floor. Face it, Hurricane Dessie had blown in from some seacoast, and Billie had to keep out of the way.
Lately, every item of clothing Dessie selected contained some shade of green. “Wouldn’t you just know that green is Lux’s favorite color!” Dessie said shortly after she and Lux started going out together, as if that was a positive attribute. As usual, Dessie had been standing in front of the mirror, rolling up the waistband of her skirt, securing it with safety pins. From the back, Billie saw the hem hanging crookedly above Dessie’s knees.
With Dessie upstairs, Rose roaming around downstairs, and Bertram off running Saturday errands, Billie decided to chance a quick smoke in the crawl space. When she was sure no one was looking, she selected a barely smoked cigarette, strolled down the porch stairs, pried open the rusty trapdoor near the base of the porch, slipped in, and eased it closed so it wouldn’t slam shut. On all fours, she crawled to a spot where she could peek out through diamonds of light filtering through the latticework. Billie brushed cobwebs from her hair and pebbles from her palms, reached above her head along the beams, and found the matches she’d hidden on a narrow ledge.
Sound drifted through the kitchen floorboards. The mantel clock that Bertram wound each week with a small brass key ticked. The iron skillet clanked down on the burners, the stove door slammed shut, and floorboards creaked. Rose hummed along with the Family Hour of Praise from New Martinsville on the kitchen radio; then the gospel choir ended, and a man with a sing-song wheezing voice crowed, “Hallelujah! Rejoice, all you sinners, for your redeemer is come.” Under the porch, Billie felt mildly sinful. Was she a for-real sinner? God, who sees all, must be observing these acts of outright theft, parental deception, and disobedience, but at the same time, once somebody gets away with something for a few months, the wages of sin seem somehow to fade away.
Billie pinched the filterless cigarette to straighten out the bent part, lit a match, took a deep pull, and tried to keep from coughing. She hoped she wouldn’t be called to help cook, especially so she didn’t have to listen to the sermonizing on the radio. She didn’t even care what supper was. It would be something boring. She let the smoke roll between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Maybe tonight she could go to town with Dessie and Lux, to the new Italian pizza parlor, Martino’s. Everyone at school was talking about the place. They sold pizza by the slice and served tall icy glasses of Coca-Cola. They even had a jukebox with top forty singles and a dance floor.
Billie drew smoke into her lungs, puckered her lips, and tried to flick her tongue as she exhaled, practicing smoke rings. She knew if she stayed home, she’d have to finish her sewing project for home ec and a pile of earth science homework. That almost made her wish she was the one who was quitting school in June and getting married in September, instead of Dessie. Not that Billie would ever marry Lux, the conceited jerk. All he ever did was pick on her. Lately he’d been calling her “Boney,” or “Bag-a-Bones,” even “Bonesy-Billie.” Last night, when they were all on the porch, Lux came up to her like he was going to give her a hug around the waist. He actually seemed civilized for a moment, talking to her like a normal human being, saying, “Hey, Billie, what’ya been up to?” Then, in front of Alan Ray and Dessie, Lux acted like Billie’s ribs were poking into his arms. “Ouch, ouch!” Lux said, backing away as if he was hurt. So Billie took her right elbow and jabbed him in the belly.
She couldn’t win. “Watch out for Boney Billie, she’ll get y’all,” Lux called to Alan Ray. Alan Ray nodded. Then Lux started dancing around in front of her like a one-eyed prizefighter, black eyepatch and cowboy boots, his breath all beery and a stubble of whiskers poking out of his chin.
“Hey, Bag-a-Bones, put up your dukes,” Lux called. More than anything, Billie wanted to slap Lux’s cheek, eyepatch or no eyepatch. In a sly move, Alan Ray came up behind her and grabbed her wrists, holding them so tightly she could not move either of her hands, not even an inch, and before she could blink, Lux reached out with his right fist and popped her nose. Not real hard, but hard enough to make her eyes water. Alan Ray released her arms, but she wasn’t sure whether to elbow Alan Ray in the gut or to punch Lux right back. Lux saw her make a fist, and quickly he called out, “Ouch, ouch, I hurt my hand on that bony nose.” He shook his right hand back and forth like it really hurt.
Alan Ray had just laughed, face all red, freckles lighting up his nose and cheeks. “Hey, Lux,” he said, “you might need to get that checked out. Bring that big paw over here, I can splint it up for you.” He took the bandana from around his neck and started to make a bandage to tie around Lux’s hand. Billie looked from Alan Ray to Lux to Dessie. She wanted them to see how unfair that was, how mad it made her, but she sensed it would backfire. Dessie had laughed along with the rest of them. Bertram would say she should probably try to be a “good sport.” Whatever that meant. Billie had choked back the lump in her throat and retreated to the porch swing. Could a girl fight back? Boys her age were easy, but older guys were not, and no matter what, it seemed like they always had to get their way. They could be nice if they wanted, but they also could turn right around and ruin everything.
Through the floor above, Billie heard the phone ring out from its cradle on the kitchen wall, then the thumping of Dessie’s feet racing to answer it before Rose could get to it. It would be Lux, phoning from Cleve’s General Store to let Dessie know when he’d be coming over. Would she be invited to come along tonight? Doubtful. Would she want to go? Possibly. Was it always going to go like this? She never saw this coming; there weren’t any tryouts for this new role: Beverlee Ellen Price, tragic and forlorn but perky and pretty, starring as The Younger Sister Who Is a Good Sport.
Billie twirled the cigarette between her fingertips for a last, elegant Hollywood actress inhale. If she were writing this movie, there would be a big scene at the end where a handsome cowboy rode up on a white horse, hopped off, and punched Lux right in the gut so hard that he hit the dirt, swallowed a big old wad of chewing tobacco, and everyone laughed while he sat there, his feet splayed out wide, his mouth open, drooling, stunned, and speechless.
Billie snuffed the cigarette on the ground, crawled out of the trap door, inspected her clothes and knees for dirt, and made her way around the back of the house. Passing her mother’s salad garden, she picked some mint leaves to freshen her breath. With luck, she could slip upstairs past the kitchen when Rose’s back was turned. Dessie would know something about tonight’s plans by now. Billie wondered whether Alan Ray was going, too, and whether Alan Ray even cared if she went. Oh, just let Dessie marry Lux Cranfield, Billie thought. Then they can see each other all they want, and they can all keep away from me.
“HEY, WATCH where you sit,” Dessie said when Billie settled onto an empty spot on the foot of the bed. The quilt smelled of Johnson’s Baby Oil. Dessie still wore her pink nightshirt, her high school gym shorts underneath, and a white bath towel was coiled on her head like the turban of the Queen of Sheba. She was shaving her legs with Bertram’s straight razor, scraping against her pale shin with choppy strokes, holding a piece of broken mirror in her hand to see the back of her calf. Her right foot was propped up on a math book, and her toenails were freshly painted rose pink. Dessie’s radio, louder than usual, played the Jefferson Airplane’s newest single, “Somebody to Love.” Only on Saturdays, over Rose’s repeated protests, Bertram allowed the girls to listen to rock and roll.
“Hey, yourself,” Billie said, standing up cautiously to keep from shaking the bed. Setting the Seventeen magazine and textbooks on the desk, she spread out her home ec project, an apron she was supposed to have already given Rose for Mother’s Day.
Billie lifted the roughed-out apron; then she pinned a cutout shape of pattern paper somewhat like an apron pocket where she thought a pocket should go. “I picked this material for Mom. How does this look?” Billie asked.
Dessie nodded approval at the fabric. “It’s coming out nice. She’ll like those large roses.” She paused, and took a second look. “Maybe use a wide red fabric for the pocket and sash? And red
