Read Online A Season of Gifts by Richard Peck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Peck
Ads: Link
her as a girl. She’d try to cross her legs and miss.”
Mother swallowed hard, and the band came high-stepping along, blaring a medley of fight song and “God Bless America.” The fight song was the same, though they’d changed the name of the team from “Fightin’ Farmers” to “Kickapoo Kickers.”
Glitter batons spun in the treetops, but the majorettes were second string because Vanette Pankey and Bonnie Burhoops would be riding the homecoming queen’s float.
An old Hupmobile sedan, about a 1932 model, rolled by, draped in bunting. It was the Daughters of the American Revolution, all seven of them shoehorned in with Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach at the wheel. Then a big wooden-sided wagon, horse-drawn, with the corn-husking team. Corn husking was a competitive sport around here. Then an antique La France hook and ladder truck.
All the preachers of the Council of Churches were divided into a pair of Bel-Air convertibles, courtesy of the Chevrolet agency in Monticello. Dad waved at us from between two United Brethren. The other preachers were showing Dad some respect now. He sat tall among them, looking good. My dad. We waved back.
The varsity team followed, sheepish and suited up on the seat backs of a line of Pontiac Catalinas. Then the FutureFarmers hay frame, then the Home Ec Club. We looked on every float for Phyllis but didn’t see her.
Mrs. Wilcox had settled just back of Mrs. Dowdel’s elbow. She’d propped up her veil and was working over a plate of sliced goose and baked beans.
The excitement mounted as the big float with the homecoming court came into view, drawn by a factory-fresh John Deere tractor. Applause rippled off the porches all up the street. There on the high throne sat the Homecoming Queen surrounded by her court, all wearing dress-up suits, mum corsages, and high-heeled shoes. At the queen’s feet, representing the freshmen, was Barbara Jean Jeeter. She was sitting kind of careful on one haunch. Flanking the queen were Edna-Earl Stubbs for the sophomores, Bonnie Burhoops for the juniors, and Vanette Pankey for the seniors. They all happened to be Iota Nu Betas, though sororities weren’t allowed. Nobody quite remembered electing Waynetta Blalock as Homecoming Queen. It was just a done deal.
“Whozatt hard-faced gal?” Mrs. Dowdel asked, pointing a stuffed celery stalk up at Waynetta, high and mighty on her throne. Her rhinestone tiara rode her blinding, flame-red locks.
Mrs. Wilcox squinted up. “It’s Waynetta, Carleen Love-joy’s girl.”
“She looks a little peaked and off her feed,” Mrs. Dowdel observed. “And I’ve seen better hair on bacon.”
Mother choked.
It was tradition that each girl on the float be attended by her boyfriend or some guy from her class. But Waynetta had ruled all boys off the float because her boyfriend didn’t go to high school and wasn’t available. The whole school knew this. Ruth Ann knew this. No boys because Waynetta said so.
She’d been smirking from side to side right through town, but Mrs. Dowdel’s was the last house before the open fields.
Slowly, Waynetta turned and deigned to look down upon us. Real slow, though I doubt if she looked Mrs. Dowdel in the eye.
There was something up there in Waynetta’s lap. You’d expect a spray of American Beauty roses, something like that. But no. It was a small, weird shape nestled up there. And bald. And one-eyed. It was a doll, loved to baldness with but a single working eye. Waynetta held it out for us to see.
“Grachel!” Ruth Ann screamed, flying off her folding chair. Her picnic went everywhere. “GIMME BACK GRACHEL!”
It was Ruth Ann’s long-lost doll, so she hadn’t gone home to Terre Haute after all.
With a casual gesture, Waynetta pitched Grachel into the air. She turned in the afternoon, arms out, and lit in the ditch. Ruth Ann lunged.
In a voice way too tough for a Homecoming Queen, Waynetta hollered out, “And tell Phyllis Barnhart to keepher thieving hands off my
Mother swallowed hard, and the band came high-stepping along, blaring a medley of fight song and “God Bless America.” The fight song was the same, though they’d changed the name of the team from “Fightin’ Farmers” to “Kickapoo Kickers.”
Glitter batons spun in the treetops, but the majorettes were second string because Vanette Pankey and Bonnie Burhoops would be riding the homecoming queen’s float.
An old Hupmobile sedan, about a 1932 model, rolled by, draped in bunting. It was the Daughters of the American Revolution, all seven of them shoehorned in with Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach at the wheel. Then a big wooden-sided wagon, horse-drawn, with the corn-husking team. Corn husking was a competitive sport around here. Then an antique La France hook and ladder truck.
All the preachers of the Council of Churches were divided into a pair of Bel-Air convertibles, courtesy of the Chevrolet agency in Monticello. Dad waved at us from between two United Brethren. The other preachers were showing Dad some respect now. He sat tall among them, looking good. My dad. We waved back.
The varsity team followed, sheepish and suited up on the seat backs of a line of Pontiac Catalinas. Then the FutureFarmers hay frame, then the Home Ec Club. We looked on every float for Phyllis but didn’t see her.
Mrs. Wilcox had settled just back of Mrs. Dowdel’s elbow. She’d propped up her veil and was working over a plate of sliced goose and baked beans.
The excitement mounted as the big float with the homecoming court came into view, drawn by a factory-fresh John Deere tractor. Applause rippled off the porches all up the street. There on the high throne sat the Homecoming Queen surrounded by her court, all wearing dress-up suits, mum corsages, and high-heeled shoes. At the queen’s feet, representing the freshmen, was Barbara Jean Jeeter. She was sitting kind of careful on one haunch. Flanking the queen were Edna-Earl Stubbs for the sophomores, Bonnie Burhoops for the juniors, and Vanette Pankey for the seniors. They all happened to be Iota Nu Betas, though sororities weren’t allowed. Nobody quite remembered electing Waynetta Blalock as Homecoming Queen. It was just a done deal.
“Whozatt hard-faced gal?” Mrs. Dowdel asked, pointing a stuffed celery stalk up at Waynetta, high and mighty on her throne. Her rhinestone tiara rode her blinding, flame-red locks.
Mrs. Wilcox squinted up. “It’s Waynetta, Carleen Love-joy’s girl.”
“She looks a little peaked and off her feed,” Mrs. Dowdel observed. “And I’ve seen better hair on bacon.”
Mother choked.
It was tradition that each girl on the float be attended by her boyfriend or some guy from her class. But Waynetta had ruled all boys off the float because her boyfriend didn’t go to high school and wasn’t available. The whole school knew this. Ruth Ann knew this. No boys because Waynetta said so.
She’d been smirking from side to side right through town, but Mrs. Dowdel’s was the last house before the open fields.
Slowly, Waynetta turned and deigned to look down upon us. Real slow, though I doubt if she looked Mrs. Dowdel in the eye.
There was something up there in Waynetta’s lap. You’d expect a spray of American Beauty roses, something like that. But no. It was a small, weird shape nestled up there. And bald. And one-eyed. It was a doll, loved to baldness with but a single working eye. Waynetta held it out for us to see.
“Grachel!” Ruth Ann screamed, flying off her folding chair. Her picnic went everywhere. “GIMME BACK GRACHEL!”
It was Ruth Ann’s long-lost doll, so she hadn’t gone home to Terre Haute after all.
With a casual gesture, Waynetta pitched Grachel into the air. She turned in the afternoon, arms out, and lit in the ditch. Ruth Ann lunged.
In a voice way too tough for a Homecoming Queen, Waynetta hollered out, “And tell Phyllis Barnhart to keepher thieving hands off my
Similar Books
