Icy Sparks (6 page)

I vigorously shook my head. “Oh, no!” I said. “Chicago doesn't have any hungry people.”

“Finish your ham,” Mrs. Stilton ordered, pointing to the pink square on my plate. “You need some protein.”

I smiled again, stabbed a piece of ham, and poked it into my mouth. Mrs. Stilton nodded and continued her walk down the aisle.

“That was close,” Emma Richards said.

I kept on eating, cutting my ham into little cubes, popping them between my teeth, chewing, and swallowing. I ate my cornbread and also the little packet of saltines on my tray. I didn't know what the crackers were for, but I ate them anyway, then I downed the cherry pie and drank my carton of milk. Pleasing Mrs. Stilton was going to be hard work, I thought. Good grammar, manners, and answers all of the time. “Whew!” I said, wiping my forehead. And school had only just begun.

T
he weeks at school passed with Mrs. Stilton's eyes following me. Her gaze accompanied my every step, and I felt like she was a sleek black panther, ready to pounce.

“Don't press down so hard!” Emma Richards whispered to me from across the aisle. “You gonna make a big hole in your paper.”

“I'm nervous,” I whispered back, looking up to see if Mrs. Stilton was sitting behind her desk. She wasn't. “That woman's always studying me,” I said.

Emma pursed her lips and twitched her nose. “That ain't true,” she said prissily. “Your mind is just playing tricks on you.”

“Then how come she's all the time catching me at something?” I asked her, ferociously erasing the
t
in
today
. “How come I'm the one who gets in trouble?”

“Well, you ain't the only one.” Emma Richards screwed up her face and simultaneously shrugged her shoulders. “She gets mad at Lane, too.”

“Lane Carlson.” I poked out my tongue. “He don't count. That big sissy deserves everything he gets.”

From the back of the room came a high hysterical giggle—Lane's.

“If a sissy touches you, you'll turn into his opposite,” Emma said, looping the tail of her
y
.

“I don't believe you!” I said a little too loudly, my eyes instinctively scanning the classroom. Mrs. Stilton still nowhere in sight.

“If Lane Carlson rubs against you,” she said, clicking her tongue against the top of her teeth, “then you'll change into a tomboy.”

I made a burping noise with my lips. “Well, that don't scare me none,” I told her, tossing back my head, “'cause I already do tomboy things.”

Emma slid her paper over to the edge of her desk. “Look at mine,” she said. “Ain't my penmanship fancy?”

“Them curlicues look like vipers,” I said. “Like little baby snakes.” I stretched out my neck, thrust my tongue between my lips, moving it sideways, and hissed liked a snake.

Emma ran her tongue along her top lip. “You might even grow a mustache,” she shot back. “It'd come out yellow to match your hair.”

I pressed my index finger against my mouth. “Shush!” I warned her. “You're gonna get me in trouble.”

Snatching her paper away from the desk's edge, Emma daintily crossed her feet—one ankle over the other—and sighed loudly.

I sighed also, even louder. “You best learn to write like me,” I said, pushing my paper in her direction, glancing down, and realizing, too late, that my handwriting was a disgraceful mess. Black smudges all over. A big hole right through the center. “At least my penmanship ain't scary,” I said. “It don't look like a bed of baby copperheads ready to bite. It's—”

Mrs. Stilton's grade book crashed down.

I jumped, watching my paper disappear beneath its black cover.

“Icy Sparks, do you think you can write and talk at the same time?”

I nodded, then retracted, urgently shaking my head.

“No, I don't think you can, Miss Sparks!” Mrs. Stilton's eyes were on me, greedily eating a hole right through me. With her fingertips, as though my paper were dirty, she slipped it out from beneath her grade book and lifted it up high for the class to see. “A hole!” she announced. Then, like a magician, she withdrew a pencil propped behind her ear, aimed it at my paper, and poked it through the gap I'd made when I erased my
t
.

The class laughed. Above them all, I could hear Lane Carlson's high-pitched snickering.

“Emma,” Mrs. Stilton said, “would you please show the class your work?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Emma rose, stood in the aisle beside her desk, and held up her paper, shifting it from side to side so that everyone could see.

“Now turn around,” Mrs. Stilton ordered her. “I want the students in the back to get a look.”

“Lucy, what do you think of Emma's work?” Mrs. Stilton said.

“It's pretty,” Lucy replied, grinning.

“And you, Irwin?” Mrs. Stilton said. “What do you think?”

“I like all them lassos,” he said. “They remind me of cowboys.”

“And what do I think of this?” Mrs. Stilton asked, still clutching the pencil, waving it back and forth, my paper flapping through the air. “I'll show you,” she said, walking toward her desk, the eyes of every student shifting to the trash can. “This is what I think of sloppiness,” she said, ripping my paper off the pencil, crumpling it up into a tight little ball before tossing it into the wastebasket.

Stiff in my seat, I shoved my feet against the tiled floor, trying to control the little tremors that were beginning in my legs.

“I got my eyes on you,” said Mrs. Stilton, pointing at me, her fingernails inching outward like claws. “And, little girl, don't you forget it.” Whereupon she turned her back to us and, with chalk in hand, began putting on the blackboard a string of math problems—neatly lined up and perfectly spaced apart.

Emma Richards giggled as she sat back down, but the rest of the class was silent. Not even Lane Carlson squeaked. Suddenly, across the aisle from me, two seats down, Peavy Lawson made a lisping sound. “Icy,” he whispered, his voice low, his eyes bulging, “I like your handwriting best.” Breaking a smile, he picked up his paper for me to see: it was a black-smudged mess, riddled with holes.

The only thing I could do was fold my arms on top of my desk and hide my head inside them.

M
rs. Stilton cleared her throat. In my mind's eye, I saw her neck stretching up like a chicken's and imagined her Adam's apple bobbing up and down. After lunch, she had instructed us to put our heads upon our desks while she read to us. “From now on, we'll do this every day,” she said. “It'll help with your digestion.” From the satchel beside her chair, she had pulled out a book. This is a good sign, I thought, nestling farther down in my seat, closing my eyes.

Last year after lunch, Miss Palmer had also read to us; she had read
The Secret Garden
,
The Little Prince
, and other books. It was my favorite time during the day, even more enjoyable than recess because all I had to do was listen.

“‘The Lottery,' by Shirley Jackson,” Mrs. Stilton began. She read to us about a peaceful little town, not unlike Ginseng, where every summer the townsfolk gathered together in the square to participate in a drawing. So this will be a happy story, I decided, wiggling my toes, feeling them relax inside my patent-leather shoes. Janie Lou had told me that St. Michael's Church in Dewberry, where Mrs. Stilton worshiped, had bingo every Saturday. “Catholics love gambling,” Janie Lou had said. So suddenly it seemed right and proper that Mrs. Stilton would be reading a story about a lottery.

In the story, the children were the first ones to come to the square. They were out of school for the summer and had too much free time on their hands.

Clearing her throat, Mrs. Stilton lowered the book, looked up at us, and asked, “Class, does this little town sound familiar?” I lifted my head slightly above my folded arms and saw an eerie smile creeping over her face. “Does this little town sound familiar?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma'am,” the students said.

“Yes, ma'am,” I mumbled, saliva painting my arm.

“Why?” Mrs. Stilton asked.

“Because it's small, like Ginseng,” Lucy Daniels said.

“What else?” Mrs. Stilton asked.

“Because it has coal and farmers and tractors,” Irwin Leach said.

I wondered if Shirley Jackson was from a small Kentucky town. I sat up and raised my hand. Ginseng was bigger than the town in her story; but still, they were alike.

“What is it, Icy?” Mrs. Stilton said.

“Is Shirley Jackson from Kentucky?”

Mrs. Stilton scowled. Ignoring me, she said, “Class, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

I'll have to be more careful, I thought, again resting my head in my arms. Mrs. Stilton was reading to us, but that didn't mean she had changed.

I closed my eyes again, and my mind drifted off, conjuring up my own fantasies. Ginseng could have its own drawing, and it would be fun! Grand, even! Much better than the one in the story. A convertible from Don Scoggin's Used Car Lot would go to the winner. In my mind's eye, I saw the whole of Ginseng gathering around the courthouse on a clear, sunny morning. Matanni and Patanni were there, along with Miss Emily. Even Mamie Tillman was present. She was smiling, and her stomach was flat. Mayor Anglin, who was in charge, put his finger to his lips and hushed the crowd. “Citizens of Ginseng, I now declare the drawing open,” he said in a serious voice.

I fancied myself waiting for the winner's name to be called. Nervously, I stood on one foot, then the other, not expecting to win. Never had my luck been good. Still, I was hopeful. I imagined Matanni and Patanni with their fingers crossed and saw Miss Emily, holding her breath. Slowly, Mayor Anglin lifted the top off an old cracker barrel, inserted his fat hand inside, swished around the slips of paper, and dramatically selected one. His face contorted as he held the slip—arm's length from his eyes—swallowed deeply, and grandly announced, “The winner of this year's Chevy convertible is Miss Icy Sparks!”

Feeling light-headed, I slumped forward.

“Come on up here!” he yelled with a broad wave of his arm.

Patanni grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me up while Miss Emily retrieved an ice cube from her cup and pressed it against my forehead. Quickly, I revived. With my head held high, I walked forward, stopping reverently in front of Mayor Anglin, and extended my palm.

“Congratulations!” he said, before dropping a set of silver keys into my hand.

Eagerly, my fingers wrapped around them.

All at once, my baby-blue convertible was whipping around mountain curves. With my blond hair streaming behind me, I drove like a champion, the fourth grade class chasing after me, yelling, “Icy, can we go? We want a ride, too.” I was picturing all of this—feeling the cool wind against my face, basking in the adulation of my classmates, delighting in my newfound luck—when, out of nowhere, Mrs. Stilton coughed and brought me back. Her powerful voice was describing a woman in the story who had forgotten what day it was. When she finally remembered, she came running to the square. That woman is just like me, I decided. I wonder if she's headed for trouble. She forgets time like I do when I'm out exploring. But at least I don't keep all of Ginseng waiting, just Matanni at suppertime.

Fascinated, I listened as Mrs. Stilton continued. Her voice began to weave in and out like a distant echo in my head. Abruptly, she quit reading. For ten seconds, she was quiet. Then, in a determined voice, she carefully pronounced the last two words in the sentence: “humorlessly and nervously,” she read, twisting her mouth as though exercising her lips. She lifted her giraffe neck and surveyed the room. “Humorlessly and nervously,” she repeated emphatically. “Children, you must remember those words,” she said, scrutinizing the students up front. “Now, what words are they?” she asked.

“Humorlessly and nervously,” those up front responded.

“What words?” she demanded.

“Humorlessly and nervously,” the whole class said.

But not me. I kept my mouth shut.
Humorlessly
and
nervously
were already stuck in my mind. Unlike the others, I didn't need to repeat them. The minute I heard both words I knew they were clues. Ominous clues hinting at disaster. It was then I realized that Mrs. Stilton meant to teach us a lesson. She meant to teach me a lesson, and—out of all the stories ever written—she had chosen this one, a story about a town just like Ginseng, to do so. Horrified, I listened, dreading each word as the story unfolded.

Eager to hear what would happen next, every fourth grade head—but mine—shot up. Craning their necks, they leaned forward. But I didn't. Instinctively, I tucked my head between my arms, recoiling from the striking distance of her words.

Before I knew it, my mind was like a movie running backward. The baby-blue convertible moved faster and faster in reverse, its tires sucking in the dust. My body bolted from the seat and flew into the crowd. My fingers burst open, sending the keys upward, toward Mayor Anglin's open hand. Faster and faster, my mind raced. Rewinding all the way back, until the drawing was about to begin again.

“And the winner of this year's prize is Virgil Bedloe!” Mayor Anglin announced. “Virgil, come get your blackberries.”

“Blackberries?” I said, looking puzzled, turning around, trying to find the car. “That's the prize?” I reached out to touch my grandfather's hand, but he wasn't there. Instead, he was moving slowly toward the courthouse steps where Mayor Anglin stood. An old tin bucket with a familiar dent in its side was now sitting on top of the cracker barrel; it was overflowing with plump, juicy blackberries. All of a sudden, I heard a faraway buzzing noise and the tin bucket quivering. Ever so slightly, its bottom thumped against the wood. The glossy skin of the blackberries trembled in the sun. Frightened, I put my hands over my eyes. Black and white dots seeped through the cracks between my fingers, but still the buzzing grew louder. Louder and louder, it became. As loud as a hive of swarming bees. And even though my eyes were covered, I could clearly envision them—a thousand golden specks wrapped in black—an ear-splitting buzz, consumed with rage. No, Patanni! Don't take that prize! I thought.

I jerked my head upward. The smiling faces of my classmates alarmed me. Don't they understand? I thought, as my heart beat wildly. Why are you listening to her? I wanted to cry.

“Class, I'm getting to the end,” Mrs. Stilton said, raising her head, staring at us. “Everyone better be listening.”

Agitated, I twisted around and spotted Emma Richards's big brown eyes, unaware, cheerful, her lips primly upturned. Naturally, she didn't understand. I twisted again and saw Peavy Lawson's froggy eyes. He didn't have a clue.

I shook my head. The faint trace of a whisper was forming inside my skull. Fearful, I listened closely and thought I heard Patanni talking to the crowd. “I don't deserve this prize,” he said. “It belongs to Icy. Icy is the winner.”

Please, God! I thought. I don't want to win!

Clamping my lips together, I held in my breath. Emma ain't had a chance, let her win, I said to myself. Lucy Daniels should be the winner. See that smile on her face? Look at Peavy Lawson, grinning over there. He loves blackberries. And so does that sissy, Lane Carlson. Let him be the winner. But not me!

I stared at my classmates; their faces swelled with anticipation; they didn't understand. My hands began to sweat profusely. The veins in my temples throbbed. A grinding panic rushed over me.

“‘Letuuzzzzzz finuzzzzzz,'” Mrs. Stilton buzzed.

Her voice rose to a high pitch and whirred against my ears. Terrified, I scrunched down in my seat. Emma Richards snickered and pointed at me.

Folding my arms on my desk, I buried my face inside them and imagined Patanni coming toward me. “It's yours,” he said, holding out the tin bucket, gripping its handle. “All yours!” Flinching, he took another step closer. That's when I saw them—the thousand pinpricks covering his body. Behind him, a black cloud hummed hysterically. Undulating, ever so subtly, it changed shapes—snakelike at first, then round like a giant hotcake, zigzagging past him, descending, blotting out Mayor Anglin and the courthouse steps.

No, Patanni! Put it down! I thought. I don't want to win!

Hide!
my thoughts yelled.
Protect yourself!
they demanded, as I pressed my knees against the desk, swatting the air with my hands.
Frog eyes!
my thoughts buzzed.
Crazzzzzy!
they hummed.
Little Miss Frog Eyes!
they droned.

“All of you hate me!” I spluttered into the desk top, my lips tingling against the wood.

Right then, a book slammed down. “Icy Sparks!” Mrs. Stilton warned. My knees shot up. The desk rattled on the floor. “Can't you be still?” she said, jerking out her desk drawer. With a thud, the drawer closed shut. “Are you crazy?” Her footsteps clicked toward me. “I'm warning you!” she said, slapping the Ping-Pong paddle against her hand.

“I don't want to win,” I said, trembling.

Her footsteps thumped closer and closer. “Are you crazy?” she repeated, coming to a stop beside me.

I felt her hot breath on my skin, her face inches from my neck. The paddle crashed against my desk top. My body shuddered. “Why me? Daddy, why me? Why not them?” I groaned, strangling my head with my arms.

“You
are
crazy!” she hissed.

“No! No!” I said, moaning. “Why me?” I cried, feeling the burn of the paddle against my skin. “My God, Daddy, the stings…the stings,” I muttered, accepting my fate.

M
rs. Stilton took me to the nurse's station, which was a little room beside Principal Wooten's office, and told Nurse Coy that I had become hysterical during reading time and fallen out of my desk and onto the floor. “Look at those red blotches,” she said, pointing to the marks on my arms. “This child isn't normal.” She shook her head and glanced down at her watch. “I must get back,” she said with syrupy concern. “My children need me.”

Nurse Coy, who wasn't really a nurse but had once worked as an aide at a nursing home in Harlan, gently squeezed my hand in her wrinkled, clawlike fingers, walked me over to the day couch, and told me to lie down. I did so obligingly. I would have done anything to stay out of class and away from that lying, Pope-craving, Chicago-born maniac. I knew that I hadn't behaved exactly right, but I also knew a fall hadn't caused those crimson smears on my skin. Only five minutes ago, I was Mrs. Stilton's prey. Through me, she had played out her fantasies. She had whacked my skin with that Ping-Pong paddle of hers; each whack, a hornet's sting.

“Would you like some Coke?” Nurse Coy asked. “A little Coke will help.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I murmured.

Nurse Coy patted my arm, which dangled over the edge of the couch, and hobbled out the door toward the cafeteria, where she kept cases of Coke in supply. On her way, I overheard her talking to the janitor, Mr. Sedge, one of the few Negroes in Ginseng. “Dooley, would you like some Coke?” she asked.

“No ma'am,” he said. “Remember, you give me Coke a little while ago? I thank you, though.”