Girlchild Read online

  I point over the fence, “That’s my house.”

  “That’s a trailer,” Viv says, and she laughs. She must be new on the Calle.

  I start pulling stickers out of my socks and she reaches down for the Girl Scout Handbook where it landed on the wrong side of the fence with us. “Are you a Girl Scout?” she asks me.

  I’m so glad we don’t have to talk about what’s a trailer and what’s a house that I tell a great big lie. “Yes.”

  “Me too!” she says, and holds up her right hand, her palm toward me. Her thumb holds down her pinkie finger. Her three middle fingers point straight up. She stands just like that, waiting, like she did for me to say my last name.

  “You must’ve really knocked yourself out, goose,” Viv says after a minute of looking at my face that’s turning red again because I know I’m supposed to do something. “Don’t you salute around here?”

  And then I remember page twelve and raise my right hand, palm forward, pinkie and thumb down, middle fingers extended. I give Viv the Girl Scout Salute and it’s the first time I’ve done it without a mirror.

  trail of the trefoil

  There’s never been any other Girl Scouts on the Calle except me before, and I’m not official or anything. I guess I’ve never even seen a real live Girl Scout and I didn’t expect to, but I’ve got a copy of the Girl Scout Handbook. It wasn’t always my own. At first, I borrowed it from the Roscoe Elementary School library, borrowed it over and over again until my name filled up both sides of the card and Mrs. Reddick put it in the ten-cent bin and made sure to let me know that she did. Maybe Mrs. Reddick was a Girl Scout before Dewey hid her away in the stacks and his decimals took over her life. Maybe that’s why she put it out for me—she does have excellent posture and the Handbook covers posture in detail in Safety and Health under the heading “The Right Use of Your Body.”

  It’s an old copy and it’s starting to fall apart, but I hold on to my Handbook because nothing else makes promises like that around here, promises with these words burning inside them: honor, duty, and try. Try and duty I hear all the time, as in “try to get some sleep” and “get me some duty-free cigs from the Indian store,” while honor’s reserved solely for the Honorable Joseph A. on The People’s Court, as in, “Your Honor, I was just trying to get my wallet out to pay for the duty-free cigs when my gun went off,” but these words never ever show their faces together and much less inside a promise.

  No one on the Calle gives advice about things that I can find easy in the Handbook’s index. Things I’d be too embarrassed to ask, like what are all the points of a horse and how to make introductions without feeling awkward or embarrassed. I can hear all I want about sex, drugs, and rock’n’ roll on the playground, but only the Girl Scouts know the step-by-steps for limbering up a new book without injuring the binding and the how-tos of packing a suitcase to be a more efficient traveler. The only thing harder to come by around here than a suitcase is a brand-new book, but I keep the Girl Scout motto as close to my heart as the promise anyway: Be Prepared.

  blocks that little girls are made of

  I’m hanging by a thread, a hair. The fistful that is wrapped around Carol’s hand when she opens the door to the Hardware Man and pretends that we are playing a game. That’s how come Carol has that grip she has on me. She didn’t just twist me around her fingers once, she’s in my hair forever.

  When I have to stay at Carol’s house I stick to the edge of the mattress, wipe my nose with the sheet. Carol says I fall off the top bunk in the middle of the night but I know I don’t. I know Carol makes me sleep in her bed to save herself and I don’t hate her for it. That would be like hating my ownself. And anyway, it doesn’t work. Bad things happen but on the other side of the bed, and I cry soft as nothing and wipe my nose without moving or pulling the sheet or pillow.

  At my house it’s not all rosy either, but when she sits me at home, some nights Carol lets me stay up past bedtime if I promise not to tell, and I climb from chair to chair peeking through the curtains Grandma ran off on her old Singer, orange and yellow God’s Eyes embroidered along the seams. I’m watching for Mama’s shadow on the Calle. And when she does come sailing down our driveway, sheets to the wind, I rush off to bed and pretend not to see her through slitted eyelids as she peeks in the door, pretend not to hear her whispered “Goodnight, girlchild. Goodnight.”

  But I never end up keeping these white secrets from Mama, because their light shines up all my other ones, shows how dirty the ones I keep, the ones I swear I’ll keep, really are. It starts with the gray one about not telling Mama that Carol leaves me alone with the Hardware Man so that she can be alone with Tony, and they just get darker from there. I can’t keep this little pretty lie for my own, I blurt it out the next morning, “I-stayed-up-past-bedtime,” and she’s not ever mad because when I say this then she can believe that’s it. I’ve told all there is to tell. Mama needs to believe in my truth-telling. That’s her little lie, that it’s possible to raise a child clean and safe without rows of secrets somewhere, shelved like the boxes of fuses and circuit breakers at the back of the Hardware Store, coiled like garden hoses forgotten until inventory time. And I need her to believe in this too so she won’t start doing an inventory of her own and ask about the places my bathing suit does or doesn’t go, the skin that burns pale underneath the Hardware Man’s hands.

  Carol was brought up by hands used to stripping rolls of wire and wrapping bundles of rope, hands more used to the feel of rubber-handled Vise-Grips and claw-headed hammers than little girl things. She didn’t have any time to unlearn that lesson before she was in charge of little bodies too like her own, their skin paling soft between summers and suntan lines. Maybe Carol’s memory flips like a light switch too and the things she learned and the things she does fall together in one shadow behind her bathroom door.

  Carol says, “If you don’t close your eyes, I’ll cut all of it off,” so I do, and the tears leak out because by “it” she means my hair and by “all of it” she means bald. I hear the scissors open and close, the metal scrape of them sliding wide, the grainy sound of them closing slow over strand after strand of my hair, the long blond hair that makes Mama so proud. Then there is a screech of tape being pulled from the roll and the smell of it, plastic and minty as Christmas, as Carol sticks a piece of it to the cut hair and sticks both to my forehead. She slaps my bottom and tells me to “Go look in the mirror. Now.” I walk slowly, slow as I can, to the bathroom, my hands still at my sides so I won’t touch my head, so I won’t feel where my hair isn’t anymore, but when I get to the mirror there’s only a few strands cut, not a hunk. The hairs hang limp from their piece of Scotch tape but shine gold and white against the red of my skin, and they flash Carol’s warning: keep our secrets or everybody gets hurt.

  change girl

  FAMILY HISTORY

  HENDRIX, Johanna #310,788

  Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix were wed in 1959. Mrs. Hendrix was 15 years old at the time and dropped out of the 9th grade, San Lorenzo Valley High School, in order to marry Mr. Hendrix who was 13 years her senior.

  Mr. Hendrix was a commercial fisherman owning his own boat. In 1967 this couple purchased an older but very fine home located in the De Laveaga area of Santa Cruz. The house payments are in arrears.

  Although Mrs. Hendrix informed the worker that no one in her family has finished high school or attended college, she keenly feels her lack of education. She attended Santa Cruz High School at night but failed to complete the English, math, and science courses she was taking because she went to Nevada to obtain a divorce. She also took a night course in American Government at Cabrillo College. She stated to the worker that she completed this course which is quite an accomplishment for a 9th-grade dropout.

  During the 6 weeks Mrs. Hendrix lived in Reno, she worked as a change girl in the Nevada Club, a gambling establishment.

  AREAS OF FUNCTIONING

  A. Mrs. Hendrix seems to be in good physical condition. However, she
stated that her ex-husband is suffering from a mental depression and is in need of medical attention. She states that he has been having financial reverses recently, sold his fishing boat, and has begun applying as a hand on other boats throughout the Bay. She thinks he is working with heavy equipment in the meantime but could offer me no details as to his work or whereabouts.

  B. During this home visit, only the youngest child was present. The 3 older boys were attending the De Laveaga Elementary School. Mrs. Hendrix stated that all 3 schoolboys are having serious problems in school, especially during the 6 weeks she was in Reno, and they were in the care of their father. Eugene T., the 2nd oldest, is enrolled in the special educationally handicapped class. He is taking 20 milligrams of Dexedrine on a daily basis. This is for his hypertension. All 4 boys are supposedly in poor physical condition, according to Mrs. Hendrix. However, the youngest boy, who is in preschool, was viewed by the worker and he appeared to be in excellent health and spirits. The ages of the 4 boys are:

  C. See earlier paragraphs.

  D. Client is uncertain of any support from her ex-husband. However, up until last week, when she returned from Reno with the divorce finalized, he had been supporting the family in an adequate manner. Mrs. Hendrix is very anxious to return to Cabrillo and further her studies. The worker suggested instead that she enter some type of a vocational training program so that she can eventually become self-supporting.

  EVALUATION AND PLANS

  A. While Mrs. Hendrix was able to purchase a set of dentures before the dissolution of her marriage, the boys have dental and optical problems. The boys also have serious school problems. Mrs. Hendrix is a fine-looking woman who lives in a well-kept, adequate home.

  Although divorced from her husband, this woman seemed to be on good terms with him right up until last week. This was evidenced by the fact that he lived at the home and cared for his children up until the day she returned from Reno with the divorce decree.

  I have to interrupt V. White before she goes on, and she does go on, to list Rights and Responsibilities, Eligibilities, Assets, and Recommendations. I have to interrupt her to say that not everything’s as black and white and crisp and certain as it reads on her carboned copy. Two people can have kind words without sharing other kindnesses, a man can want to care for his children, can want to be a father and not want to be a husband, a woman can love her children but recognize that not all the choices she made at fifteen are the ones she should have to live by. I have to interrupt V. White to say that “Mrs. Hendrix is a fine-looking woman” would seem like a compliment coming from anyone else, but coming from her it is a statement chock-full of suspicion, almost an accusation.

  The Worker was so blinded by Mama’s good looks and Bobby’s “good health and spirits” that she couldn’t see the truth in Mama’s words. If being fine-looking was all it took, we Hendrixes would’ve been the ones to start the Calle and the first to abandon it. Like the rich folks who first owned this place, we’d take our money and run. But good looks only get you so far and I’m guessing V. White wasn’t good-looking enough to have to learn this lesson herself. Instead, V. White’s compliment shows what her real questions look like, the ones they don’t print on the forms down at the County offices but whisper instead in hallways and after meetings:

  Q. If Mrs. Hendrix is so hard up, how can she look so good?

  Q. Is Mrs. Hendrix really out of love with the delinquent fisherman, or is she just another lazy piece of trash living on the County?

  Q. And is this Mr. Gene Hendrix fine-looking as well?

  Q. And since they appear to be on “good terms,” what exactly does being on good terms encompass?

  Q. Can fine-looking people really succeed in keeping their hands off of each other? And if they can’t, should we have to pay for it?

  All I know so far is that being fine-looking usually leads to trouble.

  trees

  In the fairy tales there’s only one Big Bad Wolf and the little girl takes only one trip through the Dark Forest and fights only one fight for her life before the story ends in happily and ever after. But life on the Calle is real, not make-believe, and every Calle girl knows that once the My-What-Big-Paws-You-Have fall on her skin, Little Red will carry that scent no matter how hard she scrubs. From that point on, every wolf in every forest of her very real life will recognize her and they’ll do their Biggest and Baddest to get into her basket anytime she drops her guard. So be prepared. We’re not out of the woods yet.

  boom

  troop

  I start my walk to school and Viv is waiting for me at the edge of the driveway. She salutes and says, “Are you ready for the spelling test today?”

  I almost drop my books saluting back to her, I’m so excited that we’re walking to school together, but I don’t remember about a test or even about making a plan to walk to school. Yesterday feels like it happened in pieces, it flashes between recess bells.

  “Did Ms. Hyatt say we were having a test?”

  “Well, Mrs. Tucker did, so I figure y’all are too.” Mrs. Tucker is Viv’s teacher. We’re in the same grade, but not the same class, and I’ve never even seen Viv yet at school because our recesses aren’t at the same time. By the time my class is coming out to the playground, Viv’s is already lined up to come in, so I haven’t been able to catch her yet and salute hello.

  Tired of waiting for my answer, like always, she goes ahead, “That’s okay, R.D., I know them by heart!”

  Viv recites our spelling words in a chant as we walk. She chants rules too, “i before e except after c,” and doesn’t get tired of going over and over them. Her books are all tied together with a belt and she swings them forward with each word, “i—before—e—except—after—c,” and “the—principal—is—your—pal.”

  At the entrance to the school, she says, “Do your best, Rory,” and salutes even though we’re only feet apart. Then she runs off to the far gate, her books swinging beside her.

  the bell

  Boys eat bugs in the schoolyard. Newborn caterpillars crawl all over a tree by the kindergarten building. Boys dare each other to eat them whole, fuzzy, green, and wiggling. Girls don’t dare or eat.

  tip your bartender

  The Hardware Man has a counter, not a bar, but he does his share of listening. Men come in to pick up new saw blades and caulking, spackle and sealant, but they get something else at Ace. A daytime medicine like the one they’ll get later at Hobee’s or the Truck Stop. What the Hardware Man offers isn’t that different from what Mama serves up, a friendly face and willing ear and one eye on their money hand.

  When the regulars come in, Sonny, the part-time guy, shrinks back from the counter, the Hardware Man moves forward, and the talk begins. Sometimes the order’s been called ahead but that doesn’t hurry anything and the conversations follow the same direction, starting with the weather. There are only two seasons in the desert so that doesn’t take long. Next is work, and work is always a bitch. Which leads right to the last thing, women. And no women are off-limits except for wives, and then only if the husband is in the room. Everyone else is fair game. When the Hardware Man still had his arm around Timmy’s mama, I heard all about it, but now that that’s over, the customers’ eyes fall on me. “Ain’t that Jo’s daughter?”

  The Hardware Man shrugs, like he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, and says, “Just keeping an eye on her while Carol’s off letting her boyfriend feel her up.” And the men’s replies are always the same. They can’t believe that Mama and the Hardware Man don’t have something going by now, that she isn’t his secret girlfriend. It’s the only thing I can imagine feeling dirtier than the truth and I want to tell them she wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot extension ladder, but instead I shrink up against the far wall with Sonny, our backs cushioned by silver rolls of duct tape.

  recess

  The bell rings the signal for inside dares. Boys sit at their desks and count how many seconds long they can rub their skin raw with the erasers
on their Number Two pencils before they bleed. Boys grow up with scars from erasing their skin.

  pinball

  I’m not very good at it. I can’t catch the ball inside the flipper, I just send it faster down the hole, another quarter gone, another trip back up to the bar to measure the number of quarters left in our stack, the number of sips left in Mama’s beer. And this is my last quarter no matter how much she’s got left, she already said. I’m praying for the ball to cut me a break when a hand puts three quarters along the edge of the glass, and even though I know it’s one of Mama’s stupid boyfriends giving me more chances at pinball so he can have more chances with her, I turn to say, “Thank you.” But it isn’t one of Mama’s boyfriends, it’s Marc, my neighbor, looking almost as surprised as I am when he says, “No, dummy. That means I’m playing next.”

  Marc is my desk buddy this year. Ms. Hyatt says that even second-grade girls will chitter-chatter if they sit together and our whole classroom, except for Stephanie Harris and Jena-with-one-n, sits at two-person desks in a boy-girl, boy-girl pattern. And she’s right. This is already more than Marc’s said to me ever. Ms. Hyatt already held Marc back one year, and maybe she thought sitting him next to me would help him do better but Marc can’t understand the directions, or doesn’t want to, and I hear his stomach growling all morning and he falls asleep at our desk after lunch. He never remembers his homework or to raise his hand before he shouts out the wrong answer, like he always does, and every day my papers come back with smiley faces, plusses, and stars and he gets his name on the blackboard for a million things, like picking his nose and rubbing the boogies under our desk. He has to stay after and pound erasers and his papers come back with checkmarks and SEE ME in big red letters, and every day I’m the only one embarrassed because he’s the only boy I like. I try not to like him but it doesn’t work, just like it doesn’t work when I try too late to catch my last ball before it rolls down between the flippers.