Reckless, Glorious, Girl Page 9
This is what Mamaw says immediately.
“Let’s make him a homemade meal.
Beatrice will help. Show him who we are.”
“I love that idea, but he really wants to treat.
He wants to take us all to Bourbon House.”
Mom says this with emphasis, knowing
it’s the fanciest restaurant in town.
We’ve never been.
“Bourbon House!” Mamaw exclaims.
“My goodness. Is he rich?!” She laughs.
“That’s much too expensive. No thank you.”
“Bea, please?” Mom looks at me for help.
“I would love for you and Beatrice to meet him,
give him a chance. I don’t ask much of you,
but I am asking this.”
“Come on, Mamaw. It will be fun,” I say,
kicking myself for not knowing more
about this two-last-named man.
Trying to keep an open mind
but panicking on the inside.
“Fine, fine. I’ll go for you two. But I will not
like it. Not one bit. When is this happening?”
“Tomorrow night,” Mom says.
“I’ll get dressed up,” Mamaw replies.
Mom gives me a worried look,
because Mamaw dressed up
could truly mean anything.
Mamaw’s Outfit
Is outrageous! In a funny & altogether over-the-top
kind of way. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose
as she floats down the stairs in her tie-dyed skirt
& faux-leopard-print fur jacket, feathered earrings
dangling from both ears. She has layers upon layers
& her hair is a nest framing her face, combed out
so it’s a puff of fluff. She poses & pauses on the steps.
Mom almost loses her breath when she sees her.
I give Mom a look that says: You asked for this.
Let Mamaw be Mamaw or we’re gonna have problems.
I’ve seen Mamaw throw tantrums when asked
to act a certain way. I’ve seen her lay it on thick
when she thinks people underestimate who she is.
It’s a delicate balance with her, & we do not
want to disrupt her essence.
“You both look great,” is what Mom says.
I look down at my outfit, which is tame
compared to Mamaw’s. A dress from Goodwill
with leggings and boots underneath.
Mamaw puts her arm around me.
“We certainly do,” she says,
just as the doorbell rings.
Reasons Harrison Douglas Is Suspect
His hair is not cool, as Mom first described.
It’s ludicrous. Puffs up & out on his head,
shaped in what Mamaw calls a bouffant.
He gels it all just right. You can tell.
He definitely spends a whole lot of time
in front of the mirror perfectly perfecting
his slicked-back ’do.
He’s also got a snobby attitude.
I can tell right away.
See him raise his eyebrows
at our secondhand sofa & how it’s covered
in all of Mamaw’s multicolored quilts.
& yes, I know just as well as anyone
that Mamaw’s very abstract paintings of her garden
& my elementary school drawings
hanging up in frames around the house
look clunky & mismatched
& that nothing at all in our house
looks done up or polished.
We are all rough around the edges,
but it’s our house,
& yes, it’s small,
but the better to hear each other
& love each other.
& yeah, it’s funky & eclectic & unique
just like all of us, but the funky is ours
& ours alone.
& I know for certain
that there is not one ounce
of room
for Harrison
or any of his many hair products.
Mamaw Says
“Give him a chance,” as we walk to the car.
She’s all, “Hi, Harrison. How are you?
We’ve heard sooo much about you.
Can’t wait to hear about your job and you.
And how you and Lisa met. Tell us everything.”
What in the world is Mamaw doing?!
“Let’s do this for your mother,” Mamaw insists,
making me think that Mom
might really need this
& us
to be on our very best behavior.
At Dinner
Mamaw guffaws at the menu,
points at the overpriced everything
& says, “I’ll just have a salad.”
Mom gives both of us another one of her looks.
“Fine, I’ll have the vegetable plate with brussels sprouts,
mashed potatoes, and garlic green beans,”
Mamaw orders.
“You should order the steak—rare,”
Harrison says.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Mamaw answers.
“Truth is, meat is destroying the planet,
especially beef,” she finishes,
even though sometimes she slips,
& has a pepperoni or two
or a few bites of bacon.
I can tell, she’s not sharing that information
with Harrison Douglas.
So much for giving him a chance.
“I’ll just have the burger,” I say,
trying to fold my napkin on my lap just right.
“Yes, please, order anything. I love this place.
It’s really the only nice place in town
if you want my opinion.”
I do not want his opinion.
“Lisa tells me you all have never been here.
I’m so happy to treat. Lisa has told me so much
about both of you. I can’t wait to find out more.”
& then he starts talking. Actually, he starts
monologuing. You know, when someone yacks
on & on without stopping. It’s funny.
He said he wants to know more about us,
but all he’s talking about is HIM!
We find out …
where he grew up, who his family is
what he loves to do in his spare time
how fast he can run a mile
his favorite sports in middle school
his favorite sports in high school
his favorite sports currently
his favorite places to dine
how good he is with money
all the places he has traveled
all the places he wants to travel
when he plans to retire
where he hopes to live.
By the end of his speech, Mamaw is rolling
her eyes directly at me. Looks like we gave him
a good enough chance.
Cincinnati
“It’s really the best city. I can’t say enough about it.
I mean, it’s an actual city, not like Louisville or
Lexington. Those are just big towns
that are trying to pretend.
I’ve been telling your mom it would be a perfect place
to raise you.”
At this, Mamaw’s face goes cold.
“Oh, Beatrice is being raised just fine
right here in Bardstown. We’ve got family and friends
and a big garden.” She makes a gesture
in the direction of our house. I can tell
she is ready to get out of here.
Harrison Douglas smirks, or at least
that’s what it looks like to me.
A slow curl inches its way up.
“Don’t get me wrong:
Bardstown is a great small town,
In Cincinnati, you can go see a show,
visit a museum, eat foods from around the world.
Raising kids in cities makes them more … I don’t know,
worldly … sophisticated. I mean, look at me.”
He grins again & reaches for Mom’s hand.
She smiles over at me, somehow under his spell.
“You never know,” Mom says.
I Sure as Hell Know
I don’t like him.”
That’s what Mamaw says.
Side note: Mamaw curses.
Not all the time & not too much,
but to her, curse words
offer an extra flair.
She says they’re just words.
& that real curse words
are the ones that hurt people
& a little “hell” or “damn”
here & there
can help make a point.
I get it.
& agree.
“Acting like we can’t raise you.”
“That’s not what he said,” I say.
“It’s what he implied, though,
isn’t it? Cincinnati. Please!
I know a fake when I see one,
& Harrison Douglas
just happens to be
one of them.”
The Fight
“I heard that,” Mom calls from the kitchen,
making her way to us. “That’s enough.”
She is talking to Mamaw now. “I like him,
Beatrice likes him”—I don’t disagree at this moment—
“and I think I know what’s best for this family.
Not you.” Mom puts her emphasis there
& I get a sick feeling in my stomach.
She’s wrong about that. It’s the three of us
working together, living & building together.
“He’s not good enough for you,” Mamaw says,
standing up now, her loud skirt piled around her.
“And he’s not good enough for us either.”
“Bea, I am tired of you telling me what to do
and how you think I should raise Beatrice
and always commenting on what I’m messing up
and what I’m doing wrong. Nothing is ever
good enough for you. And you think no one
is ever good enough for me,”
Mom says, her eyes filling with tears.
“At least not since …” We all know what comes next.
The death. The one that floats over all of us,
the one that creeps into my dreams
& hangs over my waking hours,
the one Mamaw keeps carried in photographs
that cover the walls in our home. Her son.
Mom’s husband. My dad. Like a ghost.
“Well, excuse me for wanting the best
for all of us. You are absolutely correct.
Have it your way. I will stay out of it.”
She up & walks away, leaving us both
lost & confused.
Give Him a Chance
Mom is curled up in bed with me.
She smells like her favorite perfume
& jasmine fills my whole bedroom.
“I know this is new,” she says,
“but you and your mamaw will come around.
I know it.” I try to burrow down even deeper.
When I was a baby, Mom tells it
I would say, “I want to go home,”
when I was sad or upset,
referring to her belly
where I lived for nine months
cuddled & safe in her womb.
“Everything feels new and different,”
I say, looking up at her. My mom
could not be more beautiful.
I think of her sacrifices
& how she has struggled
to make a home for Mamaw & me.
How we’ve become her all.
“He makes me happy,” Mom says.
“I know.”
“Don’t you want me to be happy?”
Dreaming
Asleep, I dream of a wedding, but instead
of celebration & tears of joy, I’m there
in the corner, alone. Weeping & begging
Mom to stay.
Harrison Douglas is there, but he’s not a man.
He’s a robot with a tail, & he’s standing on a podium
talking & talking & talking until his tongue falls out.
This is no dream. It’s a nightmare. & Mamaw is there,
cawing like a bird & shouting to stop the wedding.
There are no roses, just trees that cover us all.
I wake up in a cold sweat, panic settling on in.
The next morning, Mom announces a trip,
says she’s going away with Harrison Douglas
in a couple of weeks. Says he loved meeting us.
Says he can see them together. & so can she.
My nightmare come true. Ahhhhhh!
Says, “Wish me luck.”
Tree House Reality
The next morning, I ride my bike slow & steady.
All alone, I have time to think about my dreams
& the nightmare that woke me up. Scared & restless.
I tell Mom & Mamaw I have some reading to do
& head to our secret, sacred space. With no one around,
the quiet becomes like company. Open my backpack,
take out two thick slices of Mamaw’s homemade bread
slathered in salted butter with apricot jam. Settle in
& let the cool air wash right over me. Take out my list
of superpowers, study it close. Find a groove just behind
the tree. I fold it up & tuck it inside so no one can see
just how badly I want what I don’t have. Shut my eyes,
try to truly see the dream me. There she is. So close,
she’s almost real.
Top-10 Girls
That’s what I call them when the list makes its way
around & I see their names. There are four total.
Chloe. Eliza. Brianna & Olivia. All with top-10 scores.
The sheet of paper says: Body, Face & Whole Package.
Bold letters & words written by losers. I’m in a mood
& already fed up with everything. What started
with Harrison Douglas is ending
with Lucas Jones.
& suddenly that dream me
comes crashing down
all around.
He starts the list going around in chorus class.
It feels like a hurricane or tsunami. Paper flailing
through the aisles. How hot can hot be? Fire & heat.
The list circulates to me, & then I see it. My name.
Beatrice Miller. Body = 3 | Face = 1 | Whole Package =
Nothing. At least that’s how I feel when I see it. Wasted
drowning from shame. Embarrassment like a close friend
I keep inviting to the boring party of my life. There it is
in red ink. The boys have scored all of me. & the tally
is forgettable, unmentionable. Equal to zero. Less than.
Mariella Says
at least you were on the score sheet,
& we laugh at that,
knowing it’s not a full-on joke.
It’s true. Not every girl
made the list. & the fact I did
makes me closer to cool
than them. In fact,
the Top-10 Girls said, “HI!”
at my locker.
I was too busy
forgetting my combination
& thinking about Mom
& HD (since I can’t stand saying his whole name)
& Mamaw
& the way my life seems to be imploding
in on itself,
but I took notice
that they
&nbs
p; were taking notice
of me.
But lately
I don’t know what cool means.
Or what it looks like.
Who owns cool?
Who made it
so?
StaceyAnn Says
Screw that stupid list. Seriously.
I don’t even like boys anyway.
Only my brother & my dad.
Oh & Dante & Rodney are cool too.
Sure, my cousins—Zahir & Richie.
Coach Crenshaw & Coach Blandon,
of course. Coach Malone for soccer.
Oh yeah, my uncle Avery
& uncle Jared & uncle Steve
& my papaw, of course. He’s number one—
tells the best stories, makes the best
chili, knows how to win at poker.
But what I mean is, I don’t like boys
like that. Like, I don’t want to kiss
Lucas or Malik or Noah
or any of the rest of them.
Ever.
You know what I mean.
I don’t like boys like that.
Cool, We Say
Listening to StaceyAnn & nodding along
as we try to keep up with her speed. She
races ahead of us only to stop at the corner,
leans back on her bicycle & gives us a look.
Asks, “Are you sure you understand
what I’m trying to tell you? I like girls,”
she says again for emphasis. We nod.
“Ebony, to be specific, but not sure I’ve got a chance.”