Reckless, Glorious, Girl Read online

  “The worst,” StaceyAnn adds.

  “You still mean Lucas, right? Not Rodney.

  Rodney’s still cool and nice, right?” I ask,

  trying not to let it show that even the mention

  of Rodney’s name sends me

  into complete panic mode.

  “Oh yeah, Rodney’s the best.

  Not sure why he hangs with Lucas,

  but anyway, I beat ’em both so bad

  that I swear my tires were smoking.

  You know I know my own hill

  and my own speed,” she adds,

  moving in to high-five us both.

  “After that, we all rode around together

  talking about seventh grade.

  Guess they’re kinda excited.”

  “Wonder if they’re nervous too?” Mariella asks

  no one in particular.

  “Definitely not as nervous as me,” I say.

  “I don’t think anyone is as nervous as me.”

  In the Mirror

  While we’re all getting ready for bed, we stand together

  in front of my tiny bathroom mirror. Toothbrushes out.

  I look up & see our reflections. All of us still growing up.

  Me

  Still so skinny, I nearly disappear. Mamaw says slim

  but I still wear clothes in the kid section. Childlike

  is how I feel. Face full of zits suddenly. My hair

  wild & unruly. I want to be sophisticated. Almost

  thirteen. My breasts (Mamaw makes me use the correct

  word for the correct anatomy) do not exist. My shape

  does not exist. Tan now, but by November I’ll be

  ghostlike. How long until I look the way I’m supposed to?

  Even though I’m not totally sure what that means.

  Mariella

  Head full of thick black hair that tumbles

  every which way. She says it can’t be tamed,

  while wrestling it into a hair tie. Her ponytails

  last forever & she’s always wishing it shorter

  or curlier or easier to manage.

  Her brown skin is zit-less. Smooth & acne free

  & she’s always saying: Just lucky I guess since none of us

  use any fancy face wash or special lotion.

  Mariella isn’t even five feet & complains

  that she could still use a step stool at the sink.

  Mamaw calls her “petite” & high fives her

  when the two of them can’t reach the top of the cabinet

  but I know Mariella wishes

  to be taller & wishes for a reason to wear a bra

  & all of this makes us the same

  as we read magazines that promise bodies

  we still don’t have.

  StaceyAnn

  Just shaved half of her head. We all said WHOA!

  Are you serious!? She was. Easily the gutsiest one of us,

  with three earrings up one ear & four up the other.

  Seriously, she is not afraid of one thing. Calls herself

  “tough” & “strong” & “thick.” Bras are an evil invention,

  she says & prefers long T-shirts & sports bras.

  She doesn’t care to be any size other than her own.

  Olive-toned skin she loves, she calls herself “sun-kissed.”

  But she’d like bigger biceps

  & her calf muscles to be stronger, more defined.

  Says she can do twenty-five push-ups in a row

  & wants to make it to fifty. We all want something

  we don’t have. That’s kind of comforting to me.

  When I Can’t Sleep

  My nerves stay stuck in my throat.

  Eyes opened wide, moonlight slipping

  through the window. It’s too bright.

  I’m too scared. I’m too nervous.

  I’m too shy around boys.

  What if I say the wrong thing?

  Why do I care so much

  about what everyone thinks?

  Just breathe, relax.

  Mamaw says to envision what I want,

  so I force my eyes closed.

  See Rodney Murphy (who is easily

  the most comic-book-obsessed

  & funniest kid in our class)

  riding his bike

  right in my direction.

  Imagine the words coming easy & loose.

  See myself as relaxed as StaceyAnn

  gliding wild down the hill.

  Being as free as I am with the people I love.

  Talking about designing our own superheroes

  & debating about Marvel vs. DC & which universe

  is our favorite. Saying something like,

  “The best universe is the one you’re in,”

  & sounding amazing & not too awkward

  & not too clunky. But just exactly right.

  Cracking jokes & laughing ’til my sides ache,

  not so worried about how I’ll show up,

  just showing up.

  See myself confident. Not all caught up

  in pretending to be anyone I’m not.

  Midnight

  I wake up on the couch hours later,

  see StaceyAnn sprawled on the floor

  & Mariella curled in the couch corner,

  all of us snug with blankets & pillows.

  The light in the kitchen flashes on,

  & I hear Mom making loud sighs

  while loading the dishwasher, clanging

  pots & pans, opening & shutting the fridge.

  “You and your mamaw are one and the same,”

  she says, eyeing me. “A mess from here

  to the county line.” She shakes her head,

  gets her eyes to roll all the way around.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, “it’s our fault. We fell

  fast asleep. Pizza was great though. Sorry,”

  I say again. Start covering bowls, wiping

  counters & stealing leftover bites of pie.

  “You two make all the mayhem, and I’m left

  cleaning it up. It’s not fair, Beatrice.”

  I know she’s right. The two of us storm

  & clutter, create chaos together.

  It’s true: most of the time Mamaw makes

  the most magnificent of messes & Mom

  follows along behind her, cleaning them up.

  Mamaw says they’re yin & yang.

  Interconnected opposites. Slow & fast.

  Positive & negative. Quiet & loud. Morning

  & night. Summer & winter. Sun & moon.

  Earth & sky. Hot & cold. Night & day.

  Most of the time, opposites

  do not attract, & I’m always in between.

  The thread that connects the two, always

  a push & pull from here to there.

  After Midnight

  Mamaw sounds like a train snoring in her room,

  asleep in her puffy recliner, book wide open,

  sprawled across her chest, lifting up & down.

  I cover her with another quilt, study

  her silver hair sprouting out, framing

  her face like a halo or mane. Wrinkles

  etched around her eyes from smiling

  & laughing all the time. Crying too.

  Mamaw has already lived life

  to the fullest. I give her

  a silent thank-you

  for making me

  a little wild

  too.

  Rise & Keep Shining

  That’s my mom’s favorite saying.

  She calls our names & I smell bacon.

  “You’re cooking?!” I ask, surprised.

  “Your mamaw is not the only one

  who knows her way around the kitchen,”

  my mom says, nearly burning her hand

  as she cracks an egg into the skillet.

  Mariella & StaceyAnn trail behind me,

  taking seats around the table
. They both

  give me a look when they see my mom

  behind the stove. This is a sight to see.

  Mamaw is the kitchen wizard, knife wielder,

  garden grower, stove chanter, apron wearer.

  Mom is the caregiver, nurse-you-well woman,

  Band-Aids for your cuts, thermometer

  in the middle of the night. Tuck your sheets,

  take your pain away.

  They have separate skills,

  & when one tries to do what the other does best,

  there are problems.

  “What in the world?” Mamaw asks, wheeling in

  & taking the spatula from Mom’s hands.

  “Lisa, you go on now & relax. I got this.”

  She nudges my mom with her hip, shoos her away.

  “Well, we wouldn’t even be able to cook in here

  if I hadn’t cleaned up after you all last night,”

  my mom says, an edge in her voice I hardly ever hear.

  We exchange looks, not sure if an argument

  is about to break out. “Bea, could you please

  give me some space?”

  Both Mamaw & I look up. My namesake.

  We both know she’s talking to Mamaw,

  but all of us head on out to the porch,

  since it seems like distance

  is something we need most.

  Beatrice

  Maybe my parents

  could have chosen a name

  not like a granny.

  Less grandma, more teenage.

  Less arthritic, more athletic.

  Less geriatric, more youngish.

  Less old-folks home, more spring break.

  Less ancient, more modern.

  You get the idea.

  The fact that it really is my mamaw’s name

  doesn’t make it any better.

  Fact is—it makes it worse.

  Because I love my mamaw

  more than the ocean

  or french toast

  or sleeping in

  or bacon.

  & when I don’t spend all my time hating it,

  my name becomes a beacon.

  Some light to hang on to

  when it’s too dark

  to see myself.

  Porch Swinging

  That’s where I find Mom late afternoon,

  her feet curled up beneath her,

  a magazine laid out on her lap.

  After the burned bacon & runny eggs,

  after the tension & tight talking,

  after Mariella & StaceyAnn headed home,

  after I tried to ride out the whole afternoon

  buried in a book in my room,

  after I cleaned the whole kitchen myself,

  since Mom & Mamaw headed out

  in different directions,

  I found myself

  feeling more

  alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, taking a seat

  swinging right along beside her.

  “She’s sorry too,” I add,

  knowing Mamaw hasn’t thought twice

  about Mom or the kitchen or the mess.

  Mom gives me a hard stare.

  We both look up.

  Mamaw is humming in the garden,

  spending time in her sacred space.

  Not one care at all.

  “Deep down. She’s sorry waaayyy

  deep down.” We both laugh.

  “I know your mamaw prides herself

  on being unique, a character, just exactly

  who she is every second of every day,

  but some of the time those eccentricities

  make other people feel … covered up …

  like I’m in her shadow,” Mom says,

  her eyes welling up.

  “I love, love that you two are so close,

  but sometimes I feel left out.”

  “I love you,” I say to my mom & mean it.

  “There’s only one Mom and there’s only one Mamaw.”

  We look again & see Mamaw rolling her hips,

  dancing to the music of the flowers & cornstalks

  twirling in the breeze.

  “Thank goodness,” Mom says, & we both giggle

  knowing this love & this Mamaw

  are as rare as they come.

  More to Know

  “Look at me,” Mamaw says later that night.

  Both of us back in the kitchen. This time, cleaning

  as we go. Mamaw schooling me like always.

  “I didn’t go to college, barely even finished high school,

  all truth be told. Back then, they called it ‘country smarts.’

  My daddy taught me planting and seeding and seeing

  and canning. My papaw & mamaw taught me history

  and land and growing and how to tend to the land

  and my own hunger. How to manage a kitchen.

  That’s exactly what I’m teaching to you. Then I learned

  how to serve, wait tables, wait on people, learned

  to know just exactly what they wanted and needed.

  ’Course I wanted more for myself,” she says. Quieter now.

  “Chef. Master gardener. Own a restaurant. Travel

  the world.” Her eyes mist up. I can tell because she stands

  & starts to roll her shoulders back.

  “Everything I learned, I learned from the sidelines.

  So I’ve always wanted you to be on the field.

  Not learning from some junky old computer

  or stuck on a phone. But in it.”

  Swimming

  Jumping

  Running

  Riding

  Flying

  Floating

  Free.

  “That’s what I wanted. For both you and me.”

  Pastry Chef

  That’s the official name for what Mamaw is.

  But seeing as she never went to culinary school

  & learned most everything from experimenting,

  trying new things, taste testing & searching,

  they just call her Ms. Bea at Bardstown Baked,

  the delicious dessert shop where Mamaw

  has remained queen of cakes & caramels,

  ruler of treats & sweets. She’s only part-time now,

  but in her heyday, she was Queen Bea,

  developing new visions,

  meringues & candy coatings, fruit pies

  & fun flavored ice creams like Kentucky Derby pie swirl

  & mint julep sorbet. The owners still love her every idea.

  She calls herself a confectionary consultant

  & I love that she spends her days inventing new ways

  to make people silly with sugary highs.

  Mamaw, Mom & Me

  Is the way it’s been since I was born.

  On account of the fact that my dad died

  while Mom was seven months along.

  On account of slick roads December

  riding windy Old Bardstown Road home.

  On account of another car spinning still

  sliding reckless & relentless toward him.

  On account of it being early morning—home

  from his night shift at the factory.

  On account of new work for a new baby,

  on account of that new baby being me.

  Things My Dad Was Gonna Be Great At

  Football, even though Mamaw says

  “It makes your brain blow up

  and no one in their right mind

  needs to be tackling or getting tackled.”

  Still, he was good at it.

  Medicine, since he always got all A’s in science class.

  “He sure was a genius,” Mamaw says.

  Cooking. He could scramble the meanest eggs

  this side of the Appalachians. Bake biscuits,

  salmon croquettes & garlicky cheese grits.

  Crossword puzzles. He got that from Mamaw,

>   who can do them in high-speed record time.

  She says he got most of his greatness

  from her. And some (a little) from Papaw,

  who she misses most times too.

  All the men in our life gone too soon.

  She says my dad woulda been great

  at everything but that most of all,

  he would’ve been great

  at loving me.

  Things I’m Gonna Be Great At

  Speaking my whole mind.

  As Mamaw says,

  “Beatrice, honey,

  you’ve got a whole lot to say

  and all the words to say it.”

  Bringing people together.

  I’ve always loved an open house.

  Learned that from Mamaw

  & the way she keeps our front door

  swinging open.

  Healing. Learned that from Mom,

  who can stitch a wound

  & bandage a broken bone

  or heart or soul.

  Planting. Since Mamaw says

  I inherited her green thumb

  & can plant any ol’ thing

  & have the patience

  to watch it grow.

  Bardstown, Kentucky

  Rolling hills, grass

  so blue, it’s green.

  Creek beds

  & catching crawdads,

  firefly Friday nights.

  Fish fry & corn bread.

  Fried chicken livers,

  pork chops covered

  in BBQ. Porch sitting

  all day. Glider

  or swing, back

  & forth. Main Street

  slow drawl, honey

  pecans, fresh peaches

  in the summertime,

  a watermelon sliced