The Spokane Quilting Society wore real baseball pants, metal cleats instead of plastic nubs. They dove into the dirt and practiced sliding, allowed only in tournament play. Laverna whispered to Frank that she hoped nobody got hurt.
Laverna stood for the majority of the game. She only looked away once, at the bottom of the third inning. The Flood Girls were overwhelmed by the onslaught of heavy hitters, and the Spokane Quilting Society scored nine runs in the span of fifteen minutes. Laverna couldn’t bear it and turned her back as the bases filled once more. She hugged Frank tightly, and kissed him on the head. Laverna steeled herself by studying the long wooden bench, and her throat caught at the sight of the line of purses. Her girls: a designer handbag that only Ginger could afford, grommets and spikes on Rachel’s punk rock wallet, a Day-Glo fanny pack for Tabby, Della’s half-moon snaking with fake gold chains, cheap canvas totes for the Sinclair sisters, Diane’s prim pocketbook, a drawstring bag that once held Crown Royal for Martha, Ronda’s fringed leather coin purse, and a red-and-white beer cooler for Red Mabel, who would never carry something womanly. Even though they had been abandoned by their owners, the purses remained, left in the exact same order as the Flood Girls batted. This game was bittersweet.
Rachel was responsible for their only two runs, hitting the bruiser on first base in the face with a line drive. She ignored the bleeding nose and darted to second base, ran her fingers through her long blond hair when the old men screamed out her name. Her violence inspired Red Mabel to swing the bat like an ax, and her home run brought them both in. By the fifth inning, the umpire called the game. Twenty-four to two. The mercy rule.
The Flood Girls gathered around Laverna in the dugout, not dejected, not disappointed. In the bleachers, the fans from Quinn rose, stood, and clapped for the Flood Girls, despite the loss. Laverna saw the Chief embrace Bucky, and that was when she knew this season was truly something to be proud of.
Red Mabel passed around cans of beer, and the Flood Girls shook them in the air, their version of pom-poms. Diane counted to three, and when the tabs were pulled, a geyser of cheap beer showered their coach. Frank dove for safety under the bench. Drenched, Laverna was too emotional to protest, as the beer dripped down her face and her arms, pooled in the dirt at her feet.
More cans were opened, as the Flood Girls toasted Laverna, and toasted one another. The baby-blue T-shirts darkened, soaked in alcohol, and dripped as the girls pulled one another into embraces. For once, Ronda hugged back.
Klemp barged into the dugout, baseball cap pushed down to her eyes, her face as surly as always. She marched straight to Laverna and stuck out her hand.
“This is a nice surprise,” said Laverna. She shook Klemp’s hand, and the girl’s grip was just as assured as her batting.
“Been here the whole time. Thought you were going to win the whole thing,” said Klemp. She did not let go of Laverna’s wet hand. “Shit happens.”
“Yes,” said Laverna. She leaned down to Klemp’s height, her knees popping at the effort. “In ten years, you’re going to be a Flood Girl, and we will be unstoppable.”
“Whatever,” said Klemp. “In ten years, you’ll be dead.”
“Jesus,” Laverna said, and stood back up. She let go of Klemp’s hand and pushed her out of the dugout. “I’m not that old.”
Laverna knew they would return to these fields. The roster might not be the same in ten years, but they would battle their way through many seasons to come.
Quinn would always make new Flood Girls. Laverna had no doubts about her hometown, knew that it created devils and angels, queens and boy princesses, gritty souls that could survive anything.
* * *
In the parking lot, Laverna was silent as they loaded into the Suburban. Tabby hoisted herself up into the driver’s seat, Laverna riding shotgun as always. Red Mabel and her enormous duffel bag took up the entire second row, Bucky and Rachel in the back. Hundreds of softball fans weaved through the lines of vehicles, sweating as they made their way to the fields for the final rounds of play. All these people arriving, just as the Flood Girls limped their way back to Quinn.
“Seat belts,” called out Tabby cheerfully. She turned in the seat to make sure Red Mabel had heeded her orders.
“Shit,” said Laverna. “We’re going to have to go to that damn mall. I forgot to get something for Jake.”
“We got first place,” said Red Mabel, as she unzipped her duffel bag, removed dirty laundry and warm cans of beer. She smirked as she pulled the bag open wider. Inside, Laverna saw glimmers of gold. The first-place trophy was revealed. Red Mabel lifted it in the air, one corner of her smirk tugging into a crooked smile. Jake would adore the fake marble columns and the cross of sparkling softball bats, just as much as Laverna adored Red Mabel and her nefarious ways.
“Drive!” Laverna commanded, and threw a pair of filthy sweatpants over the trophy, just in case anybody was watching.
Erica Kane
September came, and so did an unprecedented amount of black bears. Jake’s mother warned him to be especially careful at night, and early in the morning. This was normally the month for hyperphagia, in which black bears consumed sixty thousand calories per day, getting ready for hibernation. They always made appearances in town—the people in Quinn grew used to the occasional nuisance of garbage cans overturned, gardens ravaged, and crashing sounds in the middle of the night as their unpicked crab apple trees were destroyed.
But this year, there was an armada. There really was no other word. Jake wasn’t scared of black bears—he knew enough that they were not a threat unless they were starving or protecting their cubs. Usually, all a person had to do was make a lot of noise, and the bear would run away. He learned this from a 1985 episode of All My Children, when he rushed home to see what became of Erica Kane, played by the immortal Susan Lucci, as she found herself trapped in the wilderness for some soap opera reason. A black bear charged her, and like any good soap opera, the drama was disarmed by the delivery of a passionate speech. In this case, Susan Lucci backed up against a tree and proclaimed: “You may not do this! . . . I am Erica Kane, and you are a filthy beast!” The bear, of course, knew that Erica Kane was nobody to mess with, and wandered away. The particular speech stuck with Jake, and he prepared to unleash it upon any bears that came near.
The bears invaded the town. The oldest citizens of Quinn claimed it was unprecedented. The bears traveled in packs down Main Street at night. The braver bears sunned on the bleachers of the football field, and one got stuck in the automatic doors of the post office. The Forest Service and Fish and Game stapled warnings on every pole and tree standing. Fish and Game came door-to-door at the trailer court, because apparently, black bears liked trailer courts. Cats and dogs went missing. Laverna announced to her regulars at the Dirty Shame that the number of bears surpassed the number of citizens. Special city council meetings were called, and the citizens of Quinn were told the same thing, every single time: Shoot on sight, and don’t let your toddlers play unattended. Fish and Game knew Red Mabel, and prepared for a massacre.
Jake started eighth grade in September, and this year promised to be better. Peggy Davis retired, and the new librarian was barely middle-aged. The new librarian wore cashmere turtlenecks and owned at least three different pairs of eyeglasses. Her beauty made him nervous, and he had yet to ask her name. He had a new friend in Shyanne, a beautiful ally and protector. She wasn’t mouthy like Misty, and Jake followed her around during lunch and waited by her locker in between classes.
First period was still Ms. Bray, At least this year he had a window seat. He wore his black sailor pants, and black boots that made him look taller. His shirt was a seafoam-green color, sewed on the old Singer.
Ms. Bray attempted to teach about continental drift, but most of the students watched out the windows, at the duo of black bears that had surrounded the flagpole. They milled about, sniffing at the lawn, curled up on top of the picnic tables that still smelled of sack lunches. All of t
his reminded Jake of the beginning of Red Dawn, one of his favorite movies, but without the Russians. He would have preferred Russians, because they probably would have shot Ms. Bray first.
Ms. Bray had enough and pulled the curtains shut. The students groaned, and Jake looked up at the blackboard to see Ms. Bray’s crudely drawn version of the continental drift. It resembled a basketball with patches of eczema.
Jake surreptitiously pulled his copy of Flowers in the Attic from his desk and slid it behind his earth science textbook. It was his second time through the entire series, but it was delicious, and far preferable to hearing Ms. Bray opine about Pangaea.
Ms. Bray caught him, even though he was trying to keep his page turning as quiet as possible. She pointed to the front of the class, and Jake knew the routine, knew that she would give the speech about how if he found cheap paperbacks more interesting than a junior high school education, he should just go live under a bridge. It was always the same. Sometimes she switched it up, and suggested that he go live on the streets of San Francisco, which always made the class snicker.
“What is it this time?” Ms. Bray took a seat in an empty desk at the front of the class, one leg crossed over a knee, her foot bobbing expectantly. “I cannot wait to hear about hobbits or Nancy Reagan’s astrologist or Jonathan Livingston Seabird.”
“Seagull,” said Jake.
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Ms. Bray. “Tell the class what is more interesting than the formation of every continent on this globe!” she shouted, which was a first.
Jake cleared his throat. “I am currently reading Flowers in the Attic, by V. C. Andrews, and it is a novel. This book is about a normal family, except they are all blondes. The father is killed in a car accident, and the mother takes all four of her children to live with their grandmother in a grand old mansion. The grandmother is evil, because she is not blonde, and she forces the children to live in the attic, which is okay, because it’s a mansion, and it’s a really big attic. But then the kids get really bored, and the oldest brother and sister start fucking each other.”
The class erupted, and Ms. Bray was on her feet. Jake paused to take a deep, dramatic bow. He was not afraid anymore, and he soaked in the cheers of his classmates. Ms. Bray slapped the book from his hand, and shoved him toward the door.
“This is not funny!” she screamed at the class, who continued to howl, as she pushed him into the hallway.
“Go to the principal’s office right now,” she said, and shut the door behind her.
Jake could no longer hear the students laughing, as he walked down the long hall toward the administrative offices. He looked over his shoulder, and turned left instead of right, and marched out the front doors of the school. He didn’t care about the black bears. He walked to the Sinclair, where Martha Man Hands mostly ignored him, caught up in all of the bear sightings squawking on the police scanner. He ate a corn dog, and returned in time for second period.
* * *
As promised, Shyanne waited at her locker. She still had a walking cast on her foot, but the orthopedist said she was healing well and should recover to full capacity. She told him this as they walked the empty hallways; school had ended ten minutes earlier, and the students were eager to get back out into the unseasonable air and the chaos of the black bear invasion. Shyanne was wearing her usual athletic shorts—for a while, she had worn sweatpants, depressed because she thought she had blown her chances at a scholarship over a stupid women’s softball game. But here were the shorts, and those legs that still came up to his neck, and he followed her into the auditorium, where her entrance caused every boy to punch each other and stare at her legs.
At exactly four o’clock, the student council president called the meeting to order. Twenty students were present, all elected representatives from their respective classes, plus Jake. Nobody seemed to notice or care that he was there, even though he was sitting next to Shyanne, and they made an odd couple.
This was a new year, and a new student council. There were no minutes to read from the previous meeting, as they had disappeared with last year’s secretary. Nobody cared about what had been discussed three months ago anyway. The student council president was the type of girl who did every extracurricular activity, in an attempt to make up for her atrocious personality. She began the meeting by introducing herself and her long list of accomplishments, and then introduced the vice president, the secretary, and the treasurer. They also were known for their atrocious personalities. Normally, Jake believed that women should have a more active voice in politics, but not in this case.
There were four representatives from every class, and Shyanne volunteered for the seniors, but the other fifteen representatives were burnouts or total nerds. Shyanne broke it down for him—the freshman class would meet and elect the most awful candidates they could pull together, in an attempt to sabotage the system. The sophomore class would nominate the mentally handicapped and the obstructionists, because they figured out how the game was played. The juniors were always hungover, or high, and they elected their two foreign exchange students and two kids who were devoutly religious. The seniors were a little more unpredictable—some volunteered, like Shyanne, because it looked good on a college transcript. Others volunteered just because they hated the new student council president.
Sarah was imperious. She sat on the stage with the vice president, the treasurer, and the secretary, who had yet to take a note on her yellow legal pad. They did all of the talking, while the representatives took a nap or did homework or threw spitballs at one another. This went on for twenty minutes—the student council president discussed the black bear crisis, the new uniforms for the girls’ basketball team, the new faculty members, and the renovations to the chemistry lab.
Finally, it was time to talk about the main event. Homecoming. Sarah discussed the wood gathering for the bonfire, the pep rally, and the fund-raiser, which this year was something called Donkey Basketball. Finally, she began to discuss the dance.
The treasurer raised her hand, and Sarah called on her.
“We have three hundred and ten dollars to spend this year, but we need to keep two hundred dollars in prudent reserve.”
“Okay,” said Sarah. “So we’ve got a hundred bucks to spend. I was thinking we should make it a Sadie Hawkins theme this year!” Her fake enthusiasm was grating; everybody knew she just wanted an excuse to force boys to slow dance.
“No,” said Shyanne, from her seat in the auditorium.
“You need to be called on,” declared Sarah.
“Shut it, Sarah.” Shyanne stood up, and pointed at Jake. He immediately began to blush.
“Who is that? Is that an elementary school student?” Sarah laughed, and the vice president rolled her eyes and began to apply cuticle cream.
And then Shyanne was dragging him onto the stage, while Sarah looked confused and slightly frightened.
Nobody else paid any attention until Shyanne wheeled the chalkboard out onto the stage, and Jake unrolled his sketches and scotch-taped them in place.
* * *
Triumphant, Jake walked home from school, his feet barely touching the ground. His head was filled with shopping lists, with the schematics of decorating a gymnasium, with his ten minutes of glory.
He entered his yard. Thankfully, he looked up from his reverie. A black bear sprawled on his porch, and it gnawed on one of Bert’s filthy boots. The bear was bald in patches, his snout disfigured by scratches that had become scar tissue. This bear was a survivor.
Jake raised his hands. The bear raised his head and looked up at him, curiously.
“I AM ERICA KANE! AND YOU ARE A FILTHY BEAST!”
The bear resumed eating Bert’s boot, until Jake threw his earth science textbook at it, and then the bear yawned and stretched and lazily walked into the backyard.
Keeping Score
Rachel was thankful that Jake hated math, and was terrible at it. He just didn’t care about solving for X, because he believed th
ere was more important detective work to be done. He came in with his algebra homework for the last hour of Rachel’s shift, and they gossiped and speculated about Laverna, who had been spotted with Jim Number Three. There was also the mystery of Red Mabel, and why she had shaved her head. Jake assumed that it was head lice, but Rachel had it on good authority (and the rare sober authority, as it was not bar gossip, but discussed at AA) that the two Mabels had teamed up for some sort of project. Rachel was just grateful for Jake’s presence, serving him Shirley Temples until he was vibrating from sugar, and she often called Diane Savage Connor from the bar phone for assistance with the algebra problems that stumped them both. Rachel found herself missing softball, the sunburns, the furrowed scrapes on the knees, waking up in the morning so sore she could barely walk. She missed riding back from games with exhausted women, spent and silent, an easy quiet that could only exist among sisters, or veterans of the same war.
Lately, the distraction of Jake had become the only sane part of her day. The silver mine had closed down for a month, after a section had caved in, and safety inspectors were flown in. They still had not given the all clear, and the lesbian silver miners had become day drinkers. They tipped terribly, and there had been some sort of fissure among them, perhaps a blame game over the cave in, or perhaps a love triangle gone wrong. The miners had divided into two camps. Usually, ten or so would sit in the back by the jukebox, playing the same Anne Murray songs over and over. The other camp was a small one, really just one lesbian who Rachel had always thought was the alpha of the pack, now relegated to sit by herself at the bar, heckled mercilessly, watching in the mirror nervously for the projectiles that were often hurled at the back of her head. The split had been a vicious one. If the outcast tried to use the bathroom, she would be blocked by a flank of surly women. They had matching crew cuts now, to further distinguish their solidarity. The outcast kept her waterfall of crunchy black hair, shaved on the sides, a frizzy tail that fanned out across her shoulders. Rachel stopped herself from forbidding the public urination, and stopped Jake from offering to deep condition her hair. The banishment had caused the outcast to have some sort of breakdown, which was surprising, because every lesbian Rachel had ever known had been a reticent creature. The fistfights were never fair, and always ended up with the outcast on the floor, her former coworkers pouring beer on her. The outcast returned to her barstool, guzzling drinks, only leaving to urinate on the sidewalk.
The Flood Girls Page 30