Chapter 11 #2
When I mentioned Montreat, she began to frown.
“Yore rich, ain’t ya?” she accused, turning away from me. “My paw tol’ me that only rich folks live in Montreat.”
I was startled and tongue-tied.
“Here.” She shoved my drawings across the seat, the ultimate rejection.
I wanted to tell Rosy that my family wasn’t rich. We could be friends even if I did live in Montreat. I left the drawings in a messy stack between us.
“You can keep them if you want,” I offered.
“I don’t want nothing of you’rn!”
She wouldn’t look at me, scooting to the edge of the seat as we slowed to a stop. The door unfolded, flapping against the bus, and Rosy got up without goodbye or a glance, thundering down the metal steps. I watched her veer off the pavement, taking a dirt road that meandered up the mountain.
She ran kicking up dust, her face flashing white when she turned around to look as we drove off. In the distance a wooden shack peeked through spindly pines and hardwood trees.
When Mr. Neilan reached my bus stop, three kids were left besides my brother and me.
We glanced at each other silently as everyone headed home, the loud noise of the bus fading in the distance.
I noticed the morning glories had shriveled like closed umbrellas, remembering Miss Craig telling me that the flowers didn’t like the heat.
I wanted to skip and pick honeysuckle. I couldn’t wait to trade my dress for shorts and tennis shoes. Mom greeted us with hugs at the front door, announcing that milk and cookies awaited on the kitchen counter. John was home from kindergarten, and she gave each of us a nickel for being good.
We bought popsicles at Mr. Hinkle’s store and ate them while walking to the playground.
My brothers and I raced each other down the shiny metal sliding boards, arguing about whose feet touched the ground first. I decided I might like school if I didn’t have to sit by myself on the bus in the mornings and have Rosy hating me for being rich in the afternoons.
Jim and I didn’t know the other kids at our bus stop.
I vaguely recall they were from a family on furlough for a year.
Like the summer people, the missionaries were here and then gone, returning to far-flung places like Bolivia, Ghana, Haiti, Korea, Japan.
There was little point in being friends, and they felt the same way.
Jim carried a metal slingshot in his back pocket, the thick rubber band bouncing when he walked.
While waiting for the bus, we’d take turns nailing the stop sign with rocks.
In those days it was fine to carry a pocketknife to school, and when time allowed, he might carve a stick into a gee-haw whimmy diddle.
He’d play Mumbly Peg, throwing the knife as close to his feet as possible, and it’s a wonder he didn’t stab himself.
Climbing the apple tree near the bus stop, he sometimes ripped his pants.
Later, when it was cold enough to see our breath, we’d pluck tightly furled rhododendron leaves, puffing on them like cigarettes while the missionary kids looked on with disapproval.
All the while I’d listen apprehensively for the thunder and gear shifting of old Number 91. I could hear it long before it got to us, and my adrenaline would pump. After the bus passed us and turned around at Lake Susan, I’d hear it coming from the other direction and pick up my books.
“Hi, Mr. Neilan,” I’d greet him while drumming up the diamond steel steps.
“Well, hello, Gabby.” He wasn’t going to stop calling me that.
Always chewing tobacco, he’d spit out his side window, sometimes forgetting to open it first. SPLAT, and all of us would laugh as he smeared the glass clean with a rag. He’d whip his head around, yelling at everyone to shut up. He’d threaten to flap open the doors and jettison those who misbehaved.
If you didn’t make it to the bus stop on time, Mr. Neilan wasn’t going to wait, and I was phobic about missing my ride.
The thought of it would send me into a panic.
It had happened a few times. Mom had to drive us, and we’d show up after the bell had rung, in trouble for being tardy.
I became neurotic about punctuality, always early.
If I don’t have plenty of time to get where I’m going, I drive everyone around me mad with reminders to hurry up, we’re going to be late.
I made it a practice getting to the bus stop with plenty of time to spare, leaving as the sun rose over the mountains.
Often, I’d leave my books on top of the wall and cross Assembly Drive to the store.
I’d warm myself in front of the potbelly stove while Mr. Hinkle asked about school and how I was doing.
I would chatter with him nonstop, and he always seemed interested.
He’d give me treats like bubble gum or a pack of Life Savers.
One morning he sneaked me a small bag filled with silver-wrapped Peppermint Patties that I hid like my Halloween candy.
Later on, Mr. Hinkle befriended two gray squirrels he named Charlie and George, treating them like pets.
They’d scamper inside the store for food, darting inside the door when a customer opened it.
He showed me how to feed them peanuts in the shell, and they’d claw up my jeans, perching on my shoulder.
The Black Mountain News did a story about them, and they became local celebrities.
It was terrible when I heard somebody shot them.
I don’t know for a fact that happened. But it’s what I was told, and suddenly I didn’t see Charlie and George anymore.
I wasn’t surprised. At an early age, I had no misconceptions about human nature.
I knew people could be cruel to all living things, including each other.