Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  I sat up straight, looked right into Miss Emily’s sky-blue eyes, and said, “He called me a name. Like they used to call my daddy.”

  “What name?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Icy, you can tell me. I’m your best friend.”

  “Frog eyes,” I mumbled.

  “What?” Miss Emily said.

  “Frog eyes,” I repeated. “He said I looked like Peavy Lawson. That my eyes popped out like his.”

  “Peavy Lawson?” Miss Emily asked. “I don’t know Peavy Lawson.”

  “He’s ugly as a polecat,” I said. “Pop-eyed, straggly brown hair, and freckles.”

  “Well, you’ve got blond hair and amber eyes,” she said. “I can’t see the resemblance.”

  “The likeness is in the pop,” I said.

  Miss Emily sucked in air, hesitated for a minute, then asked, “I’ve never seen you. Do you really pop out your eyes?”

  I lowered my head and didn’t answer.

  “Speak up, Icy Gal. Tell me.”

  “I…”

  “Come on, Icy.”

  “Sometimes my eyes pop out,” I began, and stopped. Then, before I could think twice, the whole truth rushed from my mouth. “Joel McRoy and his cousin, Janie Lou, caught me behind Old Man Potter’s barn popping out my eyes, and I called him a liar and dumped Coke all over his head when I knowed, knew, he was speaking the truth. I admit it. Sometimes my eyes pop out, but they can’t help it. I mean, I can’t help it. If I don’t, my head feels like it’ll explode and splatter all over the place.” I stopped, ate a mouthful of air, and continued. “I’m popping and jerking and repeating all the time. I can’t help it. I hide in the root cellar and do it. I go down to the creek and do it. I did it in Old Man Potter’s barn, and I’ll probably do it when school starts. I’ll do it because I can’t help myself, and the whole school will turn against me, and I ain’t gonna hang around for that. Do you hear me, Miss Emily? I ain’t gonna stay here. No, ma’am! I’ll carve me a canoe out of a cedar tree, and I’ll sail it down the Kentucky River, then up the Ohio, all the way to Louisville, where they love people who are different.” I heaved once, my shoulders shaking, and broke into tears.

  “Icy Gal,” Miss Emily said, “listen up, you won’t have to do that. I promise, we’ll find out what’s wrong and make it right.”

  “But you won’t tell no one…you won’t tell anyone?” I asked in a shrill voice.

  “On my word of honor,” she said, “I’ll not mention it to a soul. We’ll give you a little time. All children go through phases, little traumas, you know. You might just be going through one. After a while, you’ll grow out of it. Now stand up and come here.” When I approached, she stretched out her arms and drew me to her, but it seemed that the harder Miss Emily tried to comfort me, the less comfort she seemed to give.

  Before leaving that day, Miss Emily had said, “Icy Gal, you don’t believe me, but I understand what you’re going through. When I gobble down that last sweet roll, I understand. I’m not hungry, Icy Gal, not at all, but I have to eat them all. Another and another and another until the whole box is empty. I could eat all of the sweet rolls in the world, and I’d still want more.” She had placed her fat hand on her chest. “The void, Icy Gal. The emptiness in my heart. No amount of food will ever fill it up.”

  I shook my head and said, “No, it’s different. Eye popping doesn’t fill up anything. It just causes me pain.”

  “You think I don’t feel pain?” she asked. “You think I don’t know what those snotty women say behind my back? ‘They don’t make panties big enough for Miss Emily’s behind.’ I’ve heard every word, every giggle. I’ve felt every barb. There’s only one mirror in my home, and it’s covered with a piece of cheesecloth.” She pointed at her face and spat out, “Do you think I want to see this hog?” Grimacing, she had slid her plump hands over her body and said, “I’m roasting on a spit in hell.”

  Nearby was a patch of withered daffodils. I walked over and sat beside the wilted brown stems. Last spring, after the flowers had bloomed, I had tried to prune them with Matanni’s sewing scissors. Matanni, catching me through the kitchen window, had rushed outside. “Icy, don’t!” she shouted, running toward me. “If you cut them, they won’t come back.”

  “The flowers are gone,” I said. “And the brown stems look ugly.”

  “Pretty and ugly go together,” she explained. “A pop-eyed, yellow baby ain’t too pretty neither, but I didn’t clip you into little pieces and toss you away.” Matanni held out her hand, and I gave her the scissors. “Look what you turned into! You was born an ugly duckling but you’ve growed into a swan.”

  “Miss Emily was a fat baby. Now she’s a fat grown-up,” I said. “She stayed the same. So you’re wrong. Ugly and ugly go together.”

  “Don’t you like her?” my grandmother asked.

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “Then see the pretty part of her,” Matanni had said. “Some hearts, Icy, are mean and vicious, but Miss Emily’s is sweet and playful.”

  “Innocent,” I had said.

  “The heart of a child.”

  But that day, I didn’t believe Miss Emily could possibly understand what I was going through because we were different. Even though she thought our orphaned status made us the same, I knew it didn’t. By four, I had lost my parents. Miss Emily was twenty-five before hers died. When I was old enough, I wanted girlfriends who’d ask me to parties and boyfriends who’d take me to the movies. I wanted more than just respect. I wanted acceptance, the wink and nod of approval. In my home, I’d hang a mirror from each wall. I’d look proudly at myself in each. No, Miss Emily had not a clue as to what ailed me. She could stop herself from eating. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help what I did. My urges controlled me. Nevertheless, in Miss Emily’s eyes, we were the same. She was the orphan of Ginseng; I was the orphan of Poplar Holler. If she had her way, she’d use our strangeness to unite us. She’d be Miss Emily Tanner, the fat woman of Ginseng; I’d be Icy Sparks, the frog child from Icy Creek. Together, we’d become the Orphaned Outcasts of Crockett County. Just the thought of such comparisons made me shudder.

  Chapter 5

  Monday, the first day of school, took me by surprise. After all my worrying and waiting, it sneaked up on me like a leg cramp in the middle of a dream. Before I knew it, I was putting on my new red calico dress; and Matanni was frying eggs and bacon.

  During the previous two weeks, I had kept my impulses in check. My interior thoughts had calmed down; no longer were they arguing the pros and cons of me, transforming themselves into a separate entity, more powerful than I was. No major jerks, pops, or repetitions. I’d get little impulses, but they were more like tics, wee little movements of my neck and head, nothing like my previous goings-on in the root cellar. In fact, they were so subtle that no one noticed them. Still, I was worried. I never knew when the jerks would take over. When they did, people would find me out.

  “Go sit down,” my grandmother said, as I tapped across the kitchen floor in my black patent-leather pumps with white clip-on bows. My lace-trimmed socks were turned down and skimmed against my shoes. I felt the sharp-edged jabbing of the heel into my right foot and knew that a blister, round as a quarter, was forming.

  “I need some help,” I said, approaching my grandmother from behind, holding a brush and green ribbons.

  “Icy!” she said, stepping back on my shoes.

  “Ouch!” I said, and jumped back.

  “I can’t cook and fix your hair at the same time.”

  Pouting, I walked over to the kitchen chair and slumped down. “I picked out these green ribbons.” I put the hairbrush and ribbons on the table, then flicked the rubber bands that were wrapped around my wrist. “I’m nervous,” I added. “It’s my first day, and I want to look pretty.”

  “You got butterflies,” my grandmother said. “If you eat a good breakfast, you’ll feel better.”

  I bit my lip. “I ain’t hun
gry,” I said. “I’m too scared to be hungry.”

  “School ain’t never bothered you before,” my grandmother said, pulling biscuits from the oven. “What’s got you in such a tizzy? You’ve been feeling better for weeks.”

  I picked up my glass of tomato juice, stared at the thick red concoction, took a sip but—feeling queasy—set it down. “Janie Lou said that the fourth grade teacher is mean,” I replied.

  “Janie Lou?” my grandmother said, arching her eyebrows.

  “You know, Joel McRoy’s cousin,” I explained.

  She nodded. “So?” she said, lifting her eyebrows again.

  “So,” I continued, “she spanked Prissy Evans last year for picking her nose and slapped Maggie Mullins for nibbling on her nails. Hit her hands with a Ping-Pong paddle. Janie Lou said that she’s from Chicago and came all this way to save our minds and souls. I mean, she don’t even like it here.”

  “Nonsense,” Matanni interrupted. “You don’t even know the woman. You ain’t once mentioned her Christian name.”

  “Her name is Mrs. Stilton,” I said confidently. “And she’s a Catholic, too,” I blurted out, knowing full well that bit of news would worry my grandmother. I looked right into my grandmother’s eyes. Neither of her eyebrows was lifted now. She was listening, all right. “She believes in the Pope and practices her singing every day ’cause she’s just hankering to go to Italy and audition for the Pope’s choir. Even Janie Lou’s preacher has heard about her. One Sunday, he warned the whole congregation, ‘If you don’t watch out, you, too, will be following false prophets and worshiping idols.’ Right then and there, Janie Lou knew who he was referring to. Janie Lou calls her Mrs. Zombie. And do you know why?” I didn’t give Matanni a chance to reply. “’Cause her irises are so dark you can’t see her pupils. She looks like one of the walking dead.”

  Matanni blinked twice, shook her head, and scolded, “Don’t believe everything you hear!” Then she snatched up a knife and began buttering a biscuit. “Now drink your juice.”

  “I told you,” I sassed, “I ain’t hungry.”

  My grandmother grabbed my plate and marched toward me. “Now, listen up, Miss Icy Sparks. In this here life, we all got things we don’t want to do. All of us have our bad days. So don’t go taking yours out on me.” She plunked down my breakfast. Staring at me were two over-easy eggs, three slices of bacon, and a biscuit.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, then stabbed an egg with my fork and slowly brought a piece of it toward my mouth. “I’m as jittery as a horse.” I choked on the rubbery sliver of egg white, groaned, and spewed tomato juice and egg all over the table.

  “Icy, are you okay?”

  I shook my head, leaped up, and raced to the bathroom. Matanni chased after me.

  “Icy, are you okay?” she asked.

  I heaved over the toilet, unable to answer. Then, totally exhausted, I lowered the lid, folded my arms on top of it, and plopped down my head.

  “Icy, are you all right?” she asked again from the doorway. “Say something, please!”

  I stood up. “I’m okay,” I muttered, shuffling to the door. “I feel better now,” I said. “Will you braid my hair?” I asked, extending my wrist with the rubber bands wrapped around it. “I want to wear my new ribbons.”

  Matanni put her hand on my forehead. “No fever,” she pronounced. “Just nerves.” She took my hand, led me over to the sink, where she turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water over my face. “I don’t understand it,” she said as she dried my skin. “School ain’t never bothered you. By fall, you’re aching to go.” She combed her fingers through my hair. “Stay right here,” she said. “I gotta fetch your hairbrush and ribbons. Don’t worry none. We’ll make you look real pretty.”

  I stared at my pale face in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were bleached out and dull. My hair seemed wilted and dead. Like a dead cat’s hair, I thought, one that has been dead in a ditch for weeks. Suddenly I understood why Miss Emily hung cheesecloth over her mirror. “If I had me a piece of cheesecloth,” I whispered, “I’d hang it up, lickety-split.” But I had no cheesecloth and watched dismally as my grandmother, all smiles, scurried into the bathroom and, with hairbrush and ribbons, went eagerly to work.

  Peavy Lawson was the first person I saw. He and his frog eyes occupied the first seat of the first row near the door. When I entered the room, he jumped up and waved his hands at me. They looked like frog’s feet—greenish yellow, webbed, and slimy. I blinked and looked again, but he had hidden them in his lap. Now he winked at me, his frog eyelids flying up and down like blinds. A wide, thin grin covered his face. I tried to find his lips but couldn’t. Frogs, I guessed, didn’t have lips.

  “Howdy, Icy!” He lisped the cy. When he spoke, his tongue—slender and blood red—shot out a full five inches. “Howdy, Icy,” he lisped again, the tip of his tongue curling up when he spoke.

  I concentrated on my own eyes, tried to sink them way back into my skull, and said, “Peavy Lawson, why don’t you jump back into that pond where you belong?”

  He popped out his eyes, then rolled them up into his head. “We can jump together,” he said.

  I snapped my eyes shut—unable to tolerate the sight of him—and blindly shuffled forward. When I bumped into the large wooden desk and heard the class laughing, I opened my eyelids and slid into the first empty seat I could find. The minute Peavy Lawson leaned way over into the aisle, flashing me a huge, froggy grin, I knew that I had picked the wrong desk since I was only a few seats down from him. My face reddened, and I stuck out my tongue. I opened my hands, turned my palms upward, and spit into both. Then, I slapped them together and rubbed them fiercely back and forth, all the while staring into Peavy Lawson’s amphibian eyes.

  “Hey you, young lady! You’re Icy Sparks, aren’t you?”

  I heard the voice and turned my head toward the classroom door.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Mrs. Stilton barked. “I’m beginning to question Miss Palmer’s high opinion of you.”

  I looked at Mrs. Stilton’s long nose and her squinty, black eyes and was too frightened to speak. A long quiver started from the nape of my neck and shook me down my spine to the tips of my toes. This ain’t no jerk, I thought. This is just plain fear. My desk began to bang against the floor.

  “Icy Sparks!” Mrs. Stilton screamed.

  I clamped my hands over my ears.

  “Remove those hands, young lady!”

  I froze.

  “Remove them or else!” she warned.

  Still, I couldn’t move.

  “Okay, you asked for it!” she said.

  Deliberately, she walked toward her desk and pulled out, inch by inch, the top drawer. In slow motion, she picked up a Ping-Pong paddle, then held it up high for the class to see.

  I gasped, but my hands stayed put.

  With the paddle held upright in her hand, she strode toward me.

  I abruptly closed my eyes, and she disappeared like melting celluloid blotting out an actor when the film projector breaks.

  “You think you can make me disappear?” she said.

  I pressed my hands against my ears.

  “You think you can shut me out?”

  My eyelids were tightly shut.

  “You think I’m not important?”

  I held my breath.

  “Well, listen up!” she screamed. “Mrs. Eleanor Stilton is your teacher, and you’d better accept it!”

  I bit my bottom lip and sat rigidly still.

  Whack! The paddle burned my right hand.

  “Do you hear me?”

  Whack! It burned my left. Whack, whack, whack!

  My ears tingled. My jaw ached.

  “Do you understand?”

  I tried to speak. Syllables dissolved.

  Whack, whack, whack!

  My face melted. My hands fell from my ears. My eyes flew open.

  “Who is your fourth grade teacher?” the pointed face asked.

  “You are,�
�� I muttered.

  “And what is my name?” the voice thundered.

  “Mrs. Stilton,” I said.

  “Finally!” The voice gasped relief. “Students, this was your very first lesson. I hope you’ve paid attention.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” resounded the frightened voices of Mrs. Stilton’s fourth grade class. The loudest of which was mine.

  By lunchtime, the enormity of my situation had seeped into my mind like the odor of turnip greens permeating the air. I understood that some awful harm was confronting me. From now on, every answer I gave would have to be precise; every word would have to be calculated, ensuring my survival. If I didn’t control myself, the urge to jerk, pop, and repeat words would take over, and something horrible—the worst thing ever to happen to me—would occur.

  At the table, Emma Richards sat beside me. She held her nose while she slipped a smidgen of turnip greens into her mouth. “I can’t taste them this way,” she said.

  “Don’t eat them,” I told her.

  “I gotta,” she said. “Mrs. Stilton heard me telling Sallie Mae how much I hate this stuff, and she said I had to eat all of it. Every mouthful of it, she told me. I seen what she done to you.”

  “Then you best eat up,” I said, forking down mouthfuls of greens, hoping to show Mrs. Stilton what a good girl I really was. When she passed by my plate, it would be sparkling clean. “I like greens,” I said, shoveling more into my mouth. “Pokeweed, collards, mustards. Patanni said that I’m like Essie, our milk cow, ’cause I like greens more’n meat.”

  “I like chicken and dumplings,” Emma said. “That’s about the only thing I really like, except for candy.”

  “I like pull candy,” I said. “Miss Emily Tanner makes the best in the world.”

  “It’s too gooey.” Emma made a face. “I like proper sweets like those chocolates in Valentine boxes.”

  I stuffed more turnip greens between my lips and, with a full mouth, proclaimed, “I like blackberry cobbler. My grandma makes the best.”

  A hand tapped my shoulder, and I glanced up. “You like what?” Mrs. Stilton asked.