Six
Trudy
Trudy couldn’t get Miss Duffy’s question out of her head: what happened to her?
Of course, there was Jimmie and getting pregnant with Pete.
Then Jimmie shattered his knee in Tuscaloosa and had to quit Bear Bryant’s team.
His depression turned to rage and, eventually, an unimaginable tragedy.
She knew all that had happened. But Miss Duffy, it seemed, pointed to something else, something in Trudy’s spirit, and not just her school spirit.
She looked down at herself. Another skirt below the knee, muted beige and brown plaid.
Another cardigan. In August . Another blouse she might as well have borrowed from Leta Pearl.
Sensible flats. She was an old widow in a twenty-four-year-old body.
She set her purse on her desk and drew in a breath of chemistry classroom air—butane, formaldehyde, and chlorine.
Outside in the parking lot, June Bug Moody stepped out of his notorious jet-black Chevy Silverado with chrome racing stripes, jacked up so high, it towered, obnoxiously, above the other cars.
Next to him stood two teammates, Zach Dillard and Gregory Stetson, leaning on the hood of a red Pontiac Firebird.
A few spots over, Carter Sissoms locked the door of a beat-up Oldsmobile Cutlass, balancing a stack of textbooks with his other hand.
When he passed the other boys, Gregory kicked one of Carter’s feet, causing him to stumble and flop onto the hood of the Firebird.
Carter’s books flung to the ground; his papers scattered.
Without looking up, he began gathering them while the three boys looked on and laughed.
June Bug said something, but Carter ignored him.
Then Zach punched June Bug in the arm and laughed at whatever June Bug had said.
Trudy’s heart struck a guilty beat remembering how she’d embarrassed Carter yesterday, and her chest grew hollow with disappointment upon discovering June Bug was a bully.
A minute later, Carter appeared in her doorway, though most kids hung out in the parking lot with friends before class.
“Hey,” he said. His sneakers squeaked across the tile.
He took his seat, barely looking up. His pale skin made it obvious when he blushed.
His eyes seemed strained and bloodshot. He kept his Walkman fastened to his belt, and his striped Le Tigre polo neatly tucked into his khaki corduroy shorts, which exposed most of his long, suntanned legs.
Carter’s brown hair was parted on the side unlike most boys who parted theirs down the middle these days, all feathered out and wingy.
It seemed he was trying his best to grow a mustache.
“Everything all right, Carter?” Trudy tried for a cheerful voice.
Carter mumbled, “Mm-hmm.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine,” he snipped.
“Well, if you need anything, you can—”
“I said I’m fine.” He glared at her then pressed PLAY on his Walkman and covered his ears with the spongy orange headphones.
If she told the truth, Trudy herself had tried so hard not to notice the extra swish in Carter’s gait, tried not to let her own uncomfortable assessment of his mannerisms cloud her empathy. He’s just graceful, she told herself, and sensitive. And probably creative.
Carter’s antics were like Jesse Watkins’ back when Trudy was in school; that’s who all the boys made fun of back then, who they called a fag .
Trudy had never said anything; she’d never told the boys to leave Jesse alone.
Last she heard, he’d run off to California and never talked to his family anymore.
Leta Pearl had heard he’d gotten on drugs.
As more students came into class, June Bug appeared outside the door with Greg and Zach.
He held his copy of Principles of Chemistry loosely, next to his hip.
The three of them performed some complicated handshake, culminating with offering their hands to one another as if to shake again, then pulling away and shouting in unison, “Psych!” Greg put June Bug in a headlock and said, “Y’all have fun in Chemistry. Nerds!”
“Blow me,” June Bug said, rolling up the sleeve of his denim shirt.
“I don’t blow fags,” Gregory replied, and Zach rewarded him with an “Ooooohhh.” Greg scurried off down the hall and Zach and June Bug strutted to their seats.
June Bug’s squared chin sat underneath a permanent smirk below his formidably impressive baby blues and that masculine Roman nose.
His smirk faded, though, catching Trudy’s disapproving eyebrow.
Carter kept his head down until June Bug’s hip bumped the corner of Carter’s desk sending his cardboard pencil box careening to the floor.
Carter jerked upright and removed his headphones.
“Oh,” June Bug said. “My bad, dude!” He looked at Trudy and shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, sor-ry , pretending to gnash his teeth.
“Is there a problem today, June Bug?” Trudy asked.
The classroom was almost full now.
“Was an accident,” June Bug said. “I swear ... Sissoms , right?” He pointed to Carter as if remembering the answer to a trivia question.
Carter’s expression looked like June Bug had punched him. He knelt down to collect all his colored pencils and pens, shoved June Bug’s helping hand away, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and huffed out of the room.
June Bug shrugged again and showed his palms. “I said sorry . Like twice.”
Surely, as a Moody, June Bug knew better than this.
Did Trudy have enough clout yet in the Moody family to say something?
She’d definitely talk to Haskel about this.
“We will deal with this later,” Trudy said, then turned to the door.
“Carter!” she called. “Wait!” She might have enough time to get him back to class if she caught up with him.
“Carter!” she called again, down the hall. She needed to make up for embarrassing him yesterday, but she also wanted to make sure that, unlike Jesse Watkins, he knew he at least had a friend in his teacher.
Carter dodged backpacks, purses, shoulders, and elbows. Trudy did the same. The boy turned a corner, headed down the staircase and through the double doors into the gymnasium. Trudy headed down after him like a salmon against the current, everyone else heading up the stairs.
“Excuse me. Hi there! Good morning!” she said.
She arrived at the gym door and stopped, took a breath before opening it a smidge.
The gymnasium was gray and empty, lit dimly by the skylights in the expansive dome ceiling.
It was a 1960s addition to the school, a mid-century modern style much different from the rest of the antebellum-plantation-turned-school.
From the street, Bailey Springs High appeared as if a large UFO had landed in Scarlett O’Hara’s backyard.
Carter sat on the third row of bleachers, his belongings beside him. His elbows rested on his knees.
The warning bell rang. 7:55 a.m. She had five minutes.
The door clanked and banged behind her, all the cumbersome metal and wood grinding together the way heavy institutional doors do; its complaint echoed through the open space.
Carter looked at her, then sat up, rolled his eyes.
The dome’s acoustics magnified her footsteps.
Two sunbeams sliced the air, breaching through two spots where the frosted glass of the skylights had worn away.
Billions of tiny dust particles waltzed in and out of the pillars of light.
Carter kept his furrowed brow pointed at his feet.
“Carter.” Even though Trudy spoke as softly as she could, it sounded like she was using a microphone, her voice bouncing off the wooden basketball court, the pinewood bleachers, and the expansive wooden dome. She folded her arms. “Is that a family name?”
The boy looked at her for a half a second then scowled back down.
“Or are your parents just really faithful Democrats?”
Carter rolled his eyes at the terrible joke.
“Look, not everyone here’s like those guys,” she said. “I saw what happened in the parking lot.”
Carter’s eyes narrowed.
“Is this the first time they’ve picked on you?”
Tears started to gather in his eyes, but he choked them back and cleared his throat.
“Is that a yes ?” she asked.
The second bell rang, and they both ignored it. Trudy hoped it would send the message that she cared enough to be late herself.
“Whatever this is, Carter, it isn’t worth your education,” she said, finally. “Why don’t we head back to class?”
“Now that you’ve come to save me? Perfect!
I can walk back into class with my teacher like a kindergartener.
” Carter stood in a huff. “You wouldn’t understand, anyway.
” He grabbed his things and walked toward the door on the opposite side of the basketball court, leading toward the football stadium.
“So, what should I tell Mr. Hendon?” she called.
“Tell him his school blows!” Carter said. And with that, he was gone, the heavy double doors ka-thunking shut behind him.
Four minutes after eight. “Shoot!” Trudy sprinted back to class but slowed to a walk when she passed each classroom, not wanting students or teachers to see her running in the halls.
She braced herself for chaos like Coach Meechum’s class yesterday.
Or worse. Her mind went straight to the Chemistry supplies: the Bunsen burners, the hydrochloric acid, and that chunk of pure sodium stored in oil.
Was that even legal? One wrong move and the whole school could go up in a blazing inferno.
Miss Hyde’s Chinks in the Armor speech echoed in her ears. Trudy summoned her anger. She’d deliver a sermon—discipline, respect, structure. She would not be played for a fool by these kids. Not after all that brainless smiling yesterday.
And June Bug Moody—that smirk of his—she wasn’t letting him off the hook.
Not this time. Just because he could throw a football and was about to become her nephew didn’t give him a pass to act like a tyrant.
She’d call on him and Zach Dillard for every question, drag their laziness into the light.
If they hadn’t done the reading, she’d make sure everyone knew it.
Maybe even give a pop quiz and count it double.
But just before she opened the door, Trudy paused. Straightened her skirt. Smoothed her bangs to the side.
Silence. Not a single sound from her classroom. Maybe they did respect her after all. Maybe the fire-breathing wasn’t necessary.
She glanced at Coach Meechum’s door across the hall. It was open, and he stood in front of the chalkboard—hopefully teaching something and not rallying the troops. He raised his brows. She gave him a hasty wave, irritated that he’d probably seen her fixing herself.
Everything was quiet. Good. She’d act like nothing happened. That was the plan. She reminded herself that she was the adult here—a busy, important adult. And a teacher . Sometimes teachers must do things before class and they’re late. No chinks in the armor today, Satan.
She pressed her lips into a line, wrinkled up her forehead the way her college chemistry professor, Dr. Andrews, used to do. She straightened her spine, cleared her throat, and opened the door.
“Good morning, everyone,” Trudy said. Cool as a Frigidaire on a snow day. Eyes forward. No smiling. No explanations. She glided to her desk like nothing at all was unusual, opened her lesson plan, and dared anyone to call her bluff.
“Glad you could join us, Miss Abernathy!” Principal Hendon announced from the back of the room, arms folded, leaned up against the experiment preparation counter. He looked at his watch.
“Mr. Hendon!” Trudy swallowed. “Welcome! We are so delighted? To have you?” Trudy might as well have come to school wearing only panties.
Even worse, she was grinning like a mule eating briars.
Smiles crept across the students’ faces.
One student nudged another, holding laughter in as best they could, snotty little giggles escaping smart-alecky noses.
Meechum flung open the door and stuck his head in. “Miss Abernathy!” Why was he breathing so heavily? “Thank you! Oh, hey there, Mack!” Coach Meechum waved at the principal and kept weirdly panting. He wiped his forehead.
“Morning, Coach,” Hendon replied.
“Thank you?” Trudy said but then realized what Meechum was up to. “Oh! Yeah! No problem. I was happy to ... ?”
“Watch my class while I fixed the lock on the field house door. Big help.”
“The field house! Yes!” Trudy spun back around to face Principal Hendon.
“That silly field house lock on the silly old door ... to the silly field house ... with the lock, which was broken, Mr. Hendon. Why, it was so broken nobody could fix it except Coach Meechum. And so, we had to ... well, Coach Meechum had to ... um, fix it. At the field house ...” Trudy coughed. “Door.”
Trudy was pretty sure she had a distant relative who had been committed to the state for less than this, but no matter how hard she tried to stop, her babbling kept flowing out of her mouth like soft serve at the Dairy Queen.
She made the foolish mistake of looking at her students for support, but they’d abandoned her, laughing and shaking their heads in merciless scorn.
Principal Hendon grinned, but in a way that said he was not amused in the least. “I’ll have to write up a note about this, Miss Abernathy.”
“A note, sir?” Two days in and she was already getting a written note.
“About the lock ...” Mr. Hendon clarified. “On the silly old field house door.”
“Right,” she said. “We don’t want it to . . . break. Again. Sir.”
“Alrighty, everyone,” Mr. Hendon said. “Back to work.” He strode past her without eye contact, which might have been the worst reprimand of all. She followed him like a scolded puppy but couldn’t wait to shut the door the instant he was gone. Mr. Hendon clapped Coach Meechum on the back. “Coach.”
Trudy and Meechum now stood in the doorway, face to face. She reached past him for the knob. His chest smelled like Old Spice and his breath smelled like a candy cane. He raised one corner of his mouth, looked her in the eyes and said, “You’re welcome, rookie.”