bunch of third graders painted it with white house paint. The wheezy old bus driver perks up when he sees Mama. He stands up and takes her by the hand and helps her up. I climb the steps by myself and follow Mama to the middle of the bus and sit beside her.
Three of the Ashley boys from over on the mill hill are sitting in the seats at the back, singing, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of be-e-e-er, take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer …” But Mama keeps turning the pages of the
A-K
dictionary, calling out words at random. Easy words, like
amnesia, asinine, chronology, fiduciary, fumigate, and intravenous
. She’s trying to act enthusiastic, but I can tell she knows Daddy jumped off the Sober Train again.
His drinking is not something she likes to talk about. Every time I bring it up, she acts like it’s her own private problem. Mama acts like God’s love is plenty enough to save him from his drunkenness, but I think it’s going to take awhole lot more than that. When it comes to Daddy, it’s as if she doesn’t want to know the truth. Putting a finger on her feelings isn’t one of Mama’s strengths, but I think she’s lonely as the moon.
Training Union bored me to pieces, but I’ve never felt so damn happy to walk into the Lord’s house on baptism night. Mama and I take our usual seats on the fourth pew on the right side. There’s something magical about how the light reflects off the baptismal waters tonight, flinging little Tinkerbells all over the sanctuary walls. I feel like running up to Preacher Smoot and telling him to give me a good dunking before he even starts his sermon—but I don’t dare. Mama would be mortified. I’ve been baptized twice already, which, according to her, is one time too many.
So, instead, I close my eyes and remember the first time I was baptized. The water feels warm as a baby’s bath, my crinoline is heavy with holy water, the yellow sash of my white dress streams behind me. Preacher Smoot places his gargantuan hand upon my head and turns me toward the congregation. Then he blesses me, lowers me into the water, and holds me under for what seems like a long time. Finally, he lifts me out of the water, and I stumble up the stairs out of the baptistery, sputtering water, about to choke on my own salvation.
10 es·ca·pade
1: an act of breaking loose from rules or restraint
2: an adventurous action that runs counter to approved conduct
“Mr. Satterfield, will you please spell
causalgia?”
Miss Sophia says, standing behind the podium at the left of the stage.
“May I have the definition, please?” Jack squeaks into the microphone. Only five contestants remain. The other four of us are sitting in orange plastic chairs arranged in a semicircle on the stage.
“An intense, burning pain, usually neuralgic,” Miss Sophia says. She’s doing a great job as the Giver of Words, plus she looks snazzy in her new black tailored pantsuit with a white shirt and red scarf.
Jack rubs the back of his neck.
“C-a-u-s-a-l-g-e-a.”
The bell rings. Poor Jack trudges down the steps into the auditorium and joins the other seventeen spellers who heard the fatal bell ring. Being a two-time loser myself, I feel sorry as hell for them, but deep inside I feel victorious. So far, I’ve had a couple of easy words:
vehicular
and
guerrilla
. The others were more difficult:
dyspeptic, étagère
, and
neurotic
, which is a fancy way of saying you have a bad case of the cooties inside your brain.
“Miss Harper, will you please spell
craniopagus?”
Cherry Harper, the eighth grader who beat me last year, goes to the microphone. Her jet-black hair is wound into a messy French twist that looks like it’s been shellacked. “May I have a definition, please?”
Miss Sophia says, “Craniopagus is a condition in which Siamese twins are born with their heads joined.”
From out of nowhere a huge laugh wells up in my stomach. I try to squelch
Three of the Ashley boys from over on the mill hill are sitting in the seats at the back, singing, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of be-e-e-er, take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer …” But Mama keeps turning the pages of the
A-K
dictionary, calling out words at random. Easy words, like
amnesia, asinine, chronology, fiduciary, fumigate, and intravenous
. She’s trying to act enthusiastic, but I can tell she knows Daddy jumped off the Sober Train again.
His drinking is not something she likes to talk about. Every time I bring it up, she acts like it’s her own private problem. Mama acts like God’s love is plenty enough to save him from his drunkenness, but I think it’s going to take awhole lot more than that. When it comes to Daddy, it’s as if she doesn’t want to know the truth. Putting a finger on her feelings isn’t one of Mama’s strengths, but I think she’s lonely as the moon.
Training Union bored me to pieces, but I’ve never felt so damn happy to walk into the Lord’s house on baptism night. Mama and I take our usual seats on the fourth pew on the right side. There’s something magical about how the light reflects off the baptismal waters tonight, flinging little Tinkerbells all over the sanctuary walls. I feel like running up to Preacher Smoot and telling him to give me a good dunking before he even starts his sermon—but I don’t dare. Mama would be mortified. I’ve been baptized twice already, which, according to her, is one time too many.
So, instead, I close my eyes and remember the first time I was baptized. The water feels warm as a baby’s bath, my crinoline is heavy with holy water, the yellow sash of my white dress streams behind me. Preacher Smoot places his gargantuan hand upon my head and turns me toward the congregation. Then he blesses me, lowers me into the water, and holds me under for what seems like a long time. Finally, he lifts me out of the water, and I stumble up the stairs out of the baptistery, sputtering water, about to choke on my own salvation.
10 es·ca·pade
1: an act of breaking loose from rules or restraint
2: an adventurous action that runs counter to approved conduct
“Mr. Satterfield, will you please spell
causalgia?”
Miss Sophia says, standing behind the podium at the left of the stage.
“May I have the definition, please?” Jack squeaks into the microphone. Only five contestants remain. The other four of us are sitting in orange plastic chairs arranged in a semicircle on the stage.
“An intense, burning pain, usually neuralgic,” Miss Sophia says. She’s doing a great job as the Giver of Words, plus she looks snazzy in her new black tailored pantsuit with a white shirt and red scarf.
Jack rubs the back of his neck.
“C-a-u-s-a-l-g-e-a.”
The bell rings. Poor Jack trudges down the steps into the auditorium and joins the other seventeen spellers who heard the fatal bell ring. Being a two-time loser myself, I feel sorry as hell for them, but deep inside I feel victorious. So far, I’ve had a couple of easy words:
vehicular
and
guerrilla
. The others were more difficult:
dyspeptic, étagère
, and
neurotic
, which is a fancy way of saying you have a bad case of the cooties inside your brain.
“Miss Harper, will you please spell
craniopagus?”
Cherry Harper, the eighth grader who beat me last year, goes to the microphone. Her jet-black hair is wound into a messy French twist that looks like it’s been shellacked. “May I have a definition, please?”
Miss Sophia says, “Craniopagus is a condition in which Siamese twins are born with their heads joined.”
From out of nowhere a huge laugh wells up in my stomach. I try to squelch
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