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For months I’ve had a chip on my shoulder, but here we are, with Mitch still here and my mother still working, and I feel like the chip is melting with my high spirits and easiness of the summer. As summer begins to wan, drawing the high, dry heat in cracked and parched fields with withered wheat and browned corn stalks, I feel myself lightening, and I even begin to feel optimistic. The earth around me has shifted, and I begin to hope for something, although I am not sure what, but I feel hopeful for the first time in maybe years.
These are my thoughts as I sit in the passenger side of my mother’s car one Saturday as we head to the grocery store. It feels a little like old times; she is happy, talkative even. “Mrs. Goodwin, whose daddy owned the five-and-dime when she was little, was telling me about the little one-room school house she went to. Can you imagine being in one room from first on through till you graduate? With all the other grades right there with you?”
“No,” I answer. “That would be odd. Do you think the big kids picked on the little kids?” I don’t really care; I’m just enjoying her talking.
“Probably.” She laughs, a low chuckle, and turns left onto Elm.
“What was it like when you went to school?” I ask and glance at her, surreptitiously, hoping I didn’t just blow it by getting personal.
“Same as it is for you, I suppose. It wasn’t that long ago.” She smiles over at me, looking young and beautiful, her hair loose around her face. I sigh and look out the window. Not so long ago. She was having me when she was not much older than I am. Pregnant when she was exactly my age.
“I guess it wasn’t,” I say. I bite my tongue to keep from asking if that’s where she knew my father from, because I know that would end the happy tone in her voice, and I would be stuck until she decided to dump me at home. “Did you like school?” I ask, hoping that, at least, is safe.
She shrugs, “Do you?”
“No,” I answer, then I add, “I don’t not like school. I like the classes and some of the teachers.”
“I was just the opposite. I didn’t care about the classes or the teachers, but I loved the kids. I loved the sports and the games and the parties.” She says it: par-tays.
“You liked sports?” This is new information. I’ve never thought of my mother as any type of athlete before. “What did you play?”
She laughs, a hooting ha-ha that makes me look over at her. “I didn’t play sports. I just liked the boys who played sports.” I’m disappointed, but nod because really that makes more sense. She always did like the boys. The car slows to a stop, its brakes squealing. I’ve not been paying attention as we’ve driven, but suddenly I am aware that we are not at the grocery at all, but rather we have parked in front of the Goodwill on the square. I groan.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“You need new clothes,” she says, already swinging her door open and putting her leg out the door.
“Really, Mom, I don’t. I’m good for school, really.” School is starting in just a few weeks, and we’ve always made a trip to this store at the end of summer, but I thought we would skip it this year since I’ve taken to wearing nothing but men’s V-neck t-shirts, and those are cheap. Mom, apparently, has a different plan.
I hate the Goodwill store. It always smells faintly of urine and mildew. Two years ago, I found a pretty sweater and picked it out, only to wear it to school and have Shelby Dycus say, “I had a sweater just like that last year. I think I threw it out, though.” That was before she started dating Dylan. I never wore it again, and ever since, I only pick out the most basic, nondescript clothes. Basic button-down, basic jeans. This year I am only looking for a new pair of jeans or two. I insist to her that I only need jeans. I don’t much care that I wear the same basic clothes every day. Less chance of somebody noticing me.
I feel all of my sunshine and our easy conversation from earlier slipping, and my old chip is coming back onto my shoulder. Goodwill trips always piss me off. I understand that we don’t have a lot, but it seems that maybe we could have a little more or better if we spent less of our money on alcohol.
I am about halfway down the line of jeans, hunting out Levi’s without any extra bling, when the bell from the door chimes, and I glance up to see Mrs. Bancroft coming through the door. I duck back, behind the row of jeans, hoping she won’t see me. Then, to my horror, Kelci trails in behind her mother, and her eyes sweep through the room, locking on mine. I shift and duck back, thinking maybe she will ignore me and move. What the hell are they doing here anyway?
“We have some clothes.” Mrs. Bancroft says in a very singsong way, and I can tell by the look on Kelci’s face that she is likewise embarrassed, either by seeing me here, or by the smug tone of her mother’s voice announcing that they have a surplus. They are philanthropists; everybody bow.
“Alison, isn’t that your friend Kelci?” my mother says too loudly, then she is waving in a “woo-hoo, over here” way.
“Mom,” I hiss, grabbing her arm and trying to draw her down. “We are not friends.” But the damage has been done. She has attracted Mrs. Bancroft’s attention, and now Kelci is answering a question, shaking her head.
Oh shit. They are coming this way. “Why, hello, is that you, Alison? We haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Mrs. Bancroft says. Kelci is trailing behind her, looking like she would like to be swallowed by the floor, much as I would.
“Hi, Mrs. Bancroft. Nice to see you. It has been a while.” I step out from my crouch but don’t move forward, “Hi Kelci.” I nod to my mom, “You remember my mom, Alice?”
“Of course. Hi, Alice. You are looking well.”
“Thank you.” My mom is oblivious and actually thinks this is a truth, which clearly it is not. She does not return the compliment, is not even aware that she has a social obligation.
“Are you shopping?” Mrs. Bancroft asks. A small little smile parting her lips.
“No, just killing time,” I say hurriedly. Please leave, please leave, please leave.
“Just picking up a few things for school,” Mom says. I cringe. She says it like we are in a regular store, in Macy’s or Dillard’s.
“Well, aren’t we in luck,” Mrs. Bancroft says. “We have a few things we were donating. I’d much rather give them to a friend. Wouldn’t you, Kelci?”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Mom says, and Kelci turns away, looking out the front window. I can see the flush rising in her face; such a fair complexion as hers shows embarrassment almost as much as my ruddier one. Can this be any worse? Is there any way this can possibly get worse?
Yes, it can and it does as we follow Mrs. Bancroft out to the parking lot where her car is parked, her shiny Mercedes at that, and she hands over two large bags, which I am expected to say thank you for. I do, although I can feel my throat constricting on the words as they come out. Kelci has already climbed back into the car, looking away from me, a small kindness that I very much appreciate.
When we get in the car I feel hot tears stinging in my eyes all the way home while my mother talks about what nice people the Bancrofts are, asking me, “Why don’t you invite Kelci over for a playdate?” I bite hard on the inside of my lip until I taste metal to keep from crying or screaming. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. I hate her so much. Life is so unfair.
“Mom, we’re sixteen. We don’t have playdates anymore.” Mitch is home, mowing the front yard when we pull up. It has been so dry that he peels up a wake of dust as he creeps along, over grass that has mostly gone to brown in the dry heat. I help my mother carry the clothes into the house, and she is giddy to get into them. “Lucky we can wear the same clothes,” she says and starts pulling sweaters and jeans out of the bags and trying on things she likes. I hope she likes it all, because I swear that I will never, ever put a single stitch of Kelci’s mother’s charity on my back.
I make my way out the back door and into the woods, heading toward Dylan’s but thankful that it is only the horses I will see. Dylan is at football camp this week, hanging out with the rest of the Haves.
The horses greet me as I come through the pasture, their muzzles tickling against my hands in search of carrots or apples. I have brought nothing except my sad, pathetic self, and when I am halfway toward the barn, I stop walking and Chessa stops with me, her neck arching and bringing her big, brown eyes low and close to my own. I rub the plane of her face, her cheeks, and up behind her ears. Her breath puffs out across my face, warm and grassy. Peaceful.
The tears that I held back all the way to the house are rolling down my cheeks, dripping to patters in the dusty ground. I wrap my arms around her neck and bury my face in the sleek muscles. She is the only one I could ever do this with, and I swear she leans into me, her head over my shoulder, hugging me back. Chessa has heard my stories all too often. She knows my pathetic murmuring probably by heart, all my little broken-heart jealousies, all my woe-is-me-isms. She knows them all, and yet she never tells me to suck it up. She just wraps her neck over me and lets me melt into her. How I wish I were somebody else. Anybody else.
Horses, I think, are the best confidants in the world.