Reckless, Glorious, Girl Read online

  Quilt thrown over.

  Remote in hand.

  Mamaw, Mom, me.

  Not so bad.

  Mom Says

  “Just so you know, now that your period has arrived,”

  (as if it’s a package I’ve been waiting for

  as opposed to my entrance to womanhood)

  “you can get pregnant. You’re officially a woman.”

  “OMG, why would you even say that?” I shout,

  surprising myself & Mamaw, who perks up at us.

  “I haven’t even kissed anyone yet,” I hiss-whisper.

  Not even close. Not even almost close. Not even

  anywhere in the vicinity of close. Jeez. Mamaw holds in

  a giggle and says, “Everything has its time. You

  can never be too careful, Beatrice.” “Your body

  is your own,” we both say in unison. A song I’ve heard

  hundreds of times. ’Course I’d read Our Bodies, Ourselves

  & It’s Perfectly Normal. & I knew it was, but ugh, hearing

  my mom & mamaw talking about me as if I’m not even here

  makes me wish I wasn’t. When I retreat to my room, Mom

  calls out, “Should we order takeout?” Why can’t my family

  be normal?

  Period Drama

  Later that night, I hear my mom crying & laughing

  on the phone with her best friend, Cindy, who I call

  Aunt Cindy, even though she’s not my real, real aunt.

  She’s telling her about me getting my period.

  I’m about to lose it on her when I hear her say,

  “Can you believe it? Just when she started hers,

  mine is starting to end. Her life is just beginning,

  and I’m so happy for her, but …

  & then there is a silence

  as big as the mountains heading out of town.

  Rising

  Rising

  But what? I want to shout. Is she mad at me? Hurt, sad?

  “You know, I always thought that I’d have another baby,

  somehow give Beatrice a sibling, but every month

  that goes by, I just feel older and older and like somehow

  I’m not giving her enough.”

  I resist the urge to yell out, You give me everything,

  even though I complain, it’s enough, you’re enough.

  My life is complete & enough.

  You & Mamaw & this house & my room & my heart,

  all of it is here & enough, enough, enough.

  “You know, I met someone,” my mom says so quietly

  that I have to lean on her doorframe, “so I guess all

  is not lost.” There is a pause, & I almost push her door in.

  “Harrison Douglas. Yeah, he’s my age. Perfect.

  Medical sales. Met him at the hospital.

  Can you believe it? Sometimes he shows up early

  just to see me before my shift ends.

  Also, he’s got a great head of hair.”

  I hear my mom start to laugh, & then she says,

  “I haven’t told Bea or Beatrice yet. But soon.

  I think it’s about time. And I really think

  it’s about time for me to have some

  real happiness. A chance

  at love.”

  I Resist the Urge to Yell—

  I love you! You love me!

  We love each other. & Mamaw too!

  We have loads & loads of love.

  & real happiness too.

  Harrison Douglas?! Who the hell

  is Harrison Douglas? & WHY

  does he have two last names?!

  Google Search: Harrison Douglas

  Before she leaves for work, Mom comes in my room.

  She wants to congratulate me again. “Your period is here!

  I am so happy for you. Rest easy tonight,”

  she says before kissing my forehead

  & walking out the door for her shift.

  As soon as her car is out of the driveway, I rush

  to turn the computer on with hopes it will actually

  power up by the end of the decade. It chugs along.

  I tell Mamaw I have some research to do

  before school starts & need technology to do it.

  Mamaw hardly ever checks up on me, since she thinks

  computers can’t hold a candle to the human mind

  (her words) & that our particular computer is possessed.

  She’s not wrong, & she definitely does not believe

  in the modern world. At all.

  Google Search: Harrison Douglas. Images pop up.

  His hair certainly is something to talk about.

  It poufs up & off his head. Who in the world …?

  As soon as I go for a deeper dive, Mamaw arrives,

  a cup of hot jasmine tea steaming in her palms.

  “That some new teacher of yours?” I close the tab

  fast as possible. “No, no, no, it’s … I don’t even know,”

  I lie. Mamaw can tell but says nothing. “I’ll do this later,”

  I say, closing up the computer, figuring Harrison Douglas

  & his hairdo can wait. Besides, they’ll probably break up

  before I ever even meet him.

  ’Specially when Mom realizes

  she’s got us & all the love

  in the world

  right here.

  Gardens, Books & Bourbon

  Mamaw’s club meets every month at our place.

  They take over the kitchen, mixing cocktails

  & mocktails. “Old-Lady Brain Trust”

  is what Mamaw calls them. Vintage. Veterans

  with thousands of stories to tell & hundreds

  of years between them. Seven in all. They are

  Old Bardstown. Keepers of secrets.

  They say, “Beatrice, you look just like your mamaw.”

  They never say I look like my mom. Believe me.

  I’ve listened real close. & I’d like them to.

  Don’t get me wrong, Mamaw is striking

  with her wild hair & strong jawline. But Mom

  is the real stunner, with the smoothest skin,

  deep brown eyes, & hair that loops in curls

  around her heart-shaped face. She’s five foot eleven

  & can reach to all the counters, her muscles

  perfectly strong & fit. But I’m all Mamaw.

  Scrappy & rough around the edges.

  “Don’t slouch,” they say when I start

  my daydreaming. “Aren’t you sweet.

  Be sure to clear your plates. What a doll.

  Be sure to keep up at school this year.

  Such a good girl. Don’t talk back to your elders.

  Have another helping. Don’t eat too much.

  Aren’t you smart. Don’t correct your mamaw.”

  Ahhhh, is what I think in my head. Complicated.

  They want me quiet & loud. Spunky & timid.

  Confident & modest. Bashful & bold. All at once.

  Everything at the same time. Say back in the day

  that’s what was asked of them. I wonder

  why they’re still asking it of me.

  Three Days Before School Starts

  Begin the begging for real.

  “Hairy legs = ugly.

  Smooth legs = pretty.

  Smooth + me = cool.

  I saw it with my own eyes

  twirling on the merry-go-round.

  Heard it from Zoey Samuels,

  a freakin’ fifth grader.

  Let me shave my legs.

  Please! I can’t be caught

  looking like a schnauzer!”

  “A what?” Mamaw asks,

  acting like she’s never seen

  a hairy dog or my hairy legs

  & thought they looked alike.

  “I look like a beast,” I say.

  “Beatrice, don’t worry so much


  about what everyone else thinks.”

  “Don’t blame me.

  Blame middle school.

  Blame peer pressure.

  Blame razor blades.

  Ads targeting girls.

  Blame Mariella, StaceyAnn.

  Blame their moms.

  & their grannies.

  & their smooth legs.

  Don’t blame me.

  But seriously, please?

  Mamaw? Mom? Anyone?”

  Two Days Before School Starts

  “Not yet,” they both say. “Wait

  until the eighth grade,” they say.

  “It’ll just grow thicker. Wait.”

  Ah, so I can be a pariah, I think.

  Run my hands over the fuzz.

  Right now, I am part animal.

  Bear. Wild boar. My legs like

  a fur coat I’m sporting. School

  will slaughter me. Gym class

  will be the death of me.

  Annihilation by laughter. Boys

  who can’t even grow facial hair

  will take their anger out on me.

  Busting up about the wooly

  mammoth covering ankle to

  upper thigh. I’ll just about die.

  Drama

  Is what Mamaw calls me

  when she thinks I’m over-the-top.

  So instead of lecturing,

  she pulls the last cherry tomatoes

  from her garden. Slices

  them over flatbread with mozzarella

  & extra kalamata olives.

  The way the two of us always love.

  “Love,” she says, “is a warm oven

  at the deep end of summertime. Love

  is not what everyone else

  is doing all the time. Being your own self

  instead. Love is out of place

  & unique. Eccentric sometimes. A standout.

  Love doesn’t always fit in

  & doesn’t all the time want to.” Pours me

  sweet tea for the porch swing,

  kicks us slow & steady while we wait.

  Love is a constant rocking

  & will hold you no matter what it takes.

  Gardening with Mamaw

  “Just so you know, to get a plant to grow

  you have to be patient. Take your time,

  make it slow.” She’s crouched beside beds

  full of sweet potatoes & beans. Cherry

  tomatoes, okra, peppers & squash. “Imagine

  a future that doesn’t even exist yet. Trust

  there will be a tomorrow & a day after that.”

  Her knees splinter & crack. Palms covered

  in soil. She passes me veggies, places my hands

  in the dirt. “There’s not a thing scary

  about the unknown. Not a thing to fret

  about what’s to come. You just work

  with all you’ve got and look for all

  the goodness to arrive.”

  Harvest Party

  Mamaw, Mom & I host the biggest dang

  harvest party in the whole neighborhood.

  Everyone’s invited. Doors thrown open,

  music on high volume. The Commodores

  & Dolly Parton blast the entire block. Hips

  shake & hands are thrown to the sky.

  This garden can feed the county, come

  on, grab a bag & fill it to the brim. “Come

  hungry and leave full,” she says. Props open

  the screen door, fills the cooler with ice.

  Mariella’s folks bring BBQ chicken. Her

  sister joins too, shows us all the moves.

  Someone starts the Electric Slide, & all feet

  hit the grass dance floor. Mom’s mood

  is lifted. Summer’s officially over; school

  will keep me more than occupied forever,

  or that’s what it feels like. She can see

  my whole life, me already on my way.

  She hugs me around the neck, whispers

  how proud she is, but I haven’t even started.

  I pack bags overflowing with vegetables. Eggplants

  & fennel for days. Hand out Mamaw’s recipes.

  Neither of them knows how scared I am, terrified

  of fitting in. Belonging anywhere besides

  this backyard. StaceyAnn & Mariella beside me.

  Can’t see myself anyplace else. & worried

  no one will see me when I show up.

  Mom Says

  “Even though middle school sometimes

  stinks, you’ll make it. You’ll thrive.

  Keep your head all the way up.”

  Don’t:

  Worry about what other kids say.

  Worry about what you look like.

  Stress out about what other kids have.

  Get in your head too much.

  Do: Your homework every night. Breathe.

  Make sure the teachers know your name.

  Spend time with the friends you love.

  Focus on yourself & your own brilliant mind.

  Listen to what Mamaw & I tell you.

  Take it easy. Relax, Beatrice.

  We’ve been there before, & we know

  exactly what we’re talking about.

  Mamaw Promises

  We can work it out.

  No matter what happens.

  Life is very short,

  & we’ve got you every step

  of every way.

  Don’t you worry about one

  little thing. Not one.

  We’ll be the shelter

  in your rain. Cover you

  & protect you.

  Put your trust in me, us.

  You know what you are—

  the sunshine of my life.

  & I mean it from the very

  bottom of my heart.

  It takes me a few minutes

  to realize that Mamaw

  is just repeating

  her favorite lyrics

  from her most beloved

  Stevie Wonder songs.

  “Ah, Mamaw, come on.” I sigh.

  “Well, if Stevie said it best,

  then why do I need to re-create

  what it is I want to say?

  Besides, I promise you

  nothing will happen in middle school

  that can’t be fixed by playing a song

  by Stevie Wonder. Mark my words.

  Now, try and get some sleep.

  Tomorrow’s a big day.

  Don’t be so uptight.

  Everything is all right.”

  Garden at Midnight

  Night

  blooming

  jasmine pulls

  me in. I rise

  middle of the night

  wide sky holding above

  rest of the house calm, silent

  so quiet I tiptoe outside

  put my whole face to the flowering,

  smell the very deep end of summer.

  Try to adjust who I’m supposed to be

  roll my shoulders back, face all the stars

  count everything I’m thankful for

  my mom, my mamaw, my heart

  & how it loves so hard

  & don’t forget luck

  wrap my arms around

  myself

  tight.

  Mom = All Buttoned Up

  Mamaw = All the Way Let Loose

  Before school, Mom wants me neat & presentable.

  Hair combed, face washed, teeth brushed, clothes ironed.

  Mamaw has never ironed an article of clothing

  in her whole life. I’m not even sure she could pick one out

  of a lineup of home goods.

  She’s all loose all the time. Mamaw cares more

  about the inside, that’s for sure,

  & making certain I have homemade bread

  laced with rosemary and Himalayan salt,

  garden tomatoes with cucumber.

&n
bsp; A salad on bread for breakfast.

  Says the ways I take care of the insides

  will make my outside shine.

  “Not if she’s full of crumbs and wearing a wrinkled top,”

  Mom says, shoving me out the door & into the car.

  “And especially not if she’s late

  for her first day of school.”

  “Well, run along, you two. But don’t worry so much.

  You know what I always say … Time is a …”

  “CONSTRUCT,” we shout.

  Mom Slams the Car Door

  “Just so you know. Time is real.

  It’s really 8:02 a.m. right now.

  And you are currently late

  and I am actually tired

  and tired of your mamaw

  constantly coming up against the way

  I’m trying to raise you.

  You really woke up at 7:37

  and your mamaw truly insisted

  on making you a fresh farm-raised

  organic fried egg at 7:42,

  which means you

  didn’t get to wash your face

  or brush your teeth at 7:53,

  and she definitely got the chance

  to tell us that time is a construct.

  Well, let me tell you something.

  No matter what any of her kooky

  or wild healers or mystics tell her

  or you or me, I am here to tell you

  that time is real. It’s real. I’m real.

  You’re real. And I’m really fed up.”