The Silver Star

by Jeannette Walls

  “I don’t see why he got so bent out of shape,” I said. “If he thinks Pringles are better than Cheetos, that’s his opinion, but if I like Cheetos, that’s my opinion. If I have a fact wrong, that’s one thing. But an opinion isn’t a fact. And he can’t tell me my opinion is wrong.”

  “Bean, you’re getting all worked up over a bunch of snacks,” Liz said. “It’s not important.”

  “He can’t tell me what to think.”

  “He sure can, especially if you’re working for him—but that doesn’t mean you have to think it. At the same time, you don’t have to tell him you disagree. You don’t have to argue.”

  “In other words, I should just shut up and eat the damned Pringles?”

  “Choose your battles,” she said. “It’s like with Mom. Sometimes it’s better to go along with what they say.”

  That was what she did with Mr. Maddox, Liz said. He had strong opinions on just about everything, and what worked best was simply to listen. Mr. Maddox had told Liz he knew he could be a hothead, and one of the reasons he liked her was that she didn’t get upset when he got a little out of control. She knew how to handle herself. He also trusted and respected her, and that was why he gave her real responsibilities. He had let her see confidential legal papers about the lawsuits he was involved in.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “I can’t discuss them,” she said. “Mr. Maddox swore me to secrecy.”

  “Even with me?” I asked. Liz and I always shared everything.

  “Even with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  By the end of summer, Liz and I had saved up enough money for new clothes. Mr. Maddox had been paying me in cash, as I wanted, and I had been keeping it in a cigar box in the little white cradle, along with the photograph of my dad and his Silver Star. Liz withdrew some money from her savings account, and one afternoon shortly before school began, we went down to Kresge on Holladay Avenue. I thought we should get several cheap sets of clothes, but Liz insisted that, in addition to jeans and T-shirts, we needed to invest in at least one really striking outfit. She kept saying it was important to make a good first impression at a new school. Liz picked out a bright orange-and-purple skirt and a shiny purple shirt for herself. For me, she found a pair of lime-green pants and a matching lime-green vest. “You need to make a statement,” she said.

  On the first day of school, we each put on our one really striking outfit, and even though there was a bus stop within walking distance of Mayfield, Uncle Tinsley drove us to Byler High in the Woody. He also believed in making a good first impression.

  The school was a big brick building, three stories high, with limestone pillars and trim. Hundreds of students were milling around under the huge poplar trees in front of the school, all the black kids in one group and all the white kids in another. As soon as we pulled up, I realized that we had made a terrible mistake clothes-wise. All of the white kids were wearing faded jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts, while all of the black kids had on flashy, bright clothes, like the ones Liz and I were wearing.

  “We’re dressed like the black kids!” I blurted out.

  Uncle Tinsley chuckled. “Well, I do believe you are,” he said. “These days, the coloreds dress better than the whites.”

  “Everyone will point and stare,” I said. “We need to go home and change.”

  “It’s too late,” Liz said. “Anyway, like Mom is always saying, who wants to blend in when you can stand out?”

  We certainly stood out. The other kids, both black and white, were eyeing me, giggling, and doing slack-jawed double takes as I walked from class to class. “Hey, Day-Glo Girl!” some white boy shouted.

  That night I hung the lime-green pants in the closet, next to Mom’s debutante gowns. Tomorrow I’d put on jeans and a T-shirt. Liz said she was going to do the same, but I knew that even if I never wore those pants again, they’d made an unforgettable first impression. From here on out, I was sure, I would be known as Day-Glo Girl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Byler High was one old building. Unlike the flat, modern schools I’d been to in California, it had stairways and high ceilings and was musty as well as noisy, with lockers slamming and bells ringing between periods and students yelling in the crowded halls. It quickly became clear that kids who’d known each other all their lives had no interest in meeting a new girl. Even if I gave them my friendliest smile, they quickly looked away. Maybe it was because of integration, but there was also a lot of pushing and shoving in the halls and stairways. You could tell that Byler High was filled with riled-up kids itching for a fight.

  When I was in sixth grade, I’d thought junior high would be hard, with changing classes, thick books, and mysterious subjects like algebra. Liz was the smart one, not me. But despite the intimidating names, such as literature and comprehension, social studies, and home economics, the courses themselves were no big deal. Literature and comprehension was just reading. Social studies was just news with a little history thrown in. And the first thing we learned in home economics—required for all seventh-grade girls—was how to set a table. Knife on the right side of the plate, facing in; spoon next to that; forks on the left, lined up in the order they were to be used.

  Our teacher, Mrs. Thompson, was a big, slow-moving woman with a powdered face and earrings that always matched her necklace. She said she was teaching us “survival skills” that every woman needed to know. But you were never going to die because you put the spoon on the left side of the plate. The seventh-grade guys got to take shop and learn all these interesting, useful things, like how to fix a flat tire, how to wire a lamp, how to build a bookcase. When I told Mrs. Thompson that fixing a flat tire—not setting a table—was my idea of a survival skill, she said that was a man’s job.

  We weren’t even learning practical stuff, like how to keep a budget or how to sew on a missing button. It was all about being proper, knowing where the water glass stood in relation to the juice glass, and the need for correct foundation garments. Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in a girdle, and some of her friends didn’t wear bras, but Mrs. Thompson was always going on about how you should never be able to see a woman’s body jiggle under her clothes, which was why all women should wear girdles—an essential foundation garment—and it was a shame in this day and age that so many of them had stopped.

  It was so boring I couldn’t even listen. I would have flunked the first test, except Mrs. Thompson said she’d give us bonus points for every kitchen utensil we could name. Most of the girls listed five or six, but I really went to town, coming up with everything I could think of, from pizza slicers to cheese graters to nutcrackers, swizzle sticks to apple peelers to rolling pins. I ended up with thirty-seven.

  “This doesn’t seem right,” Mrs. Thompson said after she graded the test. “You’re one of my poorest students, but you got the best score in the class simply because of your bonus answers.”

  “You made the rules,” I said.

  Soon after that first test, I learned that you could get out of home ec one day a week if you joined the pep squad. So, without really knowing what the pep squad was, I decided to volunteer. Our job, it turned out, was to help the cheerleaders rev up the crowds during pregame pep rallies on Fridays, the day of the football games, and then at the games that evening. We also made the spirit stick—a painted broomstick gussied up with Bulldog doohickeys—which was awarded to the class that showed the most spirit during rallies, and we painted the posters that went up in the hallways before each game.

  Byler’s first game that year was against the Big Creek Owls. When we met in the gym, Terri Pruitt, the senior who was the leader of the squad, said we needed to come up with owl-themed posters. When I told Liz about it, she rattled off a string of really neat owl puns and rhymes we could use—“Pluck the Owls,” “Disembowel the Owls,” “Befoul the Owls,” “Owls Are Foul Fowls,” and best of all, “Bulldogs Growl, Owls Howl.”

  “Why don’t you join the pep squad?” I told
Liz. “You’d be great.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “The whole thing’s too tribal.”

  At the next meeting of the pep squad, I read out Liz’s list of slogans. Terri loved “Bulldogs Growl, Owls Howl.” She said we could make a big banner by spray-painting the words on an old sheet and hanging it on the gym wall for Friday’s pep rally. She turned to Vanessa Johnson, the one black girl on the pep squad, who was also in my English class. “Vanessa, you can help Bean,” Terri said.

  “So I’m the help?” Vanessa asked. She was taller than most of the girls, with long, athletic arms and legs. She crossed those arms slowly and stared at Terri.

  “We’re all helping each other, okay?”

  Terri found the sheet and spray paint and had us take them outside. As we walked down the hall, I started telling Vanessa that we should outline the words in pencil first, to make sure we got them centered and they didn’t scrunch up at the end.

  “Who put you in charge?” she asked.

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “It was just an idea.”

  Vanessa put her hands on her hips. “Fair? You want to talk about what’s fair and what’s not fair? What’s not fair is having your own school closed down and being forced to go to the cracker school.”

  “What do you mean? I thought the black kids wanted to go to the white schools. I thought that was the whole point.”

  “Why would we want to go to the white school when we had our own school?” At Nelson they had their own football team, Vanessa said, their own cheerleading squad and pep squad, their own school colors, their own homecoming king and queen. Nelson families took pride in the school, and on weekends, they would come in to mop and polish the place. Some of the families even painted their cars in the school’s purple and silver colors. But now the Nelson kids had to give up those colors. And the former Nelson students knew none of them would ever be elected class president at Byler, or named homecoming king or queen, or be declared “Most Likely to Succeed.” Byler would never be their school.

  “If that’s how you feel, why did you join the pep squad?”

  “I didn’t make JV cheerleader, even though I was better than the white girls who did,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to just sit in the bleachers.” Her sister, Leticia, she explained, was one of the two Nelson cheerleaders chosen for the Byler squad. Vanessa said she would be at every game, cheering on Leticia and rooting for the Nelson boys on the Byler team. Then she looked me squarely in the eye. “And I ain’t giving up. I’m going to make cheerleader myself next year.”

  I held up the sheet. “Then I guess we should get cracking on this banner.”

  “The cracker wants to get cracking,” she said, and for the first time, she smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The following Saturday, I was down in the basement of the Maddoxes’ house, folding laundry, when Mr. Maddox appeared at the top of the stairs. He clambered down the steps and came over, moving in that strangely light-footed way he had for such a large man.

  “Keeping busy,” he said. “I like that. You work for me, you keep busy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I folded the big stuff, and now I’m matching the socks.”

  Mr. Maddox stretched his arm out and propped himself against the basement wall. He was towering over me, and I felt a little boxed in. He had come so near that I could feel his breath on my face. I could also smell him. He didn’t stink, but I wasn’t used to being so close to a grown man, and his smell made me think of sweat and work, muscle and meat. I didn’t dislike it, but it was a little unsettling.

  “Another thing I like about you,” he said, “is that you’re not scared of me. I’m a big guy, and I know some people get nervous when I’m standing next to them like this.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Not me.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re not afraid.” He’d had his right arm cocked on his hip, and now he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. It was a hot September day, and I was wearing a sleeveless shirt. His enormous hand was so rough and calloused that I thought I could feel the individual ridges of his fingerprints.

  “You take your responsibilities seriously,” he went on, “and you don’t make a big deal out of little things. Unlike Doris. She’s always making a huge deal over dumb little things. You’ve got a good sense of humor; you’re fun to be around. You’ve got spunk, and you’re mature for your age. How old are you again?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Twelve? That’s all? That’s hard to believe. You look and act much older than that.” Mr. Maddox suddenly slipped his thick thumb into my armpit and stroked it. “And you’ve already got your peach fuzz coming in.”

  I jerked back. “Cut it out!”

  Mr. Maddox held my shoulder with his thumb still in my armpit for just a moment longer, then dropped his hand and laughed. “Now, don’t go getting all stupid on me,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just commenting on your coming-of-age. I got a wife and daughter, I grew up with sisters, and I know all about women and their cycles and when they start developing. This is just nature. I’m an adult, and you’re on the way to becoming one. If we’re going to have a working relationship, the way grown-ups do, we need to be able to talk about things like this. For example, maybe someday you won’t be able to come to work for me because you started your cycle and got cramps, and you’ll need to tell me that. Happens all the time at the mill.”

  I looked down at the pile of unfolded socks. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t want to get all stupid and blow it out of proportion. Even though Mr. Maddox sticking his thumb in my armpit felt completely wrong, I couldn’t disagree with a single thing he said.

  Mr. Maddox reached over and pushed my chin up. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked. “I thought we were just talking about growing up. Look, if you’re mad, you should say something. If you think I did you wrong, you can do me wrong. You can call me a name. Any name you want.” He paused. “Or you can hit me. Go ahead, hit me.” He spread out his arms. “Right here in the stomach. Hard as you can.” He waited a moment. Then he pointed at his jaw. “Or right here in the face if you want.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t want to hit me? Why not?” He paused again. “I know you’re not scared of me, so I guess you’re not mad at me. Good.” He took out his roll of bills and pulled off a twenty. “Here’s for your day’s work,” he said, and headed back up the stairs.

  Twenty dollars was way more than Mr. Maddox usually paid me for a day’s work. The whole thing had been creepy, and by taking the money, I felt I was letting him buy me off. But twenty dollars was a lot of money. Mr. Maddox knew I needed it, and he knew I’d take it. I put the money in my pocket, finished matching the socks, and left without saying goodbye to anyone.

  “I don’t like Mr. Maddox,” I told Liz that night.

  “You don’t have to like him,” she said. “You just have to know how to handle him.”

  I had been planning to tell Liz what had happened, but it was sort of embarrassing. Also, when I played it through in my head, Mr. Maddox hadn’t actually done anything wrong, and if he had, he’d more or less apologized. I kept telling myself that I didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it was. From now on, I just had to figure out how to handle him. Like Liz did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Usually Mom called once a week, but every now and then she called a few days late or skipped a week. When that happened, she’d apologize, saying she meant to call, but you know how crazy the music world can get.

  The time wasn’t quite right yet for Liz and me to come up to New York, Mom told us, but we weren’t going to be stuck at Mayfield forever. Besides, it was good for us to be exposed to life in Byler. It would help us understand her, what she had to put up with and why she made the decision to leave. It would make us grateful that she’d taken pains to raise us among open-minded nonconformists instead of people who treated you like a
pariah if you didn’t do everything exactly the way they did.

  When I told Mom I joined the pep squad, she sighed. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked. She’d been a cheerleader herself, she said, and she shuddered to remember it. Football was barbaric. And cheerleading was a way of brainwashing women into thinking that the men were the stars and the most women could expect out of life was to stand on the sidelines and cheer them on.

  “Don’t be someone else’s little cheerleader,” Mom said. “Be the star of your own show. Even if there’s no audience.”

  I knew Mom had a point. Still, I liked being on the pep squad. It was fun, and I’d made some friends. What was wrong with that? Also, I’d figured out that school spirit was important in Byler, and if you didn’t show any, you wouldn’t get very far.

  Liz, however, took Mom’s advice to heart. She’d been leaning in that direction anyway and was glad to have Mom’s perspective to support her own views. I’d been trying my best to make things work out at Byler, but you couldn’t say the same about Liz. She was constantly making comments about quaint local customs, dropping Latin phrases, correcting other kids’ grammar, and grimacing at the sound of country music. After the first day of school, Liz and I had worn blue jeans, but after a couple of weeks, she’d gone back to outfits that made her stand out, including the orange-and-purple skirt, a beret, and recently, even some of Mom’s old clothes—the very ones Uncle Tinsley had wanted us to wear—like a tweed hunting jacket and riding breeches. It had been years since I’d been in the same school with Liz, and while I was in the habit of thinking of her as brilliant and beautiful and all-around perfect, it was clear the other kids at Byler thought she acted peculiar and put on airs.

  In California, we’d never paid much attention to school sports. The only people who really cared were the kids on the teams. But in Byler, the entire town was obsessed with the Bulldogs. Signs cheering on the team appeared in the storefronts along Holladay Avenue. People painted Bulldog slogans on the windows of their cars and houses and planted red and white flowers in their gardens. Grown-ups standing on street corners discussed the team’s prospects and debated the strengths and weaknesses of individual players. Teachers interrupted class to talk about the upcoming game. And everyone treated the members of the team like gods.