The Sisters of Glass Ferry. Kim Michele Richardson

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СКАЧАТЬ Hollis said. “Guess I’ll suffer playing chauffer tonight since you tots don’t have your operator licenses.” He grinned at Patsy. “But I expect a nice tip.”

      Patsy shot Hollis a hostile look, then just as quick sent Flannery an innocent shrug.

      Flannery stood in the driveway like an ugly dogtooth weed amongst the bright sunny merrybells. An awkwardness gathered in her nyloned legs and had the gravel biting under her squeaking, grease-stained oxfords, while the party’s dusty regrets slapped at Flannery’s face and pride.

      “We sure wish you could’ve come with us, Flannery,” Patsy said again, brushing ghost lint off the skirts of her endlessly layered lemon-colored prom dress and fiddling with her dipping neckline. She peeked over her ankle-length skirts down at the flirty, round-toed Mary Jane pumps, daintily angling one of her cream-colored leather shoes, with the rosette bow Mama had fashioned onto the straps, to one side and then another.

      The month before, Mama had driven the girls up to Lexington to buy a pair of dress shoes for Patsy’s prom. They ate toasted cheese sandwiches at the crowded Woolworth counter and stopped at the inexpensive store, the modest Wennekers Sample Shoes.

      But Patsy turned up her nose at the nice four-dollar heels Mama’d held up. Teary-eyed, begging, Patsy had wheedled Mama into trying the big store next door. Inside the fancy Purcell’s department store, Patsy found herself a “dreamy” pair—a pair that cost Mama a whole eight dollars, twice the amount she’d paid for the two sets of saddle shoes the girls wore nearly every day.

      That was the Patsy Flannery now knew. All dolled up like Suzy Parker on the slick pages of Mama’s Life magazine. Patsy with the long, penny-glint, feathery-kiss curls and red bow-tie lips, in a tad-too-tight-to-be-polite sweater, looking all glam and glorious, while Flannery hid her knobby knees and flat tires behind baggy, rolled-up boy jeans and Daddy’s old shirts. Her long drab tresses swept back and ponytailed.

      “A tadpole in a pond of goldfish,” Patsy had once said to another girl when she thought Flannery wasn’t around.

      Patsy got all the boys, too. It didn’t matter how often Flannery stood in front of the mirror, suctioning her palms, pumping ’em, chanting, “I’m a lil’ teapot, hear me shout; fill me up, and spill ’em out.”

      When Patsy turned twelve, she developed her curves. Mama had noticed and went straight out and bought a brassiere for the eldest. Patsy had her first kiss with a freshman, while Flannery was still trying for her first wolf whistle on the cobbled walks of Glass Ferry.

      It used to be the girls would go to school and back on their bikes, but in the last year, Patsy caught her rides in automobiles with others.

      Patsy complained to Mama that it was because Flannery’s bicycle was too loud. That the clothespins and trading cards her sister attached to the spokes supposedly hurt Patsy’s sensitive ears. “Real ladies don’t bicycle and wrinkle their skirts like that,” Patsy cried.

      But Flannery knew the truth, always knew Patsy was more than happy about the boys lining up by the school walk in the afternoon, begging for the favor of toting her home, picking her up in the mornings down the road and out of sight of Mama’s prying eyes.

      Most folks said they didn’t look like twins lately, and at that time it didn’t feel to Flannery like they were even sisters.

      When they were little, if the kids at school saw one of them alone, they would have to ask the twin to “grin and bare it.” A school and town-wide joke and the only way to tell the girls apart. Flannery had a big dimple on her left cheek that showed only if she smiled, while Patsy’s was tucked in the same spot, only hidden on the inside of her cheek. It was as if Patsy had been in such a rush to leave the womb to claim her firstborn status, her earliness, she couldn’t even wait around long enough to let God finish filling in the muscly hole.

      Lately though, everyone was stumped. Flannery had lost her dimple and couldn’t find any reason to get her smile back. And it no longer mattered.

      Patsy claimed she couldn’t help it—couldn’t help poking herself into all things ahead of Flannery. It was her birthright, after all, having made her royal entrance a full eight minutes prior. Her duty to be the queen and Flannery her servant.

      But Flannery had her fill of it lately, especially since she was coming into her own—her womanhood. She’d noticed the boys’ butterfly eyes lighting over Patsy, then skittering over her, before landing back on her twin. That in itself wasn’t bad; that in itself gave her hope. She was sure one day those fleeting looks would light upon her and linger longer.

      Flannery had been seeing it happen a little with Wendell Black.

      Still, Flannery missed her sister, the one she’d known before troubles took hold, back when they shared the same skin in matching smocks, homespun clothes, smack down to the identical socks Mama would knit for them. They’d pile into bed together even, talking sometimes until early morning or until one of them lock-jawed herself silly into a sleeping yawn.

      Patsy had stuck up for Flannery. She was protective of her younger sister, even against mean and scary teachers. Up until third grade, that is, when they were found out.

      * * *

      Flannery and Patsy’s deal had been struck sometime during the third grade. Patsy would take Mrs. (Fussy) Fulson’s vocabulary tests for Flannery, if her twin would take the arithmetic tests.

      Patsy always whizzed through vocabulary tests, but failed miserably at all things arithmetic. She loved smart-sounding words, the bigger the better, which had gotten her into trouble more than a few times. Flannery had trouble with spelling bees, and didn’t give a hoot about twisty tricky words, but loved towering numbers.

      The two had it worked out. They’d ask to be excused to use the restroom halfway into any tests. Pestered into submission, Mrs. Fulson always let them go with the warning to hurry back. When they returned, Patsy and Flannery would switch desks and finish the other’s test.

      No one ever knew. But on one particular day when the students had wrapped up their tests, Mrs. Fulson went to “Patsy” and told her to collect the papers for her. Forgetting she was supposed to be Patsy, Flannery smiled a “yes, ma’am,” exposing the telltale dimple.

      Mrs. Fulson pulled her up by the ear. On the way to her desk, the teacher nabbed Patsy’s ear and dragged them both to the front of the class. They stood there silent in front of their softly snickering classmates.

      Mrs. Fulson took down the thick wooden paddle hanging on the wall behind her desk.

      Patsy told the teacher it was all her fault, begging her not to whip Flannery. “Please, Mrs. Fulson, I stole Flannery’s seat!” Patsy had insisted, stomping her little brown and white saddle shoes to make it true.

      “Cheaters,” Mrs. Fulson scolded. “I should take you to Mrs. Moore’s classroom and let her keep you.”

      Mrs. Moore was the second-grade teacher.

      “God made us the same. And being the same ain’t cheating, Mrs. Fulson. We’re one and the same,” Patsy argued.

      Mortified at getting caught, then whipped, Flannery rubbed her welling eyes.

      Patsy gently touched her sister’s quivering shoulder. “Don’t cry, Flannery. . . . Oh, you don’t have to cry.” Patsy patted and pulled Flannery to her. “I’ll cry for СКАЧАТЬ