“You have the most adorable freckles,” my momma tells me that night as I sit on the floor between her legs and she rolls my hair. With a day out in the Kentucky sunshine comes a splatter of freckles all over my nose and cheeks. Not something I love, but not something I hate, either. My big ears, I hate. Freckles, I can live with.
“Yeah, too bad they came from a day of work instead of a day at the swimming pool,” I complain.
“You don’t even like swimming! You can’t jump in without holding your nose,” she points out.
True. But if I were at the country club with the other kids my age, I would glide in from the shallow end or just plain jump in and drown. At least I’d die cool. But the country club is only for the “well-off,” and besides, our farm is way out in the boondocks, out by the county line, so it takes about twenty minutes just to get to town. And with gas prices killing my dad’s bank account (and therefore my social life), there has to be a pretty good reason to go—church, school, birthday party, etc.
“Can you still smell the lemon juice?” I ask Momma as she combs my wet hair over my face. It’s naturally wavy, but I want true curls for the first day.
“Uh-uh,” she murmurs, sectioning off another piece. “You excited for school tomorrow, baby?”
Humph. Talk about your understatements. I’ve been counting down the days ’til high school all summer long. I try to nod, but she’s holding strong to the next strand of hair to be wrapped and snapped in pink sponge.
I guess I’ll be a new kid, but I’ve actually lived in this town all my life. And it’s a small town. We’ve got one movie theater that plays one movie all week long; a Fashion Bug and a Walmart (though not Super); and McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and KFC. Yeah, we’ve got a few stoplights, but I personally think they’re just for show. Stop signs usually do the trick. Breckinridge, Kentucky. The epicenter of Nowheresville, USA.
The reason I’m “new” is because I’ve gone to private Catholic school since first grade. Our town is a big Southern Baptist kind of place to grow up, but there is our one little cathedral and our one little K–8 school. There are a few other kids from my school who’ll be going to the high school, too, but other than that, everybody will already know one another. When you’ve got just one public school for the whole county, most of the student body has been acquainted since finger painting in elementary school and staring at one another at junior high dances. Everybody knows everybody. And starting tomorrow, I’ll be an everybody.
“Your hair used to be straw yellow.” Momma sighs.
I pass her another roller and think about what I’ll wear tomorrow and who I might already know. There are a few kids from 4-H, one of the few social clubs I’m allowed to participate in as a non–public schooler. Over the years, I’ve tried basket weaving and shown cows, but mainly I crochet and sew; and although I’m not talented, I love modeling my scarf/sweater/oven mitt creations at the county fair every July. I’ve also signed up every year for rec-league softball and basketball, since our little school didn’t have much in the way of extracurriculars (or school spirit in general), so a few of those kids know me okay. I’ll probably recognize a lot of faces, just from growing up here my whole life, but I’m still nervous about hardly knowing anybody.
“Now it’s just that dishwater blond,” my mom continues as she snaps the last roller into place.
I get up and kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Momma,” I say, looking in the mirror over the mantel to check my pink plastic Afro head. Dishwater? Seriously? Way to build the self-esteem before the most important day of my life, I think; but what I say is, “I’m gonna go get ready for bed.”
“Okay, sweetie,” she says, gathering up her comb and spray water bottle. “And don’t forget to read your Bible!” she calls as I head down the hall to my room.
Right.
It feels like I just went to sleep. The sun is up and the air is electric. It’s the first day of school. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Having strewn my entire wardrobe all over my room last night, I now wade through the mess and stand in front of my full-length mirror. My skin looks quite tan against the modest white summer dress I chose, my toenails are a pretty pink in simple brown sandals, and, best of all, my face is zit free. I lean in close to the mirror and check my eyes (big and hazel), my nose (long and freckled), and my teeth (straight, finally!) to make sure they are clean and clear. I dip one skinny finger into a jar of Vaseline and smooth it over my full, chapped lips—gloss for the creative girl. I shake my head and then grin as my dark blond curls bounce from side to side, although I’m worried it may look like I’m trying too hard. Hmmm… I cross my arms over my shoulders, then pose like I’m telling Luke a dramatic story, then put my backpack on and take it off again, all while keeping my eyes on myself in the mirror. Lots of bounce. Yep, looks like I’m trying too hard. I quickly snatch a flimsy headband from around the doorknob and slide it on. Better. I take a step back and give myself one last up and down before deciding that I am as close to perfect-first-impression as I’m going to get. The dress isn’t new, but the training bra is. I smile every time I think about it.
Preston County High School, here I come. I’m in high school. Agh!
My younger brother and I stand on the front porch for our obligatory first-day-of-school pictures. Momma makes us do this every year, but whereas Ben is going to our old school, I am starting fresh. She arranges us like always: on the swing, in front of our flagpole, and at the bottom of our driveway where we wait for the bus. I oblige her scrapbook-in-the-making enthusiasm, but we made a deal that once the bus rounds the bend, the camera disappears.
“Ricki Jo!” my dad yells from his four-by-four Dodge. Ben and I scoot back into the grass as he pulls into the gravel driveway, making it home from third shift at the factory just before the bus comes. He parks but leaves the truck idling, diesel engine gurgling, and I know he must be in a hurry because that’s such an out-of-character wasteful gesture (the gas money, not the fumes). With a huge smile on his face and a gleam in his eye, he heads over to where I stand, navy blue denim jacket in hand. “Look what I found.”
I look.
“It’s my old FFA jacket! Look at the embroidery. Clark Winstead—FFA President, 1986.”
I stare.
His face goes from excited to expectant to confused. “I thought you might wanna wear it today. Talk to Mr. Holland about joining FFA. You’ll fit right in.”
I gape.
FFA—Future Farmers of America. I’m fourteen, I’m four eleven, I weigh eighty-nine pounds, I have no boobs and no period, my ears don’t fit my face, and, to tell the truth, I’ve got a plantar wart on the bottom of my left foot. This is the first day of HIGH SCHOOL. And my father thinks I might want to wear his FFA jacket.
“It’s awful hot out, Clark,” Momma says, fanning herself like she’s suddenly stepped into a sauna.
My mother and I fight—a lot—but at this very moment I love her more than chocolate, new shoes, and MTV (which I have only seen twice).
“There’s the bus!” my little brother squeals.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. I get butterflies in my stomach and I feel the throw-up sensation again.
My dad tosses his old jacket back in his truck and shrugs his shoulders, his pride stung. “Same bus you’ve taken since first grade, Ricki Jo. Exact same bus,” he says.
I climb on the first step and wave at my folks. Then, up two more steps and to a seat in the back. “Different destination, Daddy,” I say to myself, looking at him through the window. “Different destination.”