleep tight,”
Mom says as she leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Momma, will you lay with me?” I ask as she
gets to the doorway. “Yes, but just for a few minutes. You need to go to sleep.” She lays down next to me on my bed and
snuggles in close. I lay my head on her
shoulder. She smells like Vicks Vaporub,
and her moss green nightgown lights up with electricity as she moves in the
dark. Whoa! I hope it doesn’t
shock me. Then it does, but it doesn’t
really hurt.
“I’m hot,” I say after a long
minute. “You know what to do when you’re
hot, don’t you?” she asks. “Uhn-uh.” I
reply. “Just turn your pillow over and
it’ll cool you off,” she says. I look at
her like she’s crazy, but I lift my head and let her turn my pillow over. She’s
right! It does. “ That feels so good,” I tell her and giggle. “Told you so,” she replies with a smile. My cheek is soft and cool. I’m
gonna do that every night. Curled
into my mom’s soft body, I close my eyes and fall asleep before she gets up.
“Up and at ‘em,” Mom says from the
hallway. But I just fell asleep. I do not wanna get up. I’m sooo sleepy, and it’ll
be cold.
It’s so warm under the covers. I start to fall back asleep. Momma sticks her head in my room. “Feet on the floor, Shannon.” She goes into my bathroom to fix her hair. Without opening my eyes, I rotate my body
under the covers and stick my feet out until my toes touch the floor. I’m technically obeying her. “Are you up?” she asks from the bathroom
while she hums off-key and sprays her hair.
“Uh-huh,” I say trying to sound awake but doing my best to get a few
more precious minutes. I fall back to
sleep, half in and half outta bed.
My mom comes in and puts my rust corduroy
pants and a thin long sleeve cotton plaid shirt on the bed next to me. “If you don’t want a spanking, you better hop
to it.” So I do. Sort of.
I put on all my clothes under the covers without sitting up. When I hear her coming back to check on me, I
roll out of bed and stand up. She
glances in quickly and looks satisfied that I’m up, barely.
I find my AAA navy leather shoes
that we had to go to Patrick’s to buy. I
put them on and admire the little cut-out pattern on the front. I can see my white socks through them and I
like the way it looks. Still half
asleep, I head to the kitchen and eat some warm Quaker Instant Oatmeal with the
one heaped up spoonful of sugar I’m allowed.
I take my time, read the Raisin Bran box that Daddy left on the table,
and leisurely scrape all the sugar off the bottom of my bowl.
“Shannon, it’s gonna be chilly
today, and it’s raining. You need a
coat.” Mom opens the closet at the top
of the stairs and hands me my new pink windbreaker from my Granny’s store, Kiddie
Land Shoppe. This cheers me up a
little. Unzipping the secret compartment
for the hood and putting it on finally wakes me up. We head to the garage and get in the car that
my Daddy has turned on and warmed up for us.
My mom and I ride to school without talking. We just listen to country music on WZZK. She turns it way up like she always does. Sleeping
single in a double bed, whoa oh oh, tossin', turnin', tryin' to forget whoa oh oh. . .I sing
along in my head, happy to know the words.
“Have good day,” Mom says when she
drops me off at school. “I will,” I say
happily as I grab my book satchel and red Looney Tunes lunch box. I wave at her to go on, but she waits ‘til I
get to the door to drive off. She doesn’t have to do that anymore. I’m a big girl.
“Hey Shannon, remember that ring I
gave you?” Allan asks, first thing, as I
walk through the classroom door. “Ye-ah,”
I say. “Well, I need it back. It was my sister’s. I took it from her jewelry box without asking.” Uh-oh. My eyes widen, and I feel funny inside. “Uh, I don’t have it anymore.” “What? Why?
Did you lose it?” he asks with a smile, not suspecting me at all. I think about lying. I really wanna lie, but I think it’ll make me
feel even worse. “No, I flushed it down
the toilet,” I say, like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. We stare at each other for a long second. His is a stare of disbelief. Then he looks worried. I’m
sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t say anything. “Well,
I’m going to be in a lot of trouble,” he says, “She’s really mad at me.” I shrug my shoulders. It’s
your fault, not mine. You shouldn’t have
stolen your sister’s ring. But despite
my nonchalant face, I do feel bad for him.
And it will be eighteen years before another guy gives me a ring if you
don’t count my daddy. Every Valentines
Day will pass without a boyfriend – no flowers, no chocolate, no teddy bears,
and no rings.
*i can barely remember where my keys are, so this is a work of pure fiction, based on a true story.
*i can barely remember where my keys are, so this is a work of pure fiction, based on a true story.
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