A Christmas card from Dad’s boss arrived with a picture of his family, reminding me of a portrait hanging in the school library of the president and his family. All of them gleaming, with the dad and three sons with matching blue-velvet bow ties. The mother wearing a black dress with a Christmas tree broach, like from the Sears Catalogue.
The boys had straight teeth with no gaps. If my teeth were like theirs, I’d smile for pictures too. Their haircuts reminded me of David Cassidy’s, so different than the uneven buzzcuts Dad gave us after a couple shots of Jim Beam. At the bottom of the card, it was stamped Wentworth Country Club, a place where I washed dishes last summer during a wedding of the most popular girl in town. They allowed me to bring home a piece of her wedding cake, red velvet, her new husband’s favorite. Said I couldn’t eat it there, said it wouldn’t look right. I unwrapped it at home and gave half of it to my mom. It tasted like the cake served in the school cafeteria.
After Christmas, I took the card and placed it in my storage box along with my life savings of sixteen dollars and twelve cents, my diary, a picture of James Dean, two baby teeth, and Bobby Canfield’s number. I held Bobby’s number and thought about his curly blonde hair, his hunky frame, his laugh, so different than my frizzy hair, acne-infested skin, and high-pitched giggle. If I had a haircut and pearly teeth like the boss’s boys, I’d call Bobby to ask him to hang out Saturday, to see that new movie, True Grit with John Wayne, to have a burger afterwards. He didn’t really give me his number, I cut it out of last year’s phone book, and I’ve never spoken to him. He sits three rows over from me in World History and only talks with cheerleaders.
Bobby was a running back for the Baldwin Tigers and lived on the good side of town near Dad’s boss. During Friday night’s game, I climbed a tree in Bobby’s yard and could see his bedroom. A light was on, and his room was filled with moving boxes. I waited until he got home from the game and watched as he was getting ready for bed. I liked his pajamas, dark blue. I slept in my underwear. Always extra money around my house for another dog or shotgun, but nothing as useless as pajamas.
His dad came in the room and argued with him. I couldn’t hear but he pushed Bobby against the wall and then punched him in the gut. I couldn’t watch anymore and climbed down and ran home. My brother told me the Tigers lost, and Bobby had fumbled, and the other team scored, and the Tigers wouldn’t be going to the state finals and Alabama wouldn’t offer him a football scholarship.
A few weeks later, the Canfield’s car lot was shut down for setting back the odometer on over three hundred vehicles. The state police arrested Bobby’s dad, and Bobby wouldn’t be able to afford college. He was moving with his mom to her parents’ home three hours away.
I opened my storage box and took out Bobby’s number and threw it away, along with the picture of the boss’s family. Monday I’d finish my application for our local junior college. Last month, the counselor said I’d qualify for financial aid.
