Eleven
Trudy
“Daddy,” Trudy whispered as she sank into the driver’s seat. “Brand new?”
“It’s too much,” Trudy said, but her nostrils relished the new-car smell.
“I’ll hear none of that,” Dub said. “My buddy Willie gave me a deal, and you deserve it.”
Trudy knew her teaching job was a victory for Dub.
When Trudy had escaped from Jimmie, she didn’t think things could get any worse.
But then they did: after the accident, the whole town went into an uproar with everyone speculating about whether Trudy had anything to do with the accident—she’d been there after all and had seen it happen and some folks never came to believe her story.
Back then, she figured she’d simply work at Dub’s Diamonds, maybe even without pay, while she lived with Dub and Leta Pearl rent-free.
Finishing college never seemed like a possibility, but then Dub insisted she finish her degree, and vowed to support her and Pete so she could focus.
Now, his efforts had paid off—she was engaged to the next mayor and was teaching, something she’d wanted to do since she was a little girl.
Dub’s eyes sparkled with pride and Trudy tried not to feel spoiled. She knew better than to go around acting like a little Miss Priss, though she had to admit she felt like the queen of England driving a brand-new car. She probably had the nicest car of all the teachers, embarrassingly so.
As she pulled into the school lot, however, she felt less like a queen and more like she was driving the bumper cars at the fair. All thirty-six of the Mighty Marching Bruins blocked her spot. She waved and mouthed that’s my spot to a trombone player, who quickly scooted everyone out of the way.
Trudy spotted the cheerleaders but decided they didn’t need a sponsor for the traditional first-game pep rally in the parking lot. She hurried inside, eager to give her pop quiz, one she’d intentionally planned for the Friday of the first football game to keep her students on their toes.
At 7:53 a.m. everyone—teachers, students, even the cafeteria staff—was still outside. Back when she was in school, the parking lot pep rallies always finished with enough time to get to class. “ Honestly ,” Trudy said to the window.
“Good morning!” Miss Duffy came in and laid a memo on Trudy’s desk. “Having trouble finding your school spirit today, sweetie?”
Trudy turned away from the window. “Oh, I would be out there, but—”
“We are playing Goose Shoals ,” Miss Duffy’s smile faded to a frown of judgment. “And your blouse is purple .”
“Oh!” Trudy looked down at herself. “Right.”
“You have to change.”
“I can’t change; I don’t have—”
“ ... especially since you’re gonna be the talk of the town tonight, darling.” Miss Duffy raised her eyebrows.
The 7:55 a.m. bell rang.
“I am?” Not that Trudy would be unfamiliar with being the talk of the town.
“Oh, you should’ve seen Barbara Beaumont this morning, madder than a box of bulldogs.”
“What? Why?”
“Carrying on something awful about how cheerleaders can’t be boys, and didn’t we know that?
Kept hollering to no end at Mr. Hendon about boys wearing skirts.
And what were we thinking, tainting the sacred sisterhood of blah blah blah !
” Miss Duffy’s hand blah-blah-blahed like a sock puppet as she rolled her eyes.
“It was a mess and a half, I’m telling you.
She is something else.” Miss Duffy sidled up to Trudy, looked around and over her shoulder, and then whispered.
“Between you and me, I can’t wait to see that little Sissoms boy out there high kicking for the Bruins tonight.
” Miss Duffy beamed. “It’s so exciting. A boy cheerleader!
Who would’ve thought in a million years! ”
Miss Duffy’s bottom lip stuck out. “And darling, I wish I could approve your request for new uniforms, but the Booster Club needs a new scoreboard. Apparently, last year’s Collard Greens Supper came in short.
” Miss Duffy leaned in again. “It’s because Barbara Beaumont insisted we put short rib in the greens, her mother’s famous recipe.
I told them it’s too expensive, but nobody ever listens to me. ”
“Short rib?” Trudy wrinkled her brow.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Miss Duffy placed her hand on Trudy’s shoulder.
“You know Miss Lawrence, the science teacher down at the junior high, sells cakes. Pound cake. German chocolate cake. Red velvet cake. Chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing. Carrot cake. Spice cake. Coffee cake—”
“Miss Duffy!” Trudy held up her hand. “I get it! She bakes cakes .”
“They melt in your mouth. Plus, she never asks for even a nickel.”
The eight o’clock bell rang, but the crowd outside kept cheering, the band kept playing. Halfway out the door, Miss Duffy hollered, “Don’t forget to change that blouse!”
Trudy’s students meandered in at 8:12 excited, but not about chemistry.
Carter sat on the front row wearing the makeshift uniform he and Trudy had picked out: the same blue polyester shorts the coaches wore, and an orange polo shirt with a bear on the heart.
Bless Coach Meechum’s heart, it had been his idea in the teachers’ lounge after Trudy had shared her frustration.
He’d said the coaches had plenty, and no matter what color the girls’ uniforms were, there was a polo and shorts to match: white, blue, or orange.
Thinking of how that worked out, at least for the time being, almost made her smile.
One glance at her students, aloof and carefree, however, and her smile was nowhere in sight. Behind her back, one of them joked about her blouse. “Is this the wrong school? Am I at Goose Shoals?”
Trudy, cool as the bottom side of a pillow, turned and said, “You’re gonna wish you were after this quiz.”
This was another one of those moments Hazel Hyde had warned her about.
Either she would retain the power, or Football Fridays would.
She knew how exciting it was to be caught up in football, of course she did, but she’d also learned, very well, how dangerous it was when grades took a backseat to touchdowns.
These kids of the eighties, so spoiled and entitled with their cable television and their VCR movie machines.
Ataris zapping their brains on Frogger and Donkey Kong .
She gripped the stack of quizzes, flexed her jaw, squinted her eyes in gritty determination.
It felt good . She slapped each quiz, face down, on each student’s desk.
Methodical, calculated, using the right amount of force to show them she meant business.
The students’ groans tickled her ears like the sound of bluegrass at a picnic.
“Do not!” she said when one student tried to peek at the other side, “turn over your papers until I say ‘ begin .’” Once she’d placed a quiz on each desk, she walked slowly to the front of the room, letting the anticipation build with each step.
Incredulous students shot desperate glances. It warmed her soul. Then the door flung open.
“I’m here! I made it!” Everyone in the room looked at a breathless June Bug Moody, sweat on his brow, hands on his hips.
He wore a white shirt, khakis, and a black tie; the football team wore ties on game day.
June Bug looked at his watch. His eyes made of wicked blue innocence seemed to say, there’s nothing you can do about it .
His ubiquitous smirk turned to a full-fledged grin.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Trudy stopped him.
“No need to sit, Mr. Moody. Please make your way to Mr. Hendon’s office forthwith.”
The moment could not have been more perfect: the star quarterback himself—her own future nephew to be exact, and the current mayor’s only son—used as an example that no one is above the law in Abernathy’s class.
This would solidify her dominion and underscore her willingness to apply consequences to everyone.
“Excuse me?” June Bug stepped back. “Miss Abernathy, I just ran faster than—”
“I said, forthwith .” Trudy spun around and began writing a pink referral slip to see the principal. She signed her name and handed it to him.
“But it’s the first game, and ...” June Bug’s face was cherry red; he shook his head incredulously at the injustice. “Half the school was still in the parking lot after the bell, and you know I had to—”
“If half the school robbed a bank, Mr. Moody, would you join them?” Trudy kept her arms folded and ignored his reaction. “On your way.”
June Bug let out a sigh, turned on his heels, and left.
“I suggest the rest of you keep your noses down and your eyes on your paper,” Trudy said. “Thanks to Mr. Moody, you now have five fewer minutes.”
Trudy won the stare down with a single word. “Begin.”
Students scratched their heads, chewed their erasers.
Trudy had worried that her questions were too tough.
Is asking the difference between an exponential and a scientific notation in a one-paragraph essay too much ?
she’d asked. But as she stood in front of those ungrateful, sports-obsessed little snots, she had one thought: I might need a new red pen .