The Queen of Kentucky

by Alecia Whitaker

  He waits for me to grab my bag and we walk toward the front of the classroom, where Candace meets me outside the door. I hope she hasn’t heard anything about my slumber-party drunkenness. As if reading my mind, Wolf grabs my head and whispers down into my hairline.

  “Nunca yo tengo nunca,” he says, drawing it all out. I giggle at his garbage Spanish, and then flush pink when I realize he’s indicating Candace and the lesbian lie.

  “I’m not sure that one translates,” I say, looking up at him sheepishly.

  He grins and squeezes my shoulder. “Later, Rosa J.” Then he nods at Candace. “Roja.”

  She rolls her eyes at him and I hide a smile.

  “I don’t know what you see in him,” she says.

  Watching his skinny frame walk away, the way his shoulders slant from side to side as he struts through the crowds, I don’t see how she misses it.

  “ ‘Best Friends Forever… or Never?’ What do you think?” I ask Candace.

  We’re at a table in Miss Davis’s class, working on our articles for the school paper. I’m totally happy for an excuse to miss lunch period with the rest of my fabulous friends, since some of them need to get a life. And since I’m currently submerged in a major BFF crisis, I thought a friendship quiz would be a great way to start off my “Terrible Tales of Teenagedom” column.

  “I think I saw something like that on MySpace,” she replies.

  I shoot her a dirty look and blow air through my bangs. “Whatever, Candace.”

  She gives me a funny look and puts her hands up in defense. “Easy, Hard Charger,” she says. “What’s with the ’tude?”

  I sigh and write down my BFF title. “Just Mackenzie stuff. And Laura stuff. And Luke stuff.” I pause for dramatic effect, then look up at her mischievously, baiting her so that I can dish. “And, oh yeah, Wolf stuff.”

  She smirks but doesn’t comment, which actually ticks me off. I want her to either judge me—tell me that she was right and I’m changing and the new me sucks—or ask me all about Wolf and be the one friend I can gush to about homecoming. I stare at her frizzy red braids and want to jerk one.

  “What about something like, ‘Your friends usually call you when…’ and then give, like, multiple-choice answers?” I ask tightly.

  “Sounds good,” she mumbles, not looking up.

  I don’t know why, but I suddenly realize that I’m really mad at Candace. Why should I have to fight her battles? Why’s Luke got to get mad at me when, number one, I didn’t start the stupid girls-kissing-girls thing, and number two, she wasn’t even there? If anybody acts too good around here, too stuck-up or whatever, it’s the two of them, always judging everybody.

  “A, they want to talk about boys…” I read out loud as I write, hoping to annoy her. “B, they want help with their homework…” I snort, remembering certain “friends” of mine.

  “Or C,” Candace mutters, pressing down hard on her notebook, “their other friends are mad at them.”

  I gawk, stunned. I’m sure she feels my eyes on her, but she doesn’t look up. I start to say something, to defend myself or deny her shot at me, but I close my mouth and look down at my paper, knowing I can’t do either because she’s right. So instead of battling, I write down Candace’s answer as C and try to think of something neutral for D.

  “Oh,” I say to myself, chewing on my eraser. “Just to talk.”

  Novel idea, I think as I write it down.

  We finish the hour in awkward silence, taking notes from Mitch here and there whenever he checks up on us. He’s a pretty hands-on editor, at least for the freshmen, and has a lot of catty suggestions for my multiple-choice answers. A lot more helpful than Miss High and Mighty sitting across from me—and who uses MySpace anymore, anyway?

  I finish up the quiz right as the bell rings and turn it in, eager for Mitch’s notes. Candace actually waits for me at the door and we walk toward our lockers together, although we still can’t find much to talk about. When I see Wolf down the hall, hanging off my already open locker door and grinning my way, I say a quick “later” and make a beeline for him, feeling all the day’s tension float away. I have a date this weekend… and I can’t wait.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  I have never been so stoked for a football game!

  I could barely concentrate all day long, and the teachers pretty much gave us all a pass. The football players and Boys’ Varsity cheerleaders wore their uniforms to school and the whole place felt different somehow. Alive. We even had a pep rally after lunch, and if you didn’t have school spirit before, you’d be hard-pressed not to have it now.

  Although I’ve been looking forward to homecoming since the first day of school, I show up fashionably late. From the parking lot, I can hear the crowds yell and the band explode. Excitement rushes through me as I shut the car door.

  “Five minutes,” I warn Momma again through the passenger window. She rolls her eyes in response and Dad laughs as they slowly move forward through the parking lot to look for a spot. She agreed to drop me off a few car lengths past the gate, and they promised to wait a few minutes before coming in themselves. As a freshman, I must protect my budding reputation.

  I pay my five bucks and squeeze through the people gathered at the entrance. Everybody and their momma came out tonight, high school sports being major social events in a small town like mine and county rivalries really raising the stakes. I want to get down to the student section at the far end of the field before my family comes in and decides to start snapping pictures or something; but at the same time, I can’t very well sprint through this crowd or appear overly eager.

  So I sashay around the track, weaving through the throngs of people in my cute skinny jeans tucked tightly into my tall brown boots. I scan the bleachers for my date as nonchalantly as possible, my cold hands tucked deep into the big pocket of my PCHS fitted hoodie. Today’s ensemble: Game wear. Casual, yet cute.

  Near the far goalpost, I spot Wolf yelling from the bleachers and nearly lose my breath. He is standing in the glow of the enormous lights, bare-chested, with maroon and gold war paint smeared all over his skinny torso and face, pumping both hands into the air and high-fiving a crew of fellow fanatics.

  I stop. And stare. And admire his cut-up abs and ribs as he cheers on the Stallions.

  “Ericka!” he shouts. “Ericka! Aquí! Arriba!” I smile at him and scramble up the bleachers double-time so he’ll stop screaming my name and waving his arms, which is enough to both please and embarrass me at the same time. Although I don’t get to sit right beside him (his chest is the C in PCHS), I squeeze in with a few older girls who are in my same situation, dates of the other football-fan warriors.

  “You’re Ericka?” a pretty brunette asks me. I nod and smile big. I totally recognize her. Donna Mays, student body president. “Cool. I’m Donna. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” I say and force my eyes to the football field before my uncontrollable smile scares her away. I’m sitting beside the student body president, and she knows my name!

  That’s yet another fantastic thing about being David Wolfenbaker’s date. Even though he’s a freshman—just like me—he runs with the upperclassmen. One, because of his older brother, and two, because he plays basketball with the big boys. I sit perched in the student section, happier than I’ve ever been and extremely nervous around this crowd. This is my first big game as a PCHS Stallion and I want to fit in.

  So as Sarah and Mackenzie (who look totally amazing out on the field) lead us through chants and cheers with their squad, I’m right in the moment, hollering and stomping on the aluminum stands with all my might, while keeping it controlled and pretty. Seventeen’s “Homecoming Tips” said that guys like girls who are interested in sports, but that they still like girls, so keep your face soft and your voice girly but not screechy. I don’t understand football, so I pretty much follow Donna Mays’s every move, while constantly remaining aware of myself so I won’t come off as a stalker.
The few times I do cheer of my own accord have nothing to do with the game of football and everything to do with my spunky friends on the sidelines. The way Sarah catapults herself into the air without a running start seems scientifically impossible. And Mackenzie’s bounce and pep are contagious, which fills me with both pride and sadness. But my favorite moments during the game, while cheering the home team on to victory, are when Wolf leans forward to check on me, smiling or reaching for a long high five.

  “So I guess I’ll see you in a little while?” he asks as we make our way to the front gate, inching forward with the massive crowd.

  “Yep,” I say, tongue-tied and embarrassed. “We’ll probably pick you up after Kimi.”

  He flashes my favorite mischievous grin and cold chills pop up all over my body, as usual. Then his friends grab him and start a “P-C-H-S” chant. He goes crazy with them, obnoxiously ramming people as they cheer and pump their arms. I shake my head and giggle, then lose him in the crowd.

  Finally able to relax, I move forward as if I’m floating. The band is still playing our school song and the buzz in the air is invigorating. As I head toward the front gate, stepping on confetti and basking in the bright lights of the field, I can see why “the big game” is so big. Homecoming is magic. I take a deep breath of the brisk autumn air and think about how worried I was on the first day of school about fitting in with my fellow PCHS Stallions. Moving along with the crowd, wearing their colors and knowing their chants, I finally feel like I’m one of them.

  And now it is officially Friday night. The part of Friday night that required me to shave my legs, paint my nails Strawberry Explosion, and borrow Momma’s perfume. The part of Friday night that means Ericka Jo Winstead will be going to the homecoming dance with David fill-in-the-blank Wolfenbaker.

  Sarah’s limo will be here any minute. I’m usually the kind of girl who runs late, but since I started my homecoming body prep at four o’clock this afternoon, the moment I got off the school bus, the only thing I have to do between the game and the dance is change clothes and fix my hair. I’m counting the seconds ’til she gets here, listening to the Rihanna playlist I made for my iPod. I pace around my room in my underwear and high heels, checking my hair every few minutes to make sure it hasn’t moved.

  I ended up going with a Seventeen style after all, although not one as complicated as Kimi’s. They call it the half-pinned style and they swear it takes only forty-five seconds. I scrunched a little gel in my naturally wavy hair and then went to work on random pieces with a big curling iron. Then I parted it on the side and swept it up just above my left ear with a bobby pin. Last, I smoothed my bangs over to the right side and left the rest loose. Simple. And it only took thirty minutes.

  I peek between the slats of my bedroom blinds, looking out the window for the millionth time. Still no limo. I’m waiting ’til the last possible minute to slip into my dress so that I don’t A) spill something on it or B) sweat through it in my nervousness.

  I turn back to my room and admire the reddish-pink dress hanging from my closet door. It drapes off the shoulders and ends right above the knee, but what I really love about it is that, for the first time in my life, I look like I’ve got shape… an hourglass shape at that. The thick material is scrunchy and fits tightly across my chest and waist, then flares out dramatically at my hips like a Judy Jetson dress. This is exactly what that salesgirl from the mall, Rachel, meant about “dressing to your strengths and downplaying your weaknesses.” I’m still trying to decide if it’s too dressy to wear again to church on Sunday before my momma has to take it back to her friend.

  “Ricki Jo!” my dad calls down the hall.

  My heart stops.

  “Your friends are here!”

  I squeal, clap, twirl around, and jump—then collect myself, moving with lightning-quick speed while remaining acutely aware of maintaining the integrity of my hairstyle. I dab at my armpits one last time with a kitchen towel and then unhook my dress.

  “Momma!” I shout at the same time that she knocks on my door.

  She enters my room, smiling, and holds my dress open as I step into it. She pulls it up and I slip my arms through, feeling the smooth liner against my body. I smile wide and start to hyperventilate.

  “Breathe,” Momma says gently. Before I need to warn her, she oh-so-carefully moves my hair to one side of my back while pulling up the zipper. Then she turns me around to face her and does the unbelievable: She produces makeup.

  “Close your eyes,” she says, unwrapping a new vial of LashBlast mascara and sweeping the wand lightly over my eyelashes. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now pucker.” And, to my surprise, she twists the lid off of a brand-new tube of Berry Cherry lip gloss and slides it over my lips. She stands back and looks at me, fighting the hug I know she’s dying to give. “You look beautiful,” she says with a sigh.

  I grin widely up at her and step in front of my full-length mirror. I feel beautiful.

  We hear the doorbell ring and a shiver runs from my toes to the top of my head. I open my bedroom door and step out into the hall. I see my dad laughing and slapping his knee and have a small panic attack. He’s telling corny jokes. I just know he’s telling his corny jokes to Sarah.

  “Dad,” I complain, clacking down the hallway in my new gold heels. And then I freeze, mortified, when I walk into the living room and see just who he’s telling his corny jokes to.

  “Wow,” Wolf whispers.

  Back at ya, I think to myself, taking him in. He looks more handsome than I ever thought possible. The black suit he’s wearing looks like it was cut just for him, from the three-button jacket and straight pants down to the cool black shoes that put my dad’s tasseled church loafers to shame. His black shirt underneath is smooth, with the collar turned down crisply over a sleek black and deep pink tie. And it’s not only what he’s wearing, but how he wears it. Like he’s comfortable. Like James Bond, sexy and smooth.

  And I guess it’s not only that, but also the way he’s looking at me. The way his lips seem permanently turned up on the ends; how his eyes can’t seem to meet mine but never leave me, either; the surprising bashful quality he has when he finally steps toward me with my corsage. It’s all like my best dream coming true. When he’s next to me, opening the plastic box containing my small corsage (two white roses bound by a dark pink ribbon), I notice two small beads of sweat at his temple, very close to his hairline. He’s nervous. I hold out my hand and silently curse it for shaking. He slips the elastic over my hand and I look down at my wrist, unable to stop smiling.

  A flash goes off in my peripheral vision, snapping me out of my love trance. My face flushes a deep red and I’m suddenly embarrassed and very aware that my parents are watching us like spectators at a zoo.

  “You look…” Wolf pauses, searching for the right word. “Awesome.”

  Awesome? I giggle. He took a while to find the right word and came up with awesome?

  “It’s really me,” I joke lightly.

  Everything is lighter with him tonight, better, like it always is when it’s just the two of us. I grab his boutonniere from the top of the sofa and concentrate on pinning it to his lapel without stabbing my finger. His cologne is overwhelming. I take a deep breath and bite my tongue because what I want to say is, You make me want to bathe in Abercrombie cologne, you look like you just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad, you are the only guy I know who can pull off a pink tie, you make a simple black suit look like a freaking tuxedo, and you absolutely take my breath away.

  “Let’s you two get over by the fireplace for a quick picture,” Momma says, interrupting my visual feast and motioning us over.

  We pose awkwardly, neither of us quite sure where to stand or put our hands. Then Momma sits me in her reading chair and positions Wolf behind me. When she tries to get us outside on the front porch, I draw the line.

  “Momma, they’re waiting,” I say.

  “Oh, all right, sweetie,” she says, ro
lling her eyes. “You kids have fun. You left me the limo driver’s number? And David’s cell phone number?”

  I blush again. “Yes, on the counter,” I say.

  She leans in and kisses me, while my dad and I just share an awkward wave. I head for the door, but Wolf shakes my dad’s hand and says, “I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Winstead. Good night, Mrs. Winstead.”

  I grab the doorknob and suppress a laugh. The boy really knows how to work a room.

  “Ericka, you look gorg!” Kimi says as I climb into the limo. Hip-hop is pumping over the speakers and the inside is lit up with white Christmas lights. I guess the limo pickup order got switched around, ’cause the car is already half full.

  Kimi and Sarah are perched on either side of their QB hunk of meat, Jimmy James, at the far end of the car, with their backs to the driver. I feel like I’m a million miles away. For a brief second, I don’t know if I should shimmy up closer to sit sideways beside them and hope with all my might that I don’t get carsick, or just stay put back here. Luckily, Wolf climbs in behind me and pulls me back next to him, facing forward.

  “Your dresses are stunning,” I say loudly, and I really mean it. The blue satin strapless dress Sarah’s wearing wraps around her like water, understated and perfect. Kimi’s, on the other hand, is a vibrant orange, which would totally wash me out, but she manages to pull it off. And there’s no surprise that it’s cut low and high for ample cleavage and thigh, respectively.

  “What?” Sarah hollers. She literally flows down the leather seats to get closer to us, pulling Jimmy behind her. Then she pushes a red button and says into a small speaker, “We’re good.” On cue, the car rolls forward, down my driveway, and out onto the small country road.

  “Stunning,” I repeat, pointing up and down at her and Kimi. Sarah smiles big and leans in to give me a kiss. I feel her gooey lip gloss on my cheek and smile, wiping it off quickly. I also smell the alcohol on her breath and my stomach flips.