Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,37
GO! FIGHT! WIN! And to every NORTH STAR we answer STALLIONS! NORTH STAR! STALLIONS!!! NORTH STAR! STALLIONS! Louder and louder. It’s a thundering pack and the entire town is being swept away. The drums pound, the brass blares. It’s all small-town glory with American flags waving as the marching band makes its way down the tiny parade route.
Then all we can see is a sea of black and gold. The football team looks more like a barreling horde of colts and puppies that have no idea how big they’ve gotten. And in the middle of it all is Cal. He’s grinning from ear to ear and strutting down the center of town. My eyes well up; I can’t believe what I’m seeing. He’s being patted on the back and fallen over by his friends. The men and women of North Star are pulling him out of the ranks to shake his hand and give him a pat on the back. I can’t believe it. I pull Merry Carole in close as she dabs to no avail at her trailing mascara. She’s waving and calling his name. He’s searching for her in the crowd and then all he can do is point, a huge smile breaking across his face. He is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
“Wooohooooooooooo! That’s my baby!!!!!! Woooohoooooo!” Merry Carole yells, leaping up and down. I smile and laugh as the football team passes.
“Which one is West?” I ask Merry Carole, my voice low.
Merry Carole points out another boy with blond hair.
“That’s ridiculous. They look like brothers. It’s crazy that people are walking around this town acting like they’re not kin,” I say to Merry Carole so only she can hear. She nods in agreement, but then goes back to hooting and hollering for Cal and the rest of the Stallions.
The thing is? This West kid looks . . . nice. He’s walking with Cal and they seem to get along. Although it’s not as if you can see my hatred for Laurel and Whitney emanating off my body or anything, so who am I to judge what’s really happening?
“He looks like a good kid,” I say, referring to a boy who could probably pulverize me with one swat.
“He really is. I don’t know where he got it from,” Merry Carole says with a wink, her voice low and cutting. The football team finally fades down the parade route as a line of policemen signal that the parade has come to an end.
“The dance will start at six PM this evening, and fireworks start at nine PM!” the policemen repeat as they walk down the parade route.
“Queenie, honey? We’re heading over to the dance. You ready yet?” Merry Carole knocks and then opens the door. Her voice trails off when she sees me curled up in the fetal position in my tiny twin bed. Epiphanies about ballast and pacts of pain and misery cover me like a warm blanket. Merry Carole shuts the door behind her.
“I’m not going,” I say, turning over on my back and facing her. She’s in an entirely new outfit, new makeup, new hair. Merry Carole has more costume changes than Cher.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, feeling my forehead with the back of her hand. Her hand is soft and it breaks through me. She sits down on the edge of my bed.
“I just can’t face ’em,” I say, letting my arm fall over my eyes. I can’t bear to have her see me like this. Tears roll down my face.
“Okay,” Merry Carole says, taking my hand away from my face ever so gently. She swipes my bangs off my forehead and scoots closer. Her rose-water perfume wafts over me. I am immediately comforted.
“I’m sorry,” I say, truly meaning it.
“I know, sweetie,” she says, smiling as my eyes flutter open.
“All the couples and . . . I mean, I could dance with you or Cal, but . . . ,” I say, trying to make a joke.
“Cal won’t want anything to do with us,” Merry Carole says.
“Yeah, probably,” I say.
“Can I give you a piece of advice?” Merry Carole says, still smoothing my hair.
“Sure.”
“You can’t let them get to you. They can’t ever know that—” Merry Carole’s voice cracks and she pulls a red, white, and blue handkerchief from the depths of her bra. She dabs her mascara and continues, “They can’t ever know that you go home at night and cry yourself to sleep because they got to you.” I sit up and pull