Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  Mrs. Summers said, “Do you want help with your hair? I could put it up for you.”

  Sarina imagined her hair in a French twist, her earrings dangling down. She would look incredible and her mother would do a better job. Sarina sat sidesaddle on the toilet and motioned for her mother to come in. With great effort Mrs. Summers pushed herself over the bed frame. As she walked toward Sarina, the camera bounced against her bosom. She picked up a brush and a can of White Rain. With bobby pins pinched between her lips, Mrs. Summers smiled a prickly smile. She handled her daughter’s hair like a pro. Careful not to inhale while the aerosol was in the air, Mrs. Summers spun yarns about her prom and what she wore and the sequence of forks Sarina should use at dinner.

  Sarina could see through her mother’s cream blouse. She noticed that her camisole had birds in the lace. Their beaks were open as if to say Peep, peep, peep. Sarina said, “I’m sorry about how mean I was when you were getting divorced.”

  Mrs. Summers put the White Rain on the back of the toilet. “Sweetheart,” she said, “why on earth would you bring that up?”

  “He cheated on you, didn’t he?”

  Mrs. Summers began to shove bobby pins into her daughter’s hairstyle. Behind the ear for working Saturdays. At the nape of the neck for working late. The French twist was fastened for cash withdrawals he could never seem to account for. At a medical examiner’s pace, Mrs. Summers semicircled her daughter. She examined her work. She gave Sarina a hand mirror, and Sarina stood and checked out her do from every conceivable angle.

  “You were never mean,” Mrs. Summers told her. “Carolyn Hicks, now that woman is mean.”

  “Why do you hate her so much?”

  “She’s a liar. She’ll say anything against anyone for no reason at all.”

  Before Sarina knew it, her mother was gone. Probably in the kitchen, pulling a little something from the fridge to wash a bad taste out of her mouth. She was always doing that. Pulling a little something.

  Sarina let her robe fall onto the black-and-white tiles. She took her dress off the hanger and stepped into it. She pulled the zipper up her back. She saw that she did indeed look older. Maybe twenty. Maybe twenty-five. She looked better than a beauty pageant contestant. Better than those actresses who played college-age parts. The University of Alabama Home-coming Queens always made the front page of the paper. None of them were half as pretty as Sarina felt right now. Sarina imagined Rick ringing her doorbell, pinning the corsage, honoring the woman she was determined to become.

  Sarina met her mother in the living room. She let her arms go loose but not limp as her mother placed them in different positions. On her hips. Click. At her sides. Click. One on the mantel, one behind her back. She looked good. In her heels, Sarina stood nearly five foot eleven.

  Mrs. Summers said, “So how did you get away with going with your ex-friend’s big brother?”

  “She’s not my ex.” Sarina tilted her head in the direction her mother was pointing. Down, at an angle to hide her slight double chin.

  Mrs. Summers said, “I’m surprised she didn’t ask if she could tag along.”

  Sarina said, “She did.”

  Mrs. Summers stopped snapping snapshots. She sat down on the sofa. “Well, you certainly said no, didn’t you?”

  Sarina tugged at her panty hose that were puckering behind her knees.

  Mrs. Summers said, “I know she’s been a friend to you, but that girl is not well. It would be one thing if she was bulimic. But that girl is self-destructive. Don’t think I haven’t seen the scars on her arms.”

  Sarina wiped off the frosty pink lipstick and applied a sheer beige.

  “You didn’t invite her, did you? Tell me that you didn’t invite her.”

  Sarina sat down in the leather La-Z-Boy her father had left behind and her mother had consequently recovered with a pale, creamy shade to match the living room curtains. She pulled out the foot rest. She told her mother the truth.

  “You did what?”

  “Mom, don’t worry about it. I just told her she could come so she wouldn’t freak out about Rick.”

  “So what, you’re double-dating? Who on earth did you get to go out with her?”

  Sarina said, “No one.”

  Mrs. Summers began to fan herself with her 35mm camera. She reached for the end table where Willamina always placed a coaster for that glass of white wine. Mrs. Summers brought the half-empty wine glass to her forehead. “Tell me.” She shut her eyes as if imagining the Prom Under the Stars gymnasium photograph. “Tell me it’s not just the three of you.”

  Sarina had to laugh. “Mom, come on. I’ll take care of Nicole. Trust me. My reputation is safe. Next week, it’ll only be me and Rick.”

  “Rick and me,” Mrs. Summers corrected.

  “Rick and me,” Sarina agreed and pushed herself forward, her lips like Spring, the La-Z-Boy back in position for a sitting-down shot.

  Initially, Sarina had toyed with the idea of accompanying Nicole to the prom. After all they were best friends. There was nobody else who she’d have as much fun with. Nicole was good that way. She did not mind tagging along. Whatever Sarina wanted to do, to try, wherever she wanted to go, Nicole had always been right there with her. Nicole had always been very supportive. She could sense when things weren’t right. Sarina never had to say she was feeling fat or insecure or depressed or not like talking. Nicole always knew. And she knew what to do. She said the right things. Noticed a new outfit. She could sit with Sarina in front of the TV and never say a solitary word. Nicole let Sarina live out her cold funks. She was happy just to be with her and expected nothing in return. So as her pinkies healed and Mrs. Summers wrote the book on bedside manner, Sarina had come up with a plan. She would seduce Rick. Mrs. Hicks would fold when he informed her he was coming home for the prom. Mr. Hicks would convince his wife that their daughter had been grounded long enough. The prospect would give Nicole a few weeks of happiness. Something to look forward to. A dream. Some time well spent.

  Sure the other kids would gawk, but Sarina’s excuse would be Rick. When Sarina told Nicole she had lied about dating a college guy, she wasn’t telling the whole truth. From the very beginning she had claimed the guy was Rick. At separate campuses, Central East gossip would never reach Central High West. Even if it did, no one talked to Nicole. That was the beautiful part. She could hang with Nicole under the carpooling circumstances. She could tell those who judged her that she was doing her boyfriend a favor. Being nice to his kid sister. Giving an old gal pal a break.

  But the school year hadn’t worked out as Sarina had planned. Her classmates weren’t behaving like an After School Special. In their minds, Nicole had cut herself out of their circle of friends. She had cut herself out of the mold they’d all known. No more cheerleading. No more clubs. No classes together. No parties. No fun. Nicole had sunk to the bottom of the popularity food chain. Below the potheads and head-bangers, Special Ed and the dykes. She might as well have shaved all her hair off and pierced her face a million times. Nicole was no longer a girl to be seen with. Not without a damned good excuse. While Rick had served as an adequate explanation, his mileage wouldn’t take Sarina from car service to the biggest high school spectacle of the year.

  In a way, she was grateful for the prejudice of her peers. Since she’d introduced the prom plan, Nicole had gotten weird. Weirder than the obvious failure of tenth grade. Weirder than the additional grabbing she had done since that day outside Rick’s bedroom. Nicole had started passing her notes. Notes really wasn’t the word. They were ten-page letters, backs and fronts of spiral paper. The edges were frayed and so was her handwriting, her diction, her cursive to caps, cursive to certain words scrawled out in crayon. Every letter was complimentary, full of metaphors for her eyes, lips, and skin. They were the love letters she had dreamed of receiving from Stewart, from Rick, from a real college boyfriend.

  Sarina never knew what to say in response. What could she say other than thank you? But that was certai
nly enough for Nicole. The notes kept on coming along with Home Ec–sewn pillows and Wood Shop–sawed key racks. And every time she gave a gift as minor as a stick of Trident, Nicole leaned forward to receive a hug that always lasted longer than Sarina would have liked.

  But Sarina ignored how uncomfortable she felt. She reasoned Nicole was just going through an emotional phase. She was her only friend. Nicole’s appreciation was natural. Besides, Sarina did not want to risk hurting Nicole. God forbid she tell Rick and for once he play the part of protective older brother. If Rick dumped Sarina, the prom would not be such a victory. But if they took Nicole to the prom, the night would be disastrous.

  So Nicole had to be clipped and Mrs. Hicks had to be the one to do it.

  Mrs. Hicks had always had it in for the Summers. Sarina didn’t know why. She really didn’t care. She liked Mr. Hicks. She watched him every night on the ten o’clock news. He was handsome and spoke in the sincerest of voices. Sarina felt sorry for him. To guarantee that Nicole be re-punished, Sarina had to tear his family apart.

  Since Nicole had given her the third “Ree Ree” nameplate, Sarina started plotting to push her out of the prom. Sarina knew where the school year would take them. To this very moment: the Kelly brothers’ pre-prom party.

  There were four Kelly brothers, each two years apart. They were blond and funny and sexy and smart. The last week of April, their parents always went on a ski trip. That weekend, the brothers hosted an out-and-out free-for-all. The whole school came. They had a huge house with an even bigger backyard and a lake. There were illegal firecrackers their father always “accidentally” laid out on the kitchen table as their mother started the car. They had a tree house and a hammock, a pool table and Foosball. It was better than any bar. It was the party of the year.

  The night of the Kelly brothers’ pre-prom party, Sarina would make two phone calls. One to Nicole. One to the police. There was no way things could go wrong. It was the master of her master plans.

  At midnight the party was reaching its peak. The place was packed, kids everywhere. Through bodies and wine coolers, Sarina pushed her way into the youngest boy’s bedroom. In the darkness of the room, she saw the shapes of science-fiction action figures, books and magazines, clothes on the floor, clothes all over everything. And yet, the twin bed was made like a soldier’s. Sarina sat down. She picked the phone up off the floor and dialed Nicole’s number, which she still knew by heart.

  She let the phone ring half a ring. That was their signal. She counted One Mississippi, two Mississippi until she reached sixty. She called back and Nicole answered the phone before the ring was even finished.

  “Ree?” Nicole whispered.

  Sarina kept her mouth shut.

  “Ree?”

  Sarina could hear the panic squeezing Nicole’s voicebox. Sarina squeezed her own voice by imagining being blind. She put herself in a wheelchair, a paraplegic, blowing herself down the street with a tube. What if she got her face sliced with a box cutter? What if she tripped and knocked out her front teeth? Sarina felt her throat close, her eyes start to sting. “Nicki,” she choked, “Nicki, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? What’s wrong?”

  Sarina was amazed at her ability to cry. “I’m at the Kellys’ house. You’ve got to come get me.”

  “Ree, I don’t have a license. I don’t have a car.”

  “Nicki, please!” Sarina hung up the phone.

  Sarina sat still in the youngest brother’s bedroom. She knew what was happening a five-minute drive away. Nicole was scared to death. She was racing for the car keys and climbing into her father’s new convertible Jeep. She probably didn’t even take off her pajamas. She probably didn’t bother to drive away quietly.

  Sarina called 911. She said there was a party and she gave the address. She said there was underage drinking and firecrackers and about a thousand stupid kids disturbing the peace. Yes, this was an emergency, some kid could get killed.

  The operator said, “Officers are responding.”

  Sarina hung up the phone. She left the party. She kept the radio low as she drove the long way back to her house.

  The police and Nicole should arrive at the same time. Even if they didn’t Nicole would be the one person there they’d be able to catch. Everyone else would scatter when the cops rang the doorbell. Nicole would be found searching for her friend. In her pajamas. Without a license. Behind the wheel of a car Sarina would now call and report as stolen. The daughter of Tuscaloosa’s local news celebrity in apparent disarray. It was sure to hit the papers. news anchor’s daughter arrested delirious. Maybe Nicole would hit a parked car. The Hicks could be sued. Their insurance rates would double. There were endless possibilities. But all had the same result—Mrs. Hicks would be humiliated and Nicole’s prom privileges revoked.

  PART TWO

  Through the Looking Glass

  Bitty Jack

  SINCE BITTY JACK was ousted from the Summons County Fair, Johnny Iguana had come back for her two years in a row. The first time the trailers rolled in, Bitty Jack knew he would call before the tents went up. In his letters, he had promised that he loved her, he missed her, he wanted to see her as soon as he could. But the freak show kept him traveling, and the Carlsons kept Bitty Jack from leaving Camp Chickasaw grounds.

  “Letters is one thing,” Big Jack had said, “going after what you can’t have is entirely another.”

  So Bitty Jack wrote more letters. Often two a day. For the few weeks the fair was in town, the mail lady delivered those envelopes to one of twenty P.O. boxes at the Summons County station. Johnny Iguana read every one. He told Bitty Jack that he kept them in a waterproof bag so he could bring them backstage. He called her sometimes, but he stayed away from Camp Chickasaw. He respected the Carlsons’ wishes and valued his job. He didn’t want to make trouble. He would not try anything until Bitty Jack turned eighteen.

  The second summer the fair returned, Bitty Jack was a counselor and old enough to do what she wanted.

  What she had done was become a sort of patron saint of persecuted campers. Geeks, spastics, four-eyed cry babies. Girls who wet the bed so often that by the time Bitty Jack discovered the fitted sheet it was rung with stains resembling the inside of a ten-year-old tree. They wore headgears. They were soft-spoken, shy types who came close to hemorrhaging each time they were up at bat at mandatory softball games. But Bitty Jack made time for them. She played catch after dark, tried to teach them how to shave their legs. She did what she could. She let them sit out on the porch with her when she sat “On Duty.”

  OD meant lights out, campers in bed. One counselor at each cabin until the others got back from Trinka’s, the only bar in a sixty-mile radius. Trinka’s never carded. If counselors could get off campgrounds, they could get into Trinka’s. On most nights, the Chickasaw owners provided a van for a staff who did not realize life might get better than cheese-filled pretzels and three-dollar pitchers. The owners wanted to keep their counselors happy. Gas money was a small price to pay.

  Bitty Jack wasn’t much of a drinker. She wasn’t the best at the social scene either. So she sat OD for other counselors whenever they asked. She was comfortable in the night. The woods in front of her. A few of her favorite campers reading quietly at her side.

  It was a peaceful summer. Uninterrupted, until Johnny showed up.

  He came out of the trees in front of the cabin. He was more muscular than she remembered, but wore the same brand of khakis. On the narrow road in front of the cabin, the light from the porch cast his shadow for yards.

  The girls drew their breath in, but stifled their screams when Johnny Iguana called their counselor by name. They huddled a little closer as Bitty Jack walked quickly into his arms. She kissed him like the girls were not even there. Her heart popped as Johnny whispered promises in the crook of her neck. He held her as if she were impossible to break. He held her until she told him good-bye.

  Later, the girls told her it was the longest hug in history. The
y asked her to tell them the whole entire story. Who that young man was. And why she let him go.

  “He wanted me to go with him,” she quietly explained. “I can’t go. I’ve got college.”

  “So go to college later!”

  Bitty Jack looked into the faces rallied around her bunk eager for romance to hurry up and start. “It’s not that easy.” She touched one of their friendship bracelets. “I got a scholarship. There’s no way I can pass that up.”

  “But what about him?”

  Bitty Jack looked over their heads to the front door of the cabin. She imagined Johnny walking through that door, ignoring her good sense and carrying her back to the fair, to the Matterhorn, to an easy life where the only choice was him. Maybe they’d make love for the first time in the air castle after everyone went home. Maybe they’d get married. Live out their days together in many towns.

  Bitty Jack remembered how proud her parents had been when the notice of scholarship had come from the University of Alabama. She herself had been genuinely excited. Hopeful with such a chance. She had worked so hard. Driven two hours to take the SATs. Written a brilliant essay on which historical figures she would have dinner with if given the chance. They were ordinary steps to a not extraordinary college. But Bitty Jack could get an education in Tuscaloosa. Maybe find a peer group. See another part of the world, even if that world was still enclosed in Alabama. Summons was not a town that people left. Once the roots were planted, it was too easy to not weed.

  She thought of all the Summons girls who got married as soon as the law would allow. How most of them moved back with their mamas after the babies had come and their husbands stayed late at the bar. How her parents were the exception to the rule that young love was destined to fail. What were the odds that Bitty Jack and Johnny would have that same special kind of luck?

  Bitty Jack looked back into the faces of her frustrated faithful campers. She told them the truth before she turned out the lights. “I’ll miss him,” she said. “And the carnival too.”