The Queen of Kentucky

by Alecia Whitaker

  Until eleven o’clock.

  My momma’s Corolla isn’t ideal for off-roading, so she pulled over on the shoulder by the red barn and laid on the horn.

  “Ricki Jo! Ricki Jo!” she hollered.

  I froze mid-grab when I heard her, breaking the rhythm of our work. Luke was hunched over above me, waiting for the next stick.

  “That’s my momma,” I said up to him, apology in my eyes.

  “I’m moving down!” Luke yelled up to the other guys, and then he swung down to the trailer by me. The guys above grumbled and rearranged themselves in the barn.

  “I don’t have to go, Luke,” I told him. “I’ll just run and see if we can go next weekend or something.”

  But Luke just reached past me and started passing tobacco from the trailer up into the barn, filling my shoes and not missing a beat.

  “Y-yeah,” I stammered on. “I’ll just stay, seeing as how you’re already down two workers….”

  “It’s a small field,” he stated, not looking at me. He was passing up the heavy sticks draped in tobacco much faster than I had been, like a man on a mission, intense, like he needed the rhythm. I stood there a few minutes watching him, until my mom started honking again.

  “Just go, Ricki Jo,” he said. I hesitated, reached toward his arm, but he brushed me off. “Just go. Okay? I’m fine.”

  His set jaw, tense back, and hunched shoulders said he was anything but fine, but the anger in his eyes told me to back off.

  The car ride was quiet. As soon as I got in I told Momma exactly how it all had happened in the barn, and she said, “Poor Mattie,” feeling sorry for Luke’s mom. It didn’t feel right going shopping while Luke’s family was in a bind, but we kept going. She fell silent and I followed suit, staring out the window and letting my eyes unfocus a little. We whipped down Beer Can Alley and over to Russell Cave Road in a flash, and I kept my eyes out the window, watching the Kentucky landscape blur past. Each rolling hill boasted green fields, horses, cows, hay, and ponds. Most of the houses we passed were regular ones like ours, modest farm-type places; but I looked forward to the big ones, older out our way and more modern as we got closer to Lexington. I liked to imagine myself getting married on the big balconies or throwing a fancy party in the huge rooms.

  The drive to Lexington was a short one, partly because I was daydreaming about Wolf, but mostly because of my momma’s lead foot, meaning she took each back road curve like Danica Patrick, the Indy Car princess.

  And now, as if the day can’t get any worse, my momma and I are locked in a staring contest. I’m in an adorable lacy-strapped tank top and she’s sitting in a plush purple chair shaking her head ferociously. I break eye contact and launch the loudest, most obnoxious, heaviest sigh of my life before marching back into the dressing room.

  “This is gonna take all day!” I call out as I throw off the tank and wiggle into a floral dress my momma is forcing me to try on.

  “Which one are you trying?” she calls.

  I step out of the dressing room and stand in front of her, shoulders hunched, a look of disgust on my face. I save the model poses and cheery smiles for the outfits I want her to buy. She checks me out approvingly.

  “That is just adorable, Ricki Jo,” she says, which is all I need to hear.

  “I hate it,” I say, turning around.

  “You hate that?” a young salesgirl asks incredulously. “Vanessa Hudgens is totally wearing something just like that in Us Weekly. You just need to accessorize. Look.”

  She reaches over my momma to the rack above and pulls down a cropped tux jacket. “Hmmm… size zero, I’d say. Now, hold on one sec.”

  She hands me the jacket and I put it on while she bounces over to the register for a belt and bracelet, bopping her head to the pop song blaring over the store speakers. Momma and I watch her work, skeptical. The girl looks over at me, two belts in her hand. She holds up one at a time, closing one eye, then puts one back and heads over enthusiastically. As she wraps a subtly studded belt around my waist, I start to feel like an empty canvas under the hands of Michelangelo. No! Like a swimmer who’s gone out too far in the ocean being pulled back to shore by a fashion lifeguard.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” she asks, handing me a swirly gold cuff bracelet and powering her compact figure over to the back wall.

  “Six and a half,” I shout.

  “Okay, some sexy strappy shoes, and this outfit’s the bomb dot-com,” she says, making her way back over. I giggle.

  “Nothing sexy,” interjects Momma, the ever-present buzz kill. The salesgirl turns back around without missing a beat.

  “Well, then, black ballet flats would kill! And it’s getting cold soon, anyway, so actually, these are more practical. You’re totally right,” she says to my mother, who looks confused but flattered.

  “I am?” Momma asks.

  “Totally,” the girl affirms, handing me a cute pair of black slippers.

  I put them on, turn toward the three-way mirror, and almost don’t recognize myself. I never would have put any of these things together, or worn any of them separately, but the outfit actually works. And the salesgirl is beaming behind me, which doesn’t hurt. I look over at my momma, throw my shoulders back, stand up straight, and smile wide.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  She pauses, takes it all in, and replies simply, “I love it.”

  We are both stunned. The tension is gone and the day is saved as I turn back to the mirror and twirl from side to side, checking myself out from every angle. My momma gets up and stands behind me, her reading glasses on, examining the price tags on each of the newly added items. Once she’s finished taking inventory, she leans in toward the salesgirl to read her name tag, then closes her glasses and picks up her purse.

  “You know what, sweetie? I think Rachel here probably knows a little more about teen fashion than your dear old mom. And the mall closes in about an hour and I still haven’t figured out my Sleep Number for our new bed. So how ’bout the two of you pick out about five more outfits while I head down to that mattress store across the way. Sound good?”

  I squeal, a sound that just comes out when I’m at my happiest.

  “Now, Rachel,” Momma continues, “you work on commission, right?”

  Rachel nods.

  “Okay, then. You’re about to get a big paycheck, honey, but only if you follow a few rules. No midriff when she raises her hand, as if to ask a question at school or something. Nothing shorter than this mole here on her right leg. And absolutely nothing low-cut, got it?”

  I sigh again, while Rachel nods and smiles. “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Ricki Jo, I should be back in no time, but use the phone here to call my cell if you need me. And I’m going to want a fashion show before I swipe the plastic, got it?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say, with much less enthusiasm than Rachel.

  Following Rachel from rack to rack is an education in and of itself. As she pulls different jackets, skirts, and tops, she tells me why each one would work for my frame and why certain items would not. She talks to me about accentuating my good qualities and downplaying the body parts that aren’t really working for me yet. From behind the counter, she grabs the aforementioned Us Weekly and lets me leaf through it as we shop.

  “From a fashion standpoint, just look at the young stars, like Miley Cyrus or Taylor Swift,” Rachel says, holding up a cute pink dress.

  “Way too short,” I say, my momma’s voice in my head.

  “Not with these underneath,” she replies, grabbing a pair of black tights from a basket on top of the rack. “Leggings are totally in right now,” she says, talking more to herself than to me, “so we’ll get black, gray, and one lacy pair… ankle- and calf-length. Ooh! Bangles!”

  And she’s off again. I follow along, flipping through the glossy pages of the magazine, fascinated by the “Stars, They’re Just Like Us” section. I also definitely like the way Rachel gets around my momma’s rules. I should
take notes.

  Back in the dressing room, Rachel calls Momma while I start trying things on. We’re going to build my wardrobe around a few strong pieces that can be interchanged with different accessories to look like totally different outfits. My dad would appreciate Rachel’s thrifty take on fashion, but I think she’s just trying to get me as much bang for my buck as possible. Looking down at the crumpled clothes I wore to the mall today, I realize she probably feels like she’s doing a good deed.

  “All in all, I’d say it was a pretty successful trip,” Momma says as we unload the car. “But baby, I’m beat.”

  I stretch and yawn, exhausted myself and longing for my bed. It’s been a full day, but worth it for sure. On the way out of the mall we walked past Abercrombie & Fitch and I stopped cold, sure that Wolf was right beside me. Guess that’s where the boy buys his knock-me-dead cologne. I took deep breaths of it ’til I felt my lungs would explode and then floated outside. And on the way home my daydreams of us together at homecoming were interrupted only by a stop at the Wendy’s drive-thru for a chocolate Frosty—the perfect way to cap off the perfect day.

  “Definitely,” I agree, gathering up the clothing that has spilled all over the trunk. (My momma + curvy roads = wear your seat belt.) She helps me stuff the previously folded clothes back into the gigantic shopping bags and we loop the handles over our forearms. Then, she finds Rachel’s copy of Us Weekly.

  “What’s this?” she asks, holding it to the light in the trunk.

  “Just a magazine,” I say, grabbing it and stuffing it in a bag.

  “Looks like you’ve got a few of them,” she says, finding the copy of Seventeen I bought while she was in the bathroom.

  “Just a little reading material, Momma,” I say, quickly grabbing the last bag and closing the trunk. She holds it up and reads by the light of the full moon.

  “ ‘Hookup Report—What Guys Really Expect.’ ” She cocks an eyebrow at me, then sighs and shakes her head. I wait, breathless, hoping she won’t take it away. I’ve been thinking about that article all the way home. Finally, she rolls it up and tucks it into one of my bags. “Just don’t let your father see,” she says, and heads inside.

  “Luke!” I whisper, tapping on his bedroom window. It’s cracked at the bottom, and if he doesn’t open it soon I’m going in. I’ve been out here tapping for what seems like forever and know he can’t be asleep. He never sleeps when he’s stressed.

  “Luke, I know you’re awake,” I whisper again. Tap. Wait. “Luke!”

  “For God’s sake, Luke, answer the damned girl,” I hear his older brother groan.

  Finally, Luke comes to the window and opens it. “What do you want, Ricki Jo?”

  “Come down to the pond,” I say.

  He gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, lowers the window again, and disappears.

  “Luke!” I whisper again.

  “Damn it, Ricki Jo! Let me put some pants on!” Luke yells, and then I see a pillow fly at him from across the room.

  I take this opportunity to back away from the window and sit on the grass with Bandit. I’m not much on sneaking out—things seem scarier in the dark—but I got home too late to call Luke and ask him about his dad. I couldn’t sleep, worrying about it and wondering if he’s mad that I left, so I unchained Bandit and started hopping fences. Bandit’s an awesome sidekick, and besides, a full moon makes the farm look more like a black-and-white photo than a forbidden forest.

  “That dog better not start barking,” I hear a grumpy voice say from behind me. Luke is standing over us, barefoot and bare-chested and obviously in a bad mood. “Let’s go.”

  I hop up and follow him down his backyard to the plank fence. We climb it and head down our grass trail ’til we get to the edge of the pond, the stars sparkling on its smooth surface. I take a deep breath of his farm, filling my lungs with this countryside. I just love it here. Luke plops down on the soft grass and I join him, feeling secure, leaning back under the biggest sky I’ve ever seen.

  “Lot of stars out tonight,” I say.

  “Yep,” he replies, leaning on one elbow and splitting thick blades of grass with his fingers.

  “You wanna talk about it?” I ask softly.

  “The stars?” he asks.

  “No, Luke.”

  “Oh. Your fabulous day at the mall?” he asks, sarcasm heavy.

  “Hey! I said I wouldn’t go!”

  He sighs, sits up, and rests his skinny elbows on the knees of his old jeans, his head down. He takes a deep breath and fidgets with the worn leather band around his wrist. Looking out over me and the pond, he says, “It’s broken. In three places. He can’t hardly walk, Ricki Jo. How’s he gonna work? Feed cattle? Cut hay? Think it’ll be all healed up by the time we gotta strip tobacco? Think it’ll be better by Thanksgiving?”

  His voice gets stronger and louder and angrier, and his left leg is twitching up and down. I lie still, looking up at the face I know as well as my own, but seeing that hardened edge again.

  “You think that lazy fat-assed SOB is gonna get better anytime soon?” he asks, finally looking down at me. “Or you think he’s gonna sit around the house all day, boozing and back-handing my momma?”

  This time, I look away, over at the cattail reeds that line the pond. He’s scared—scared in his own house—and angry. I was going to tell him how mad I was at Momma when she wouldn’t let me get a makeover at Macy’s today, but his momma…

  “And you know it’ll be in the paper,” he spits.

  “How? I’m not gonna tell anybody, and my dad won’t, either,” I say.

  “Come on, Ricki Jo,” he says. “In the Times they put school lunch menus and a full page of records. You don’t think the town drunk falling out of a barn is big news?”

  “You mean, ’cause of the hospital records?”

  “It’ll be in next week’s paper. I guarantee it.”

  We sit quietly, both knowing he’s right. Our town paper, The Breckinridge Times, comes out once a week and prints about seven pages of everything from new births to the honor roll. My dad was just in the “25 Years Ago Today” column for winning the County Fair Tractor Pull when he was in school, and I was on the front page in fourth grade for winning the Soil Conservation Essay Contest. Unless the cops find marijuana in somebody’s tobacco crop, the word news has a loose definition.

  “I just wish she’d leave him,” Luke says quietly. Bitterly.

  I jerk up on my elbows. “Divorce?”

  “What?” he asks me. “You call that a marriage?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shocked. I can’t imagine my parents getting a divorce. I mean, I guess you’d get two Christmases, two birthday parties, two bedrooms, and all that; but you couldn’t watch TV together, or play euchre, and you’d have to tell everything twice instead of just one time over dinner. I shudder. “I think divorce sounds scary.”

  “Yeah, well, I think a drunk for a dad is scary,” he says. “And I can’t just sit by watching my momma get knocked around.”

  This is the closest Luke’s ever come to the topic of the shouts we hear in his house sometimes and the busted lip he brought to my cookout. I try not to breathe or look him in the eye ’cause I want him to feel like he can talk to me. I need my big mouth to stay quiet and my big ears to just listen.

  “I’m just about a man now, you know?” he says quietly.

  I nod.

  “And you think a real man sits back and watches while his mom shoves her kids behind her to take blow after blow? Or you think a real man shoves his mom back and takes the blows for her?”

  I do not know the answer to either question, so I don’t respond.

  “Or just maybe,” he says, standing up and brushing the grass off his butt, “a real man fights back.”

  I hop up fast and touch his arm.

  “Don’t fight back,” I say before I can stop myself, feeling the worry etched all over my face.

  He drapes his arm over my shoulders and leads me toward
my house. We walk quietly, in sync, a happy Bandit leading the way, his brown and white tail wagging while an unhappy couple follows him, quiet and sad. I feel guilty and stupid. Guilty for having good parents, and stupid for complaining about them. Guilty for wanting lots of new popular friends, and stupid for not noticing the nightmare my true best friend is living. I wrap my arms around his waist as we walk, and squeeze.

  “I’ll never touch a drop of that stuff,” he vows. He pulls away and looks down, staring me right in the eyes. “On my life, Ricki Jo. I’ll never drink a drop.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  “Let’s take a quiz,” I say to Luke as he sits beside me on the bus. I am determined to cheer him up, so my new Seventeen magazine is open, and my pen is ready to record his results.

  “Save the quizzes for school, Ricki Jo,” he grumbles. “I’m too tired for your girly games.”

  “No! This is really fun! I promise!” I plow on. “Okay. ‘Two of your girls are fighting. You A) Ask them for details’—”

  “Or B,” Luke interrupts, “get new friends.”

  “Okay, so this one isn’t good for guys,” I concede, flipping back to the index. “Oh, but your horoscope! Okay, okay, okay. Here it is! ‘Taurus: Jupiter will send you a boost of confidence on the seventeenth, and you’ll finally find the courage to tell your crush how you feel!’ ”

  Luke rolls his eyes.

  “Okay, listen to mine. ‘Gemini: Drama will run rampant in your life this month! You’ll meet a new guy and instantly like him.’ Oh my gosh! It’s so true!”

  Luke the Skeptic eyes me. “How is it ‘so true’?”