The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (3 page)

“Jews don't get saved,” Gerald said, bemusedly shaking his head. “We don't believe in an afterlife.”

Mary Bennett's mouth dropped wide open. “How does your rabbi get y'all to do anything without threatening you with eternal damnation? I bet the collection plate is flat-out empty come Sunday morning.”

“Friday night. That's when we have our services.”

“Crazy,” Mary Bennett said, twirling a finger beside her temple. “What kind of church was it your mama went to up there in Michigan, Swiss Miss?”

“Minnesota,” Patsy corrected. “And Mama was Lutheran. They didn't have a Lutheran church in Hot Coffee and Daddy was brought up Baptist, but the only church within walking distance of their first house was Presbyterian, so apparently we were predestined to be the Frozen Chosen.”

Mary Bennett's brow bunched. “Lutheran—is that the one with snakes?”

A weary-looking waitress with a messy topknot of hair sidled up to us, pencil poised over a pad. “What'll y'all have?”

“A Big Orange for me,” Patsy said, handing the waitress the plastic menu.

“We're out of orange,” the waitress said.

“Oh,” Patsy said in a disappointed voice. “What other kind of pop do you have?”

“Did you just say
pot,
missy?” the waitress said, raising an accusing eyebrow.

“Oh for pity sakes, just bring her a Co-Cola,” Mary Bennett said. She pointed at Patsy and whispered to the waitress. “Her mama's a Yankee. ‘Pop' is what they call Co-Cola up there in Milwaukee. God only knows why.”

The rest of us gave our orders for homemade lemonade or milk shakes and burgers; then I told them about how Tammy had been invited to a Key Club reception at Marcy's house.

“What do you suppose is going on?” I said, directing my question to Gerald. If anyone knew the dirt, he would.

“Nothing good, that's for sure,” Gerald said, shaking his head. “They were all gathered around Marcy's locker, whispering and giggling before study hall. I was only able to catch a snippet. Marcy said something like, ‘Don't worry, I made sure Mother would be out of the house tomorrow night.'”

“I'll bet she's talking about the reception,” I said. “And obviously, she doesn't want her mama to know about the horrible things they've got planned for Tammy.”

“I don't know why we're all worked up about this Tammy person,” Mary Bennett said. “Who is she to us, anyway?”

“I like her,” Patsy said, her normally placid forehead rumpled. “It frosts my butt that those girls want to be mean to her.”

Mary Bennett's nostrils quivered at the blatantly Yankee “frost my butt” expression. In Mississippi, one's hindquarters would get “chapped”—it's rare we get a frost on the punkins, let alone our asses.

The waitress plunked our drinks down on the table.

“She
is
really nice,” I said. “Our kind of people, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, good gravy, if you're so wound up over her, just tell her not to go to that stupid reception,” Mary Bennett said, throwing her hands out, palms up. “What could be simpler?”

“Yeah, Jill.” Gerald shook his straw loose from its paper wrapper. “You're the closest to her, why don't
you
explain to her the social food chain around here?”

Three pairs of eyes looked at me expectantly.

“Me?” I said, pointing at my chest. “What if she doesn't listen to me?”

“Then get strong with the girl,” Mary Bennett said, leaning forward. “Have a come-to-Jesus meeting with her. Tell her Marcy and the rest of them never hang out with the hired help unless they want someone to clean up their messes.”

“I just hate to hurt her feelings,” I said, a knot of dread forming in my throat.

“Just remember,” Gerald said. “Whatever you say to her will feel like a mosquito bite compared to what Marcy and those other haints will do to her if she goes to that reception.”

All of them were staring me down so hard I knew I couldn't refuse. The trouble was, I wasn't yet accustomed to shifting the direction of my own life, much less anybody else's. (This would, of course, change, and now I'm quite comfortable directing others' lives.)

“Okay,” I said, with a sigh. “I'll talk to her before tomorrow night.”

 

The next day I tried to catch Tammy, but she was like a new cult inductee constantly surrounded by its members. Finally, I saw her dart into the girls' restroom just before last period. I followed her and was hit in the face by a blue shelf of smoke. Three sophomore girls were passing around a Marlboro Red. Tammy was at the mirror, her mouth a round O as she applied pink lipstick.

“You hot-boxed the hell out of this thing,” said a girl with hair the color of bright brass from an overdose of Summer Blonde as she pinched the burning cigarette between her fingers.

The bell rang and she tossed the butt into the sink, where it made a
sssss
sound. The smokers all scattered, and Tammy smacked her lips together and turned away from the mirror.

“Hey, Jill,” she said. “Whatcha doing?”

I snuck a glance behind me to make sure none of the Key Club bitches were around and whispered, “I have to talk to you.”

“I'm going to be late for P.E.,” she said, pointing to her wristwatch.

“This is your first week here. You can pretend you got lost. Coach Ryan won't mark you tardy.” I head-gestured to a corner of the restroom near a broken Kotex dispenser. “This is important.”

“If you say so,” Tammy said, a questioning look in her eye. She stood under a scrawl of graffiti that said “Mary Bennett is easy.” The handwriting on the pale green cinder block looked suspiciously like Mary Bennett's.

“Look,” I said nervously, pushing my glasses up on my nose. “You shouldn't go to that reception tonight.”

“Why?” Tammy said, with mild curiosity.

“You shouldn't go is all,” I said. “You gotta trust me on this.”

She paused a moment, a look of disappointment in her eyes. “Marcy warned me you might say something like that. She said the two of you had a falling-out in fifth grade, and although she's apologized to you profusely, you've continued to hold a grudge.”

“Tammy,” I said, measuring my words carefully, “she's lying.”

“She said you'd say that, too,” Tammy said, a pained expression on her face.

Danged if that Marcy hadn't covered all the bases. I didn't think there was a thing I could say to stop Tammy from going to that reception.

“Does ‘Hang on, Sloopy' mean
nothing
to you?” I said, bumping my hip on the sink as I awkwardly turned away from her. “You know—how she lived on the very bad side of town and everybody, yeah, tried to put her down?” Willfully blank, she looked at me. I gave up. “Okay. Fine. Have a good time.”

“I could speak to Marcy. She and I are getting to be good buddies,” she said, taking a step toward me. “Maybe the two of you can patch things up?”

Her expression was so earnest I had to look away. I weakly shook my head and then hitched my purse higher on my shoulder. Just before I pushed open the door I heard her call out, “I hope one day all of us can be friends.”

F
riday was pep-rally day. I spotted Mary Bennett at the top of the bleachers—our usual spot, underneath the scoreboard. She held a pen and a notebook, and kept staring into the crowd of students. She'd scribble something, and then gaze out again.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I planted my behind beside hers.

“Just keeping a little tally,” she said, brightly. I looked over her shoulder and saw a series of two-digit numbers on her pad. There were stars beside some of the numbers and frowny faces beside others.

“Ooooh! Thirty-eight,” she said, pointing at a player with a thirty-eight on his jersey. “Although
sixty-nine
would have been a better number for him,” she said with a wink.

“So it's that kind of list,” I said, playing along, although the discussion of Mary Bennett's “extracurricular” activities always made me uncomfortable, mainly because I was a total virgin and therefore didn't have a whole lot to say about sex.

“All in the name of school spirit,” she said with a cackle. “If there is anything sexier than a football player's butt, I'd like to see it.”

Patsy was ascending the bleachers, wearing a Minnesota Vikings sweater.

“Good Lawd,” Mary Bennett said. “Remind me to get that girl a sweater from Ole Miss.”

“At least she got the school colors right,” I remarked.

“Uff dah,” Patsy said as she sat next to me. “What a climb, eh?”

“Someone is going to ‘uff' your ‘dah' if you don't quit talking like that,” Mary Bennett said, looking up from her notebook. “Repeat after me. Say, ‘I swanee that was a haul.'”

“Swanee?” Patsy said.

“It means ‘I swear.' You say it a few times, and no one will ever guess you're a damn Yankee.”

“You know, Mary Bennett, I am
not
a Yankee,” Patsy said, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. “I may have been born up there but that's ALL, and besides, Minnesota wasn't even a state during the Civil War.”

“It wasn't? You sure about that?” Mary Bennett said, a puzzled look on her face. “'Cause I coulda swore Massachusetts was right in the thick of things.”

“It's not Massachusetts,” Patsy said. “It's—”

“Looky, there's Geraldine,” Mary Bennett interrupted. “Come on up here, darlin'!”

Gerald stood at the foot of the bleachers and shook his head.

“Y'all get down here!” he mouthed. “It's an emergency.”

The three of us rose from our seats and zigzagged our way down until we reached Gerald, standing with arms crossed and his weight on his left leg.

“What's wrong?” Mary Bennett said as she reached him. “You want to sit somewhere else?”

“No,” Gerald said. His mouth was a thin, serious line, and he was tapping his right foot rapidly as if bursting with pent-up energy. “We need to talk. Let's sneak out different exits and meet at the usual spot.”

“Done,” Mary Bennett said immediately, obviously alarmed by Gerald's uncharacteristically agitated state. She tucked her notebook under her arm and sauntered to the south exit. Patsy headed to the east exit and Gerald went west. That left the north exit for me, which unfortunately was guarded by Mr. Blalock, the school principal.

“Jill, where do you think you're going?” Mr. Blalock asked, blocking my way as I tried to slink past him.

I arranged my features into an expression of acute embarrassment. “Omigawd, Mr. Blalock, I'm so embarrassed!”

“What is it, Jill? What's wrong?” he said. He was dark and intense-looking, like Raymond Burr playing Perry Mason.

“I can't begin to say it.” I covered my face with my hands. “It's
mortifying
.”

“Just tell me,” he said, making an effort to be patient.

“Female troubles,” I mouthed, and then squeezed my eyes shut as if I couldn't bear to see the impact my words would have upon him.

“Well, then, you just…uh…go right ahead and…uh…take care of that.”

“Okay, Mr. Blalock,” I said meekly as I slipped into the hall outside the gym. At my high school, “female troubles” was a magic password. If used judiciously, it could get you out of any activity and most trouble.

I scurried out a side entrance and headed to the vocational building. It was still warm, but there was a whisper of fall in the air.

My friends were situated in their usual places on the steps. Mary Bennett was smoking a cigarette, blowing fluffy doughnuts of white that drifted across the sky. Gerald was pacing in front of her, hands on his hips, thumbs forward, and Patsy was knotting her pale, wispy hair into a skinny single braid, thin as a ribbon.

“Finally,” Gerald said when he spotted me, stopping his pacing. “Have you seen Tammy today?” There was a note of accusation in his voice.

“No,” I said, swallowing nervously. I'd failed to save her from the Key Club massacre, and now I was going to have to admit it. I glanced at Patsy. “Was she in your English class?”

“A no-show,” she said. “And we had a big assignment due today.”

Gerald snapped his fingers at Mary Bennett until she surrendered her cigarette to him, and then he took a long, deep drag.

“Well,” he said, blowing out a great cloud of smoke. “After what Marcy did to her, I'm not at all surprised.”

The air crackled with electricity. Mary Bennett, Patsy, and I swapped a charged look and Mary Bennett's arms shot out, her fingers grabbing at Gerald's plaid pants legs, which were paired with a white patent leather belt. Very unfortunate fashion statement.

“You know what happened?” I demanded.

Gerald nodded slowly, like a man carrying an unbearable burden. “The whole horrifying story. Every nasty detail.”

Mary Bennett's eyebrows arched ever so slowly upward. In a low, languorous voice, she said, “Do tell.”

“It's all they could talk about during study hall,” Gerald said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me.

“I
tried
to talk to her,” I said helplessly. “I really did. She refused to listen.”

Gerald sighed deeply. “I guess she was just doomed from the get-go.”

“Could we skip the previews and get to the main attraction?” Mary Bennett said, jiggling her knees with impatience.

Gerald said, “Well…it's not the easiest tale to tell. Y'all are just gonna DIE when you hear it.” He took a deep breath and began. “Tammy showed up at the Key Club meeting, wearing that very same skirt she'd worn for the last few days. Marcy took one look at her and said, ‘Servants enter through the rear.'”

We all gasped. None of us had expected the guillotine to fall so fast.

“That ain't the half of it,” Gerald said, holding up his index finger. “Tammy laughed, thinking Marcy was making some kind of joke, but when she tried to take a step into the house, Marcy blocked her path and said, ‘Didn't you hear me?' Tammy stood there for a moment, confused, until Marcy winked at her. ‘Oh, I see,' Tammy said. ‘This must be part of my initiation,' which, of course, is exactly what Marcy wanted her to think, because it would drag out the ‘fun' for everyone.”

“Assholes,” Patsy breathed. Gerald acknowledged the interruption with a sharp look.

“So our poor little Tammy went through the servant's door and was ordered to change into a maid's uniform. They immediately put her through the rich-bitch wringer, making her fetch their drinks, clear away empty plates, and wash the dishes. Finally, after a couple of hours, Marcy rang a silver bell and called the Key Club meeting to order—first piece of business, the admittance of new members, specifically Tammy Myers.”

“We can all guess what happened next,” Mary Bennett said, stretching out her long legs.

“Do you want to hear this story or not?” Gerald said sternly.

“Sorry, hunny,” Mary Bennett said, making a motion of locking her lips and tossing an imaginary key over her shoulder.

“As I was saying,” Gerald continued. “Tammy was told to leave the room, so that voting could commence. The members were going to vote by putting poker chips in a bowl. A white chip was a yes, black was no. Several girls yelled out ‘good luck' and a few gave Tammy a hug before she left. After a few minutes, they called her back into the room. ‘The vote was unanimous,' Marcy announced. They were all beaming at Tammy, so
of course
she thought she'd passed her initiation with flying colors.

“‘Tammy Myers,' Marcy said to her. ‘After observing you very carefully this evening, and seeing how helpful you were at our party, faithfully completing the lowliest task without complaint, we have come to our decision—Sergeant at Arms, may I have the bowl?' Then Marcy paused a moment for dramatic effect, and looked Tammy directly in the eye. ‘Unfortunately, you were a little
too
good at your tasks. You demonstrated a familiarity with menial labor that we found quite disturbing and certainly not the type of quality we're looking for in a Key Club member.' She then lifted the cloth to reveal a glass bowl brimming with black chips. ‘Therefore, your application for membership has been unanimously declined.'”

Patsy moaned and clutched her face.

“It gets worse,” Gerald said, ominously. “According to Marcy, Tammy was so wigged out, you'da thought it was a bowlful of spiders. Then, and this is the most unbearable part, Tammy looked at Marcy and said, ‘I thought you liked me. How could you fake that?' Marcy, of course, didn't skip a beat. She smiled and said, ‘I
do
like you, Tammy. You're one of the best maids I've ever had. But that's no surprise, since you come by it naturally.' Tammy's face turned white and she hightailed it out the front door without another word.”

We fell silent. Gerald took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and swabbed his shiny forehead. Then he crouched down and collapsed against the steps as if completely spent.

“Shi-it,” I whispered, idly cracking the knuckles of my right hand. “I wish I'd done more to stop her.”

“Well, boo-hoo-hoo—that's a real sad story.” Mary Bennett brushed off the back of her skirt as she got up. “But I don't know what the hell we're supposed to do about it.”

“What about starting our own club?” Patsy asked, her “about” sounding like “aboot.” “We could ask Tammy to join. It might make her feel better.”

“Club?” Mary Bennett said, with a frown. “What? Are we going to build a fort out of a refrigerator box, and put a homemade sign on the door that says ‘No rich bitches allowed'?”

Gerald and I laughed.

“Go on and laugh, but all we ever do is sit around here or Brent's, complaining about our situations,” Patsy said, her brow knitted together. “Marcy and her friends might be terrible people, but at least they're making things happen in their lives. They're creating memories. Why shouldn't we?”

All three of us stared at Patsy in surprise. We weren't used to her saying much, prolly because when she did talk, she stuck out like a turd in a punch bowl.

“What sort of things did you have in mind?” I asked cautiously. “I mean, it looks like to me the only ‘memories' they're creating are horrible ones for other people—I don't wanna do THAT. I don't WANT to be like THEM.”

“Our own parties. Trips. Why don't we forget that we're not the In Crowd and just make our own fun together?” Patsy said.

“Come to think of it,” Gerald said, “we
don't
do too many things together like other kids. Why is that, I wonder.”

Maybe because we don't really think of each other as friends,
I almost said but didn't. It was our outsider status that had brought us together, not common interests or mutual respect.

“Maybe a club isn't such a bad idea,” I said. “It could be fun.”

“Hold the phone,” Mary Bennett said. “The reason we started talking about a club was because we wanted to ask Tammy to join. Who's to say she'll want to fool with us bottom-feeders? She was aiming pretty high with the Key Club.”

“Yeah,” Patsy said, with a resolute lilt to her chin. “But after her ‘initiation' story gets around, she'll have nowhere else to go.”

“Except to be a loner,” Gerald said. “Let's see, if being a loner is a fate worse than death, would hanging out with US be an even WORSE fate? I mean, look at us—we're not THAT bad, are we?”

“We'll just have to figure out a way to make ourselves and our club irresistible to her,” I said.

“How are we going to do that?” Mary Bennett said, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Give away money at the meetings?”

A germ of a scheme was forming in my mind.

“I've got an idea,” I said with a sly little smile. “But I gotta warn you. It's pretty damn crazy.”