about her family, her blood.
“Would you tell me about her? Dad spoke very little about
her or Fenton when we were growing up.”
“Goodness, how do I explain Laney to you?” Beth sank back in
her rocker with a sigh. “That’s like trying to move a mountain one teaspoon of
dirt at a time.” Suddenly she clasped the arms of the chair as her honey eyes
brightened with an idea. “I know just the thing. You wait right here.” And with
a pat to Devin’s knee she was off into the house only to return moments later
with a high school year book, its cover darkened by time.
Beth was really shining with excitement now. “This was
Laney’s yearbook from junior year. Aunt Carol gave it to me afterwards as a
keepsake.” She was scanning through some of the signatures on the inside cover.
“I think looking at what people wrote to her and the kinds of people she hung
out with will give you a good idea what Laney was like. Here, look at these
two.”
The very top inscription on the page was from the principal
congratulating Laney on her academic achievements for the year and being an
upstanding example to the student body. Right below it was a comment from “The
Weasel” congratulating her on having an upstanding rack and what he’d like to
achieve with her student body sometime.
Devin and Beth laughed until they cried. As expected Beth
pulled a tissue out of her skirt pocket to dab her eyes. “That’s the way it was
with Laney! She got good grades and was enough of a straight arrow that
teachers loved her, but what they didn’t know was that she was the one smoking
in the girls’ room in between classes.”
Beth flipped over a few pages to candid shots of juniors and
seniors, it seemed like Laney was in every other picture.
“Look, she had no bias as to who her friends were, that
picture she’s in the jock hall with all the athletes but there she’s walking on
the arms of Fred and Milton Polk. Those boys were dirt farmers, only in school
about 70% of the time because they were helping their daddy on the farm. You
could barely get two sentences out of them, Milt especially, because he had
such a bad stutter. Most Fridays they’d be huckstering in the city selling
eggs, milk, vegetables, anything the farm produced. The kids in school all
thought they were better than the Polk boys, but not Laney. Every Monday
morning she’d find them in the cafeteria and plop down in one of their laps and
ask ‘hey, Freddie what are those crazy city folks payin’ for eggs these days?’ And
he’d tell her the price, and then she’d roll her eyes and say ‘Milt, when are
they gonna learn to just buy the chicken?’ Then she’d tell them some crazy story
about her weekend, every word of it true, too.” Beth was shaking her head, reveling
in the memory.
“What about this one? Who’s that?” Devin pointed to a
picture of Laney with another girl at what looked to be a library counter,
leaning up on their elbows with their shoulders pressed together. Laney looked
bubbly and sparkly, but the other girl seemed very unsure of the pose and her
smile was timid.
“That is another great example. Her name was Eloise Faulkner;
she moved to Fenton that year and was a total outcast. Her parents had died in
a car crash so she was living with her aunt and uncle that ran Gibson’s Funeral
Home, for cruel teenagers that’s creepy. Plus she just seemed to be obsessed
with death. I guess today you’d call her a ‘Goth’, she dressed in black, always
wore that heavy silver cross necklace, used to hang out in the cemetery making
drawings and tracings of headstones just enough to make her odd in high school
culture. Pair all that with being awkward and shy and it’s social suicide. Luckily
for Eloise she was partnered with Laney as a library assistant. They used to
have these in-depth discussions on Shakespearean literature and nineteenth-century
poets. I think Eloise even planted flowers on Laney’s dad’s grave.”
Devin pulled
“Would you tell me about her? Dad spoke very little about
her or Fenton when we were growing up.”
“Goodness, how do I explain Laney to you?” Beth sank back in
her rocker with a sigh. “That’s like trying to move a mountain one teaspoon of
dirt at a time.” Suddenly she clasped the arms of the chair as her honey eyes
brightened with an idea. “I know just the thing. You wait right here.” And with
a pat to Devin’s knee she was off into the house only to return moments later
with a high school year book, its cover darkened by time.
Beth was really shining with excitement now. “This was
Laney’s yearbook from junior year. Aunt Carol gave it to me afterwards as a
keepsake.” She was scanning through some of the signatures on the inside cover.
“I think looking at what people wrote to her and the kinds of people she hung
out with will give you a good idea what Laney was like. Here, look at these
two.”
The very top inscription on the page was from the principal
congratulating Laney on her academic achievements for the year and being an
upstanding example to the student body. Right below it was a comment from “The
Weasel” congratulating her on having an upstanding rack and what he’d like to
achieve with her student body sometime.
Devin and Beth laughed until they cried. As expected Beth
pulled a tissue out of her skirt pocket to dab her eyes. “That’s the way it was
with Laney! She got good grades and was enough of a straight arrow that
teachers loved her, but what they didn’t know was that she was the one smoking
in the girls’ room in between classes.”
Beth flipped over a few pages to candid shots of juniors and
seniors, it seemed like Laney was in every other picture.
“Look, she had no bias as to who her friends were, that
picture she’s in the jock hall with all the athletes but there she’s walking on
the arms of Fred and Milton Polk. Those boys were dirt farmers, only in school
about 70% of the time because they were helping their daddy on the farm. You
could barely get two sentences out of them, Milt especially, because he had
such a bad stutter. Most Fridays they’d be huckstering in the city selling
eggs, milk, vegetables, anything the farm produced. The kids in school all
thought they were better than the Polk boys, but not Laney. Every Monday
morning she’d find them in the cafeteria and plop down in one of their laps and
ask ‘hey, Freddie what are those crazy city folks payin’ for eggs these days?’ And
he’d tell her the price, and then she’d roll her eyes and say ‘Milt, when are
they gonna learn to just buy the chicken?’ Then she’d tell them some crazy story
about her weekend, every word of it true, too.” Beth was shaking her head, reveling
in the memory.
“What about this one? Who’s that?” Devin pointed to a
picture of Laney with another girl at what looked to be a library counter,
leaning up on their elbows with their shoulders pressed together. Laney looked
bubbly and sparkly, but the other girl seemed very unsure of the pose and her
smile was timid.
“That is another great example. Her name was Eloise Faulkner;
she moved to Fenton that year and was a total outcast. Her parents had died in
a car crash so she was living with her aunt and uncle that ran Gibson’s Funeral
Home, for cruel teenagers that’s creepy. Plus she just seemed to be obsessed
with death. I guess today you’d call her a ‘Goth’, she dressed in black, always
wore that heavy silver cross necklace, used to hang out in the cemetery making
drawings and tracings of headstones just enough to make her odd in high school
culture. Pair all that with being awkward and shy and it’s social suicide. Luckily
for Eloise she was partnered with Laney as a library assistant. They used to
have these in-depth discussions on Shakespearean literature and nineteenth-century
poets. I think Eloise even planted flowers on Laney’s dad’s grave.”
Devin pulled
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