Twenty-Six
Trudy
Haskel tried to convince her that people forgot everything Barbara Beaumont wrote before lunchtime, that Trudy should just shake it off.
“Shake it off? Did you read it?”
“Barbara Beaumont sells papers by embellishing things and trying desperately to be interesting; it’s her entire business,” Haskel said. “And besides, no matter what, win or lose, we are in this for the long haul. Just me, you, and Pete.”
It was the perfect thing to say, and it should have made Trudy feel better, but it didn’t. Something kept niggling her: maybe Barbara was right. Maybe Trudy wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe this whole career-woman-first-lady combination was foolish.
Later that day, Trudy wasn’t surprised one bit when Mr. Hendon asked to see her in his office after school. When she got there, Miss Duffy said, “Go on in, honey. They’re expecting you.”
“ They ?”
Miss Duffy was unusually somber. She shrugged, then motioned toward the door with a flick of her red eyebrows.
Trudy knocked, then opened the door slowly. She knew the topic: how the cheerleaders almost missed another game, and how half the squad essentially did miss it by puking all night. Knowing Dee Dee, she’d most certainly concocted a dramatic retelling, the likes of which would be fantastic.
The air inside Hendon’s office sagged with cigar smoke and significance.
Jerry Don Beaumont—who Trudy always thought looked like Boss Hogg, his body a sphere and his face with too many chins to count—stood next to Mr. Hendon who sat, pathetically, at his desk.
Barbara Beaumont and Dee Dee each sat across from the principal in the two leather chairs, one of which was the same one Trudy had sat in when she’d had to relinquish her Bruins cheer sweater six years ago.
Dee Dee’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, her face damp with tears.
She’s pregnant.
Trudy immediately felt cruel for thinking that, shook the thought loose, and closed the door behind her. Dee Dee began to sob.
Oh God, she is pregnant.
Barbara stood. She would’ve still been taller than Jerry Don, even if she didn’t have that sixties hairdo. And that enormous beehive—a glorious midcentury architectural feat of so many copolymers—stood in ironclad judgment.
“Miss Abernathy.” Mr. Hendon stilted a smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Of course,” Trudy said, her pitch rising involuntarily. “There a problem?”
“Why don’t you tell us ?” Barbara said. “Convince us you are not here to destroy our children’s lives.”
Dee Dee held a tissue to her nose, sniffling in between sobs.
“I’m not sure I”—Trudy shook her head—“understand.”
“Well, let me spell it out for you,” Barbara said.
“Sending our quarterback to the principal’s office on the first game of the season.
A season, by the way, in which Bear Bryant is scouting him.
Implementing new cheerleading policies on a whim, then forcing them to miss games.
Nearly allowing a riot to break out and then siding with gay-rights protesters.
And now recklessly driving a school bus, nearly getting every single Bruins cheerleader killed, then threatening to do so on purpose after failing the first time. ”
“That’s it?” Relieved, Trudy let out the breath she’d been holding. “I thought you were pregnant.” She looked at Dee Dee.
“Have you lost your mind?” Barbara hollered. “Mr. Hendon, this is exactly the nonsense our children are being exposed to on a daily basis from this woman.”
“What was I supposed to think?” Trudy said. “I walk in here to a teenage girl crying her eyes out with her parents? It’s a valid assumption.”
“Valid for you maybe,” Barbara said. “For someone with your past.”
“Now Barbara,” Mr. Hendon said. “I am sure Miss Abernathy—”
“Oh really, Barbara?” Trudy said, heat rising in her throat. “Shall we discuss the moral caliber of your daughter? Because I’m assuming by riot , you mean when Dee Dee dumped a whole tray of spaghetti on Carter Sissoms.”
“I did no such thing!” Dee Dee sat upright. “I was tripped .”
“Deborah Delaney!” Barbara said. “I will handle this.”
Dee Dee slung her arms across her chest, clenched her lips, and fired a death stare in Trudy’s direction.
“Deborah Delaney did no such thing!” Barbara repeated. “She was tripped by that little girly-acting boy, obviously part of the gay-rights protest he was trying to start.”
“There was no protest!” Trudy threw her hands up in the air and let them crash down to her side. “Mr. Hendon? We talked about this.”
“Okay, fine.” A clearly frustrated Mr. Hendon placed his cigar in the ashtray and folded his hands atop his desk. “Why don’t we go over it again, since we are all here together? Miss Abernathy, tell us, what did you see that day in the lunchroom?”
Trudy opened her mouth to speak but then realized something: she hadn’t actually seen anything; her back had been turned when it happened.
The truth from Trudy’s perspective? She’d heard a tray drop, then a scream; she’d turned around and saw Carter with spaghetti all over him.
Dee Dee shouting. Rejoice standing up. Vangie laughing.
“Trudy? Hon?” Hendon said. “Tell us what you saw.”
Trudy swallowed. “Why isn’t Miss Spencer here? Or Carter? Or Rejoice Johnson, or any of the other witnesses?”
Mrs. Beaumont folded her hands in front of her and leaned victoriously against the edge of Mr. Hendon’s desk. “There’d have to be something to witness in order for there to be witnesses, darling.”
“I thought you said there was a riot , Barbara,” Trudy said.
“Okay-okay-okay.” Mr. Hendon waved his hands as if gnats were swarming. He smiled apologetically at Trudy. After a heavy sigh, he said, “I spoke to Miss Spencer earlier, and while she confirmed that she heard what happened, she didn’t actually see the incident.”
A pissy little grin sneaked onto Dee Dee’s face.
Trudy rolled her eyes. Deep down, a small part of Trudy envied Gina Spencer’s honesty, but a bigger part of her felt betrayed. And that betrayal churned in Trudy’s stomach like undercooked catfish.
“My dear,” Barbara said. “I’m having trouble overlooking your most recent overstep, the way you seem to have appointed yourself the school guidance counselor, doling out advice about life-altering decisions to seventeen-year-olds this week.”
Trudy felt every wrinkle in her face dig deeper. “What are you talking about?”
“June Bug dumped me!” Dee Dee wailed, a flood of teenage rage releasing itself.
So that’s why she’d been crying the whole time? Dee Dee phuff-phuff-phuff ed in breaths between her bottom lip and her teeth. Barbara touched the girl’s shoulder until her sobs died down.
“Do you see the pain you’ve caused?” Barbara’s eyes were dark little slits.
“Um, I’m not sure ...” Trudy’s body felt like it was wrapped too tightly in a sleeping bag. “Dee Dee, honey, I’m sorry for the breakup ... but I didn’t have anything to do with—”
“That’s funny,” Barbara said. “Because June Bug Moody said very much otherwise. Said he was taking the advice you gave him. Something about defying the expectations of others and following his dreams.”
Trudy culled her brain. Was this some sort of weird setup?
Some conspiracy? And then she remembered.
Right before June Bug went on stage at the Peanuts event, all that stuff about following your heart instead of the dreams others had planned for you.
Oh God, Trudy thought. He was seeking advice on breaking up with Dee Dee.
How was she supposed to have known that?
“I . . . had no idea. June Bug asked me a very general question, and I answered . . . but he didn’t say anything about—”
“You’re a jealous bitch!” Dee Dee cried out. “You were a slut when you were in my shoes, and you and Jimmie couldn’t control yourselves, so you ruined Jimmie’s life and now you’re trying to ruin mine and June Bug’s! That’s sick!”
Trudy looked to Barbara, expecting her to correct her daughter, but she said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on Trudy while Dee Dee’s indictments hung in the air.
Finally, Jerry Don pulled some coins out of his pocket. “Sugar Tart,” he said. “Why don’t you go on down to the Coke machine and get yourself a drink? Settle yourself a bit. Me and your mama will finish up, okay?”
Dee Dee swiped the change from her daddy, flipped her hair, an obnoxious mohawk of a perm pulled back in a banana clip, and flitted out of the room with her breasts in the air. Sugar Tart had played her part, it seemed, earned her Coke from the machine.
“Please, Miss Abernathy,” Mr. Hendon said. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the now empty chair.
“I’ll stand.”
Mr. Hendon sat back down behind his desk, his insufferable lack of testicular fortitude giving way for Barbara to lead the charge again.
“Folks are saying,” Barbara continued, “that you’re taking advantage of your position as Haskel Moody’s mistress to abuse children. This town is small and what people think of you matters, Trudy. Given your history, though, I don’t suppose I have to lecture you about reputations, do I?”
Heat blazed in Trudy’s chest when Barbara Beaumont uttered the word abuse .
A scream, like a demon caged inside her belly demanded to escape, but she held it, so that it swirled around, torching her innards.
She begged the needles behind her eyes to stop stabbing her.
She begged the tears that would follow to wait.
Her dry throat and tunnel vision felt like she’d woken up disoriented in a desert.
Her hands were two hot firecracker fists about to explode.
Abuse? Was this woman serious? Unfortunately, the answer was yes, Barbara Beaumont was completely serious.