MELANIE
Mad Math Marchman’s voice stops. In fact, the whole classroom gets quiet. Too quiet.
I understand why people believe in fortune-tellers, because I know what’s going to happen next. Behind my closed eyelids, I see Mrs. Marchman standing beside my desk with her arms folded across her chest and her long wooden pointer dangling from her hand.
I open my eyes and there she is for real, just like I’d seen her in my head.
“Melanie, should I have marked you absent from this class?”
I rub my cheek, hoping there are no ink stains on it, or worse, strings of drool. “No, ma’am.” I swallow hard and try to ignore my rolling stomach.
Mrs. Marchman lays her pointer across my desk and rests her palms on top of my blank notebook. “Can you explain to us how to solve for x?”
I scan the chalkboard, searching for a clue, but see only a new equation. Every face in the class is turned my way. Some express pity, others gloat. My stomach pitches again and I clutch the front of my dress to try to stop the inevitable.
The future looms dark before me once again, and I foresee my half-digested school cafeteria cheeseburger all over Mrs. Marchman’s brown orthopedic shoes.
She must have caught a glimpse of the future too, because she backs away from me, and heads to the blackboard. Thank goodness both of us are wrong. My cheeseburger stays put.
“For the benefit of Miss Adams, we will solve for x once more, class.”
The emergency alarm clangs. My heart stops. Mrs. Marchman freezes, her pointer rigid against the blackboard. The loud speaker crackles while we sit motionless.
I glance to where the blankets, bottles of water and cans of food brought in by Marchman’s homeroom await disaster in neat stacks. Instinctively, we shuffle our feet and shift in our chairs, ready to duck under our desks. The alarm had sounded twice last week, and we were instructed to scoot under our desks and cover our necks with our hands.
This would prevent serious spinal injuries in the event of a bombing.
That bit of information became great material for the class clowns. Grotesque jokes seemed to be the preferred method for dealing with fear after these drills.
I had to admit that even I saw the comedy when I glanced down the aisle and saw butts of various sizes and shapes protruding from beneath the ancient metal desktops. These were supposed to protect us. These desks barely remain upright through a standard dismissal bell. No one believed they would withstand Russian missiles.
I try to swallow past the knot in my throat.
Finally, the principal’s voice booms over the loud speaker. “Remain calm. This is a drill only. Teachers, proceed with the planned evacuation drill at this time.”
Mrs. Marchman claps her hands. “Quiet. Quiet. Don’t move until I motion for your row to stand.”
I have to admit that I feel better in Mad Marchman’s care than if I had been stuck with Mrs. Carlton, my English teacher. She’d probably make us recite one of the poems she loves so much to give us inspiration.
Marchman stands at attention behind her desk, her grizzled gray head upright and her arms rigid at her sides. She slaps the pointer against her desk, signaling each row, one at a time, to file out.
Lines of students exit every doorway of the school building then snake down the driveways. Cars wait, manned by cafeteria staff and janitors and coaches. They drive past us slowly, like a funeral procession, while we are counted off by fives and then turned back toward the school building.
Mrs. Marchman prods each student with her pointer, repeating over and over again, “In case of actual evacuation, you will enter this car and be taken to a safe shelter.” Her voice never wavers. Neither does her pointer.
All I know is I’m not going to any
safe shelter.
While waiting in line, I plan routes from school to home. I ride the bus because of the busy highway, not the distance. I can easily cut through the neighborhood by the school and enter my own neighborhood through the field bordering the elementary school. It will only take about ten minutes at a nice run. Then I can pick up Birdie from first grade and we can be home with Mama in only fifteen minutes.
I need to run the route to make sure there are no fences or bad dogs. And to get into shape. Maybe that’s why President Kennedy started the physical fitness program last year. He wants us all to be in condition for evacuations.
It doesn’t seem possible that it can be so quiet with the entire student body outside. The only sounds are the murmur of teachers’ instructions, the soft hum of the car engines, and the happy song of the birds.
How strange it is to be planning for disaster on such a bright October afternoon. The sun dazzles gold in a brilliant blue sky. Wisps of clouds glow silver. A slight breeze catches a few dry leaves and sends them dancing across the lawn in front of the school.
Everything seems so normal.
Except I’m in a line pretending to get into a car, practicing to escape from a bomb.
Sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip. My head pounds fiercely and my stomach heaves again as I walk up to the door of a faded beige station wagon driven by the baseball coach.
Never, never, will I get into one of these cars. I’ll make a run for it and get home.
The wooden pointer directs me to turn back toward the building. “Chin up, Adams.”
The bell rings as soon as we get inside. I go straight to the restroom and splash cold water on my face. I enter the nearest stall and slam the door. My insides are still clenching, but I no longer feel like I’m about to throw up.
There it is: the red stain in the center of my white cotton panties.
I can’t believe this is how
The Curse
has made its first appearance.
It seems much worse than Mama said it would be. I can’t believe there’s so much blood. She didn’t tell me there would be so much. Tears burn my eyes. All I want is to be home with Mama.
I go to the machine on the wall and with trembling fingers, slip my emergency dime in the slot. I crank the handle and it freezes. I hear a thump and stick my hand up the big slot at the bottom of the machine.
Nothing.
I bang the front of the machine, then listen, hoping to hear the thump sliding down and out of the machine.
Silence.
Back in the stall, I’m shocked to see how much more blood there is than just a minute before. How am I ever going to make it home without a disaster? Tears pool in my eyes as I try to blot some of the red from my panties.
Crying won’t help now. Think, think.
Grabbing toilet paper until my hand is full, I roll it into a bundle and stuff it in my pants. This will have to work.
Thank God, school is over for today. Just let me get home without embarrassing myself. After washing my hands and face, I start down the hall toward the bus area.
“Where have you been?” Steph runs up and grabs my arm. “We’re gonna miss the bus.” She tugs me along beside her.
I walk carefully, trying not to disturb my emergency arrangement. She practically drags me onto the bus. In our usual seat, Steph eyes me. She leans over and whispers, “What’s wrong, Mel?”
I sure don’t want to talk about this on the bus. Already, I feel like a marked girl, like everyone can see what happened to me today. If Steph and I start whispering, it will be obvious to the whole bus that
The Curse
has now visited Melanie Adams.
Shrugging, I try for a relaxed, normal voice. “Old Marchman just gave me a hard time in class, that’s all. Not a big deal.”
Steph leans back against the seat. I feel her gaze on me while I look out the bus window.
“The drill shook you up, didn’t it? You don’t need to worry. I told you, my dad says the Russians will never do anything.”
I stare at Steph for a second. She worries more about getting kissed than being bombed. My metal identification tag shifts beneath my dress, moving body heat from one spot to another.
How can she not be afraid? Her dad’s jets are part of an aircraft carrier crew. He’ll be one of the first to ship out if the Russians dare to come across the ocean. I shake my head in amazement.
Even Robert had been a little scared.
Not Steph, though. “Dad says they’re big talkers, but they don’t have any bite. Don’t worry.” She picks at a hangnail. “So, what do you think about my plan?”
I shrug again.
“C’mon, Mel. The dance is tomorrow. What’s wrong with you?”
Suddenly, I am fed up with her always telling me what to do, what to think, how to behave. Like she always knows everything that’s going on. What gives her the right to treat me like I’m her little sister?
“If you’re so damn smart, then you can figure it out.”
Steph’s mouth flies open for an instant, then she scowls and folds her arms over her chest. I turn toward the window. We reach our bus stop without saying another word.
Rounding the corner of our street, I see Mr. Starr’s car speed into his driveway.
Shocked, Steph leaves me on the street and runs toward her house. Her mom bolts out the front door crying and waving a piece of paper at her husband. He snatches it out of her hand. I catch up with Steph, and we stand in the front yard, watching.
“What’s happened?” Steph voice is barely a whisper.
Mr. Starr wads up the paper and throws it to the ground. He faces his wife, a dull red flush rushing up from his collar. He thrusts his finger under his wife’s nose. “This is your fault, Delores. You let her go out with that hoodlum.”
Mrs. Starr swipes at her eyes, and then she shoves Mr. Starr with both hands. “My fault? My fault!” She shouts back, her voice shrill as a siren. “I’m the one who made the rules you never enforced, Harold.” She shoves him again. “I’m the one who sent her back to her room to change into decent clothes all the time.”
“Are you saying I’m not a good father? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, my God!” Stephanie whispers. She grabs my hand. “Something’s happened to Cherie. She acted kind of strange this morning.”
Tears stream down Mrs. Starr’s face. “You’re the one who was always pushing her, telling her she was beautiful. Telling her how she would have the young men drooling over her.”
Mr. Starr balls his fists at his side and looks around, noticing Steph and me. He glances across the street. Following his gaze, I see the neighbors peeking through slits in the blinds. Stalking to the car, he climbs in and slams the door. The tires screech as he leaves in a cloud of exhaust.
Mrs. Starr covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders shake with sobs.
“Mom?” Stephanie drops her books and races to put her arms around her mother. “Mom? What’s happened?”
Mrs. Starr buries her face in Steph’s shoulder. Finally, she chokes out, “Your sister ran off with that boy. They’ve gone to Georgia to get married.”
Steph faces me, her expression blank. “I wonder if Dad knows where to look for them? I hope he doesn’t kill Clint.” Then she picks up her books. She walks to the front door, then turns. She stares at me for a long minute.
Gnawing cramps crawl inside me. I clutch at my stomach.
She shakes her head just a little, like you do when you just figure something out. “You got your period today, didn’t you?”
I nod.
“You could’ve told me, you know.”
I guess Steph does know more than I do.
BIRDIE
I’m dancing from one foot to the other, bouncing Mama’s overnight case with each step. I ran like the wind when she told me to get her suitcase while she called Daddy. She said the baby’s coming today! I can’t believe it.
Mama’s got the phone pressed to her ear and is leaning on the kitchen sink like it’s hard for her to stand up. “Clayton, the pains started. I called the doctor.” She takes a deep breath. “He said to get to the hospital. He’s afraid the baby’s going to come quickly, like Birdie did.”
I came fast? I guess I’ve always done things fast. Maybe I’ll be the fastest baby Mama ever had! That’s why I’ll be great in the circus. They’ll call me Fast Flying Birdie. Gee, that sounds good.
“Hurry, Clay.” Mama stops talking. She rubs her belly with her hand and smiles at me. “Okay, I’ll tell the girls.”
“Tell us what, Mama? Is the baby coming now?”
Mama puts the phone on its hook on the wall. “I sure hope not. Not right now, but soon.”
Mellie opens the front door. I drop Mama’s suitcase and run to grab Mellie’s hand. “The baby’s coming! The baby’s coming!”
Melanie looks real surprised. Her face is white like she might be scared. She drops her pocketbook and notebook on the couch as she rushes into the kitchen. “Really, Mama? Right now?”
I stare at Mama’s belly, in case the baby pops right out of her belly button. But doesn’t the doctor have to catch the baby? Now I’m scared, too. I look at Melanie. She should be in charge. She’s the oldest. But she’s just standing there staring at Mama’s belly, too.