by C. C. Payne
“Maybe for you and your friends,” Mama said, shaking the newspaper at Grandma, “but I keep tellin’ you, Lula Bell is only a child! She doesn’t need to worry about death right now!”
“Hmph!” Grandma Bernice said on her way out of the kitchen.
I wanted to shout, I am not a child! I am ten! But the angry way Mama wadded up the newspaper and tossed it into the trash stopped me. Instead, I said as casually as I could, “Hey, Mama, I’ve been meanin’ to ask you: could you teach me to make curls in my hair using bobby pins, like Grandma Bernice does?”
“Pin curls won’t work on you,” Mama said. “Grandma Bernice’s hair is different than yours. She has some natural curl.”
This was very disappointing news.
Mama came over and kissed the top of my head. “You have beautiful hair.”
“No, I don’t. I have boring hair,” I said, and it was true. My hair was stick-straight and boring brown.
“Good night!” Grandma Bernice hollered from upstairs.
“Good night!” Mama and I hollered back in unison.
“Did you and Alan finish your science project?” Mama asked as she carried my glass and plate to the kitchen sink.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Our tornado box is all ready for the science fair on Monday night.”
Mama looked impressed. “Exactly how do you make a tornado?”
“It’s pretty simple. All you need is a corner, a fan, and a humidifier.”
“What if your fan or your humidifier fails? Do you have a backup?” Mama asked.
“A backup?” I repeated. “A backup fan and a backup humidifier? Um, no, ma’am.”
“Hmmm…well, maybe you ought to think about that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, knowing I would do no such thing. I mean, the thought of lugging one fan and one humidifier to school was bad enough. The thought of hauling in a backup fan and a backup humidifier was even worse. I figured I might as well write “I am a total geek” across my forehead and wear a backup T-shirt that said the same thing, in case my forehead message failed.
The grandfather clock on the stairs rang out in song and then gonged the hour for all to hear. Just the reminder Mama needed to say, “Go get ready for bed now.”
Poopoopahduke! I thought as I got up from the table and pushed my chair in.
Mama turned the faucet on and started rinsing dishes.
On my way out of the kitchen, I paused and said, “You know, Grandma Bernice’s birthday is next week, and I think she might like a party. Daddy’ll be home over the weekend, too.”
Mama turned the faucet off, rolled her eyes, and nodded, as if to say, Well, of course Grandma Bernice would like a party. But what she actually said was, “Couldn’t we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Because you’re still mad at Grandma Bernice? About…our…um, activities?” (Over the years, Grandma’s preoccupation with death had become a real sore spot with Mama.)
“No, Lula Bell,” Mama huffed. “I’m just tired is all.”
She was still mad—I could tell—but Mama never admits to being mad. “Mad” is rude; “tired” is more polite, apparently.
“It’s my fault, Mama,” I tried. “I wanted Grandma to wait up for me because I wanted—”
Mama let out a breathy little laugh. “Honey, Grandma Bernice would’ve waited up, with doughnuts, for both of us, no matter what. She’s been waiting up with doughnuts for me for more than thirty years now! Why, growing up, I ate doughnuts after every school play and church Christmas pageant, after every ballet recital, after final exams—where do you think I got these hips?”
“You must’ve done a really good job,” I said. “You must’ve done a lot of really good jobs.”
The way Mama looked at me then…well, I don’t think she took that as a compliment.
“So…then…um, maybe if I’m a big star in the talent show at school, there might be doughnuts afterward?” I blurted, desperate to distract Mama from her hips. True, I didn’t especially want to talk about the talent show, but it was better than talking about hips. Anything was better than talking about hips. (Here’s a little tip for you: hips—and butts—are not safe topics with mamas.)
“Lula Bell, your daddy and I have discussed this. You will be in the talent show,” Mama said seriously. Then, her face softened as she said, “And I’m sure there will be doughnuts afterward.”
My stomach did a somersault. It was one thing to fantasize about being the star of the talent show—which I did all the time, picturing kids hoisting me up on their shoulders and carrying me through the school, like the star basketball player who sank the winning shot in the last second of the championship game—but reality was something else.
In the real world, I knew that it was always a mistake to call attention to myself at school. Always. And really, is there a bigger, bolder way to call attention to yourself than declaring, “Hey, y’all! I have talent! Watch this!” Because that’s what being in a talent show pretty much amounts to—don’t you think? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that bringing talent to school is way worse than bringing tuna.
A Moody Morning
When I came downstairs on Friday morning, Mama was sitting at the kitchen table, making the grocery list.
“Good mornin’, Lula Bell,” she said, glancing up from her list.
“Mornin’,” I said, taking my seat at the kitchen table.
Grandma Bernice smiled at me as she pulled her black iron skillet off the stove.
I smiled back and then said to Mama, “Um, could you add Choc-O-Crunch cereal to that list?”
Mama stopped writing and looked up. “No, Lula Bell. No more cereal. You never eat it—after you get the prize out, it just sits on the shelf going stale until I throw it away.”
“Please, Mama. There’s a collectable Detective Delicious magnifying glass in every box of Choc-O-Crunch—while supplies last—and I’ll eat the cereal this time, I promise.”
“No,” Mama said quietly, and then she went back to her list.
Grandma slid a plate of bacon, eggs, and biscuits in front of me and untied her apron, revealing a baby-blue sweat suit that was still creased from ironing. (Grandma Bernice always wore sweat suits, which I don’t really understand, because I never once saw her exercise—or sweat.)
“Thank you,” I mumbled. I was still thinking about that magnifying glass and feeling disappointed. The way I saw it, that magnifying glass was about all I needed to become Nancy Drew—in the privacy of my own home, of course.
Grandma gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and then sat down just as Mama stood up. She tightened the belt on the red-and-white kimono that Daddy had bought her when his band was touring China last year. (Daddy plays the steel guitar in a country band called Boots and Whistles, so he’s gone—on tour with his band—most of the time.) Then, she carried her coffee cup to the kitchen sink and rinsed it before starting in on supper.
It was always like this. Grandma Bernice was in charge of breakfast, but the minute she sat down in the mornings, Mama got up, because she was in charge of supper, and Mama liked to get a jump on supper, even if it was 6:30 a.m. (Grandma said that’s because Mama believes in the three p’s: be prepared, be punctual, and be practical.)
As I buttered my biscuit, Grandma Bernice announced, “I’d like lobster soup for supper tonight. I’ve been craving lobster soup all week. I even dreamed of lobster soup last night!”
Mama shook her head absently as she sliced a purple onion. “I’ve already got the chicken thawing.” That meant no. Once my mama had meat thawing, that was it; there was no changing meal plans.
“So?” Grandma Bernice said. “Go wild! Put the chicken back in the refrig! What’ll it hurt? I really want lobster soup.”
Mama stopped slicing, looked up, and said firmly, “It’s lobster bisque, and the answer’s no.”
Grandma Bernice sighed and shook her head. “Okay, but you’ll be sorry one day. I am not a young woman.”
Mama shot Grandm
a Bernice a look that said, It’s too early in the morning to start planning your death again.
But Grandma pretended not to notice and stared out the window. “Look! Look!” she said suddenly, pointing.
Mama and I looked. There was a red cardinal perched on our hummingbird feeder, admiring his own reflection in our window. At least, that’s what I thought, until he flew into the glass with such tremendous force, I was sure he’d knocked himself out cold.
I looked at Grandma with wide eyes.
“He thought he saw another bird movin’ in on his territory,” Grandma explained.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Grandma said, waving a hand through the air. “He’ll be fine.”
Sure enough, that cardinal popped right back up on the hummingbird feeder.
“I’ll need to put food in that feeder soon,” Grandma said. “My hummingbirds’ll be back in no time. I hope I see the white one again.”
“Mother, I told you,” Mama said, “you did not see any white hummingbird. Hummingbirds aren’t white.”
“And I told you I did see a white hummingbird, right here in our very own backyard!” Grandma said to Mama.
They stared each other down. If looks were wind, Mama’s would’ve knocked Grandma Bernice over backward in her chair. If looks were lightning, the one Grandma shot back at Mama would’ve instantly set her on fire. None of that happened, of course, but neither of them gave up trying.
I kept my eyes on my breakfast, concentrating hard on chewing a slice of bacon. For a few minutes, it was so quiet that all we could hear was my chomping—even with my mouth closed.
Then, Grandma Bernice turned to me and asked, “Lula Bell, do you believe in reincarnation?”
“What’s that?” I said with a mouth full of biscuit.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full; it’s rude,” Mama warned.
“It’s when you die and you come back to life as something else,” Grandma Bernice said, her eyes glowing with excitement.
“Something else?”
Grandma nodded. “Like an animal or an insect or something.”
“An insect?” I made a face.
“Like a butterfly!” Grandma said, flapping her hands like wings.
I considered this and then said, “But butterflies only live about two weeks.”
“That’s okay,” Grandma said easily, “because I’m not going to come back as a butterfly. I’m going to come back as a hummingbird—a solid white hummingbird! Do you think that’s possible, Lula Bell?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Mama slammed her knife down on the cutting board.
Grandma and I both jumped, and I thought to myself, Boy, is Mama tired (translation: mad) this morning!
“Enough!” Mama said. “No more talk about death. Mother, can’t you see you’re scaring Lula Bell?”
(It was Mama who was scaring me, not Grandma Bernice.)
“Hmph!” Grandma Bernice said.
“Um, I gotta go,” I said. “I don’t want to miss my bus.”
Oddly enough, that was the truth. Usually, I dreaded the bus—and the bus stop—something awful. But on that particular morning, I figured anyplace would be better than my kitchen—especially if there was no chance of me getting that magnifying glass, which there wasn’t now that everybody was in such a bad mood.
Bullies and Grizzlies and Wolves—Oh My!
I’d forgotten that Alan wouldn’t be at the bus stop that morning, that his dad had volunteered to transport our tornado box—humidifier and all (thank you! thank you!)—to school, until I got down to the bus stop. Who did I find there? Kali Keele.
I gave her lots of personal space and avoided direct eye contact. In other words, I treated Kali the way you’d treat a grizzly bear, and for the same reason: so as not to challenge her in any way.
Kali gave me a hard look, up and down, up and down. But then, finally, she looked away without saying anything.
I didn’t say anything either, but how could I not be aware of this admittedly small but no less vicious grizzly bear with perfectly styled blond hair moving around me?
When the bus arrived, I let Kali go on ahead of me while I knelt in the grass and pretended to fool with something in my backpack. But as soon as I climbed onto the bus, Kali started whispering to her friends. They all looked me up and down, just like Kali had.
I planted my behind as soon as I could, on the very first seat, right behind the bus driver—where no one ever sits, not even the first graders. (Here’s a little tip for you: the seat right behind the bus driver is the uncoolest seat on the bus. If your teacher rode the bus to school with you, that’s where she’d sit. It’s where she sits on field trips, isn’t it? However, given a choice between being uncool and being attacked by Kali, I recommend uncool.)
I got lucky on the bus that morning. But I knew from experience that my luck wouldn’t hold. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who knew it.
At lunchtime, Alan—and his hair—tailed me through the noisy cafeteria, through the lunch line, and finally to a table, where he sat down across from me, like he did almost every day. (Except for whenever I got up my courage and tried sitting at the girls’ table. Then Alan sat with Richard and Bill. They seemed to have a sort of second-choice understanding. Richard and Bill chose each other first, and Alan chose me.)
“I apologize, Lula Bell,” Alan said as soon as he sat down. “I should’ve offered you a ride to school this morning.”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” I said, and it really was, because the only thing uncooler than riding to school right behind the bus driver would’ve been riding to school with Alan West.
Alan unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “So…then…everything went all right this morning?”
“Sure,” I said, like I had no idea what Alan was talking about or why he might’ve been worried.
Alan nodded as he speared one of his chicken nuggets with his fork. “Good.”
I busied myself with opening my milk.
“Did you happen to catch the program about wolves on the Animal Channel last night?” Alan asked.
I felt myself relax a little. “No. Was it good?”
“Fascinating,” Alan said. “Wolves actually prefer psychological—or emotional—warfare over physical fighting. Their status within the pack is mostly based on how they act, not on how they fight.”
I nodded as I picked up a chicken nugget.
“The most powerful wolves, the alphas and betas, are the ones that act the most confident, but they aren’t necessarily the biggest or the strongest. The weakest wolves, the omegas, act submissive, or passive—they always back down, never stand their ground, not even when they could easily win.”
I stared at Alan.
“The omegas are the wolves that all the other wolves pick on,” he added.
I looked around to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned over the table and said, “What are you trying to say?” My voice sounded strangled and hurt, which only made me feel more pathetic.
“Nothing,” Alan said calmly. “I know how you like the Animal Channel, that’s all.”
It was a lie, and we both knew it. I did like the Animal Channel—I loved it, as a matter of fact, but that wasn’t why Alan was telling me about the wolves. Even so, I was glad—grateful even—that Alan had lied to me. I mean, it’s one thing to know that you’re the weakling, the omega wolf—privately. It’s another thing to be called the omega wolf, out loud, by someone who isn’t even trying to hurt you but who wants to help you. Because there’s really no denying it then, is there?
Playing Possurtle
That afternoon, I chose my seat on the bus carefully—not too near the front and not too near the back, but somewhere in the middle, where I at least had a chance at going unnoticed. I sat there alone, squinching down in my seat, keeping to myself. I didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t look at anyone, didn’t so much as turn my head to look out the
window—I even breathed quietly.
Grandma Bernice would’ve said I was “playing possum,” since possums pretend to be dead when threatened, and she would’ve been right. Sort of. Except that I was also playing turtle. I made myself as small as possible, clung to my backpack like it was a shield, and sort of balled myself up around it so that I couldn’t be seen over the top or around the sides of my seat. Honestly, I would’ve climbed into my backpack if I could’ve, like a turtle hiding in its shell. So it’d probably be more accurate to say I was playing possurtle. And just in case that wasn’t enough, I thought to myself, I’m not here. I’m not here. You don’t see me, because I’m not here.
And it worked. Almost. Until Kali called out from the back of the bus, “Hey, Lula Bell, I know what you’re doing—everybody knows what you’re doing—and it won’t work.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I wasn’t doing anything. On purpose.
Everyone got quiet, like maybe they were playing possum—or possurtle—too.
Kali continued, “Everybody knows that I wore a blue Sassy-Brand shirt with jeans yesterday, and everybody knows you’re wearing a blue shirt with jeans today because you’re tryin’ to be just like me.”
I wasn’t trying to be just like Kali; I was trying to avoid being picked on. I’d figured nobody would make fun of clothes similar to their own, because then they’d sort of be making fun of themselves, right? But I hadn’t thought of the copycat angle.
Naturally, Kali hollered, “You’re nothin’ but a big old copycat, Lula Bell Bonner, and everybody knows it, so you can just stop it! Do you hear me? Just stop it!”
I felt my face get hot, but I just sat there, staring at the white crack in the leather-like fabric on the back of the seat in front of me. My fingers wanted to pick at the rip, to peel the leather back from the white fabric underneath, but I didn’t move. I was as still as a stone, except for my toes, which were wiggling like crazy. I knew my stop couldn’t be more than thirty seconds away, so I started counting in my mind: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi…