by Tara Brown
The girl next to me leans in and whispers, “Sweet Jesus, that woman is a wind bag.”
I stifle my giggle as Ms. Mitchell pushes up her horn-rimmed glasses and watches us all like we are criminals. Her severe bright-red lips are always drawn on, just as her black, arched eyebrows are. Everything about her is perfect and cold. She and my momma would be great friends, if my momma could have female friends. They would get along wonderfully with the way they talk all snooty, like they don't come from the South. Like they just came across on the Mayflower yesterday, and not to the bayou they live in. Just 'cause we filled in the swamp, don't mean we ain't swamp folk. I have no illusions about my heritage, regardless of the image I try to portray. I can't talk exactly like a Yankee, but I can act like one. Momma always reminds me of that.
Our teacher whacks the board again and drones on and on about the gentlemen we will marry.
Angie, my best girlfriend, turns and makes a face. “I hope I don't end up with no gentleman. I want someone like James Dean or nothing.”
I snicker and yawn again.
Ms. Mitchell crosses the room as if she were walking with books on her head. “Now tomorrow's lesson will be about hiring the help to ensure your home runs smoothly. As a matter of fact, we will have a woman in from an agency to discuss this with us. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves until the bell rings.” She walks to her desk and sits with some papers.
Angie leans over and whispers, “Sweet God. If her back was any straighter, they'd be sending a dive team in her ass to get the stick out. That speech was exactly why I am never marrying. I don’t care what tortures they inflict upon my flesh, I will never be some man's slave. Hell no.”
“You know what your parents expect. It ain't no different than mine do.”
She tilts her head, giving me sass with her look. “Sayin’ ain't, ain't gonna find you no gentleman.” She lifts her face and puckers her lips. “Say ‘is not.’” She adds an English accent to it, making it all proper.
I laugh quietly. “You're a bad influence on me. Ramón was right about you.”
Her eyes scan around, ignoring me completely. “We need to get away from all this nonsense. Tell Ramón to meet us out back with the bags packed and ready for California. We can bum on the beach and find us some surfers. We can eat hotdogs and drink sodas.”
I roll my eyes.
She nods seriously. “I am serious. Why are we here? I was bribed, and I'm telling you, girl, the car they bought me wasn't worth this.”
I fight the urge to stretch and snuggle down in the chair. The poor posture comments from the battle-ax aren't worth sleeping. Instead, I mutter, “Your bank account and mine won't last us a summer in California. That fancy car will be the last fine thing you own. If any of us could leave and be independently wealthy, we would. But to leave and be poor—no, hell no. I'm fixin’ to marry well.”
Her bright-green eyes snap shut. “I can live without money. I think I can. I probably can. What I can't live without is true love. Not debutant love, but real love. Improper love. Hot, sweaty, Mardi-Gras love that my momma would kill me for.” She says it “keeel,” instead of kill, the way we do when we're getting all riled up.
I laugh at her. “Yes, well, love may feed the soul, Angelina, but we sold our souls a long time ago. You got a Cadillac and I'll be married to the most eligible bachelor in all of Louisiana. Besides, being broke ain't something any of us is capable of. I'm not even gonna try to imagine my life without financial support. Can you imagine having a job—a real job?” I shudder.
Her bright eyes light up. “I can imagine the clothes I would need for my job. Pencil skirts and blouses, and maybe glasses. I could get them with just glass in them, to make me look all proper and sharper. I could be a journalist or a top secretary to a president of a company. Oh, imagine. We could have a mad love affair. Check into hotels with fake names and pretend to be married, but at the end of the weekend I could go home and enjoy my freedom.” She feigns a sigh and holds her hands to her chest.
I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the giggles and another yawn. “You're wicked. I know I'm probably marrying next year. Daddy said I could draw out the engagement and do it the year after, if I wanted. But Momma has been seeing to what she calls 'proper suitors' for some time now. She's fixin’ for me to marry this summer, I think.”
She opens her eyes from her daydream and gives me a fierce stare. Her dramatics are my favorite part of the boring school day. “Lorelei Huntington, you are gonna sell your soul to the devil and let your daddy trade you like cattle to some man? Your wicked momma is gonna pick the richest man she can find. Richest doesn’t always mean best looking. In fact, it usually means the opposite. I can't believe you're gonna marry some man for money.”
I keep my eyes on my manicure and grin. I know something she doesn't. I lower my voice and speak through my smirk, “It ain't just some man.”
She slaps my arm. “You don't. You don't know. Now you tell, ya hear? What do you know?”
I bat my eyelashes at her. “I know your dark hair and green eyes would contrast better if you stopped letting the sun tan you like that. I know it's gonna age you.”
“Yeah well, you look exhausted again, so there. We're quite the pair. Now spill.”
The bell rings and she grabs my hand, dragging me through a group of girls who are giggling and chatting incessantly.
“You have to tell, Lorelei.”
I bite my lip and give her a side-glance. “You have to actually keep this secret. Not like the last time you swore and then told Mandy. Her momma told mine and I got grounded. Momma cut my calories so hard I couldn’t run for weeks.”
She crosses herself.
I tilt my head skeptically. “You swore off God two weeks ago. I'm going to need a better guarantee than that.”
“Fine, I'll trade you a secret. I let Marcello slip his hands up under my blouse yesterday.” She covers her mouth as she says it. “Oooouuu, lordy. I almost found God all over again.”
My eyes widen, but I maintain my composure. “Harlot.”
“It was fabulous. His hands are all rough from doing barn work and training the horses. It felt remarkable. Spill.”
I can't, I'm stuck in the image of her and Marcello. She has amazing breasts and Marcello is the most beautiful horse trainer in all of Louisiana. I imagine for a second, his hands in my blouse. I blush.
She shoves me lightly. “Stop thinking about it. I never shoulda told you.”
My breathing increases as I fan myself and speak blankly, “The Ryan family from New Hampshire. Martin Ryan. Mr. Ryan was at the house yesterday. He and Daddy were in his study for hours. When they came out finally, they shook hands and Mr. Ryan complimented my dress. He told me Martin would be fond of it and I should ensure I wear it this weekend to the Hamptons with them. He talks all fancy and Northern. I had to make sure I said everything the right way, ya know?”
She stops and grips my arms. “The Ryans’ Martin Ryan?” She seems stunned.
I nod, excitedly.
She shakes me. “No. Not him. Anyone but him.”
I knit my brow. “What on earth is wrong with the Ryan family? They're wealthy, related to the Kennedys, and he is by far the most attractive bachelor in all of Louisiana.”
Her face is covered with disgust and fear. “Firstly, they're Yankees. That means he don't count as eligible in the South, Sweets. Secondly, Martin has already—well, you know. He has experiences you don’t. He dated Margery Banks. I heard they did a few things you and I haven’t learned how to do yet. Clearly, our home economics and hers differ.”
Her words hurt but I don't want her to see it. “You really are wicked.”
“Mandy's momma told my momma that Margery's momma made a comment about tying Margery's legs together until she was married. Ouuuie. My momma woulda tied my legs shut all right. I wouldn’t have seen the light of day for a decade, if she caught me doing that. Apparently, she caught them in the act and Margery was on her knees,
and girl, she wasn't prayin’.”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “You know what they're like. It might not be true. They're hateful.”
She pulls her dark hair back and fans her face. “Maybe. Do you really want to chance it? Be with a man Margery Banks has already entertained, on her knees?”
I feel sick. “It can't be true.”
Her eyes glass over for a second. “Promise me you'll get to know him and think about it before you just agree because he's rich. It's your whole life, Lorelei.”
I nod, but I can't get past the image she has created and the anger that came with it.
She continues fanning herself. “There ain't a breeze in the whole county. I need a swim. Let's go to my house.”
My pride is wounded. Margery Banks. It must be lies. The South is known for its nasty gossip. I hope it ain't true. If it is, Angie coulda kept it to herself. I assume she's jealous and twirl my long dark-auburn hair around my fingers. Even if it is true, I think the deal’s done. I don’t know if I have the luxury of ending it. I shake it off and smile peacefully. “I think Martin and the Ryan family are just perfect. I can't wait for the Hamptons. We fly up on Daddy's plane tomorrow. You should come. You can see what a wonderful couple we will be, first hand.”
She opens the door to her locker. “He won't like me coming none. But obviously, I can't very well let you go on up there alone. Not now that we all know where he likes to put his penis.”
I choke. “You're vile, Angelina Palatino.” My stomach sinks.
Evil crosses her lips with a grin that almost always means trouble. Scratch that, it always means trouble. “I have an idea—”
I put my books in her locker, cutting her off. “No.” I walk away. “I'll be over for tea after my nap.”
“You never like my ideas.”
I wave backward.
“Think about California. I still think we got something there, girl. Say hi to Ramón for me.”
I shoot her a scowl and notice the way her face says something I can't understand. I roll my eyes at her. “No. Ramón ain't your type.”
She laughs. She ain't putting her hands on my best friend in the whole world.
Ramón is sitting in the car waiting. He looks positively drenched in sweat.
He jumps out and opens the door for me.
“Good afternoon, goddess.”
I smile and offer a slight bow before I climb in. “Good afternoon, Sir Ramón.”
He hops in and starts the car. I tie on my kerchief and open the window. It's hot and sweaty with my back against the leather seats. The Lincoln doesn't have the stretch our other cars have. Ramón gazes back at me. His skin is tanned from the hours he spends waiting around for my family at our varying functions. His dark hair is matted to his leathered face.
“You have a good day?”
“I suppose. It's awfully hot though. There ain't a breeze in the whole state, I don't think.”
“’Tis true, but you can't be saying ‘ain't’ like that. You know your momma would tear the skin right off your back with a word like that. She already cutting your calories so much, I'm getting worried at how skinny you getting.”
I smile at him. “Lordy, you're good for my self-confidence.”
He shakes his head and passes me back a package. My fingers tremble when I open it. The starvation makes me so hungry I can barely grip things sometimes. Inside the foil is a turkey sandwich with all the fixin’s. The first bite is heaven. I almost choke, taking such large bites. Right away my stomach starts to grumble and scream. The bites land in my belly and I feel instant relief.
His dark eyes in the mirror watch me eating. “How long since she let you eat a real meal?”
“Lemon water for the last three days.” My words come out in mumbles and mouthfuls.
His lips press tightly together. “I'm gonna poison her one day; y'all need to know that shit.”
I laugh and swallow the first half of the sandwich like a snake eating a whole mouse.
“Ya still gotta eat like a lady, pigness.” He hands me a thermos. I crack it and drink the sweet tea right from the thermos instead of using the lid.
“Where did you get this?” I ask and take another scrumptious bite of the soft white bread, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and turkey sandwich. I get a hint of Havarti cheese and moan into the bite.
He laughs at me, nearly rubbing the sandwich all over my body.
“Mrs. Mercer, down the road from my friend Joe. She owns a bakery and makes the best damned sandwiches in the whole state. I buy them from her in secret. I pay double. She ain't allowed to sell me anything I don't eat there. Your momma is watching everyone. She knows if even a cracker is missing.”
I finish the meal off and rub my hand over my belly that now has a food bump. “As soon as I marry, I'm gone. I don’t have to worry anymore. I'm going to get fat and eat everything I see.”
He laughs. “Oh no, you ain't. You and me, we be running every day still. You'll see, you'll be able to run farther with constant food.”
I scowl and yawn. “I'm too tired to talk about running, baby.”
“You having troubles sleeping again?”
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror and nod.
“I will get my grandmamma to come and do the protection spell again. Keep them spirits out of your room. We gotta wait till your momma and daddy are gone though, cherie.”
“I love your grandmamma.” I roll my eyes. “She needs to come and get the demons outta my momma.” I smirk at him in the rearview. “I almost forgot. Speaking of devils, Angie said to say hi.” I mock her high-pitch voice and up my accent a notch.
He makes a face. “You of all people should know she ain't exactly my type.”
“I know.” I nod and stifle another yawn. “Lordy, I need some sleep. I need Grandmamma's remedy.”
I can't wait to see his grandmamma again. I need her to bless my room and Bunny so badly. I am dying of exhaustion. The last time she did it was six years ago, and I have had six years of bliss. Until recently.
“Can we go to Grandmamma's now?” I'm nearly in a food coma, I'm so tired and full.
He nods in the mirror, looking worried. I ignore it and eventually he mellows out. He natters on about us doing a beach run in the Hamptons. There is a beach he wants to run at. I put my hand out the window and let the air wash over it. I wish we would happen upon a cool breeze.
The air glides against my hand like warm water. I feel the weird sparks I always get when I hold my hands out in the air and snap my fingers to make them happen. I don’t even realize I'm doing it. I'm not supposed to. I close my eyes and let the sparks creep up my arms. They light me on fire. I love the feel of it.
His voice breaks my concentration, “You been feeling anything weird lately, cherie?” he asks into the mirror. He narrows his eyes, like he knows about the sparks. I’m sure he doesn't though. I'm not allowed to do them, but when I was little I did them in front of Daddy, and he couldn’t see them. But when Ramón's grandmamma came to cleanse my room, she saw me do it. She told me that if my momma knew about the sparks, she would beat me silly. I almost never do it for fear my momma will find out I can.
I fight the blush on my cheeks. “Just sleepy from the icy whispers. Why?”
He smiles and shakes his head, it's the face I don't like. It's the one that says he's hiding things from me. I swallow hard and wonder if he saw the sparks. The light from them is fast and bright. In the midday sun, they would be impossible to make out—hopefully. I push it to the back of my mind.
He starts nattering again and I distract myself with thoughts of Angie letting the help touch her. I glance at Ramón still speaking, and imagine his callused hands on my breasts. I instantly feel sick. He's no Marcello. He's more of a brother than anything. It's wrong to debase him that way. He deserves so much more than to be trifled with.
I do, however, like to rile him up. “Marcello put his hands up Angie's shirt,” I mutter.
He raises his eyeb
rows up in disbelief.
I shrug and snuggle into the seat better. “Apparently.”
He tilts his head with a chuckle. “Oooooeeeee. That Marcello is running a big risk. The Palatino family has connections that will get him a nice pair of cement boots. Word has it they're related to the Chicago and New York crime families and they're running some imported goods in the Keys.”
I blush, thinking about Marcello with his hands inside my blouse. It's easy to imagine. He is beautiful. He is the Italian Stallion. That’s what all the mothers call him.
The air feels thicker when I imagine his hands moving to other places.
I decided a while back I don’t want to be pure on my wedding day. I don’t want to be with one man my whole life. I'll be forced to marry, and honestly, it'll be such a relief being away from my momma. But I know how marriage works in the South. My marriage won't be no different than my parents’ marriage, filled with secret trysts and hidden kisses. I kinda hope my husband will be like my daddy. I don't mind the idea of being married to a gentle, cold man like him. It's better than being married to a cad.
I don’t care what Angie says. Martin will be like my daddy. He already is so like him. No one would ever know my daddy has mistresses. Most people believe him to be madly in love with my momma. He doesn’t embarrass her, ever. Well, except for his weird war paranoia, but that’s a common one with Southern men.
Momma is clever at not being caught with her lovers too, but we know she has them. We know our parents aren’t in love. They never have been, I don’t think. But the marriage is perfect. From the outside looking in, everything is bliss. That's all I ask for in mine.
If I am honest, I can't picture Martin as my only lover. I can't even try to imagine his hands inside my blouse or lifting my skirt. I can't see his lips sliding up and down my throat, as he pulls me into his lap. Not the way I can imagine it with Marcello. Not the way it is in the dirty books Angie's granny has. Martin's manners have always been perfect and sweet. The epitome of charming.