Chapter Five

I could hear the roar-clack-roar of the skates on the wooden floor as I got out of Mama's car at the roller rink. It was the day of the Campbell kids' annual summer skating party. Pammy's mom's family owned Johnson's Rinky Dink and they closed it down for one day every summer just for Pammy and Gilly's friends. Pammy always ended up inviting our whole class because she was afraid that someone would feel left out if she didn't. Even though we weren't always invited to other people's parties. Like Jenny  We would spend the morning and afternoon skating and eating and skating and eating, then go home and sleep. Skating and eating is hard work. Since I was Pammy's best friend, I got to go with her to the sound booth and help pick out the music that played. I'd pretend I was Nina Nightingale Byrd, my favorite DJ on my favorite radio station WSPB-AM, All the Hits, 937 on your radio dial, and introduce the songs into the microphone. It was never turned on, so I felt OK about hamming it up. I would have died if anyone ever heard me. 

This party was different as it was an all-nighter. We had to bring sleeping bags and pillows and comfy clothes because we were supposed to go to sleep at the rink. But even though we brought all that stuff to make our parents happy (blah), nobody had any plans to sleep that night. Who wanted to sleep when there was skating and pinball and pool and putt-putt to play? The Rinky Dink had just about everything you could want. There was even a "club" in the back called Lite Brite which was just for teenagers. It was one big black light room with posters on the wall that glowed and you could get virgin cocktail drinks like pina coladas and strawberry daiquiris and there were bean bags and lots of places to sit and hang out to listen to music. Plus there were dark corners to make out in. I'd only been in there with Pammy to have a drink and to get away from all the obnoxious younger kids like Porter and his weird little friend Shiner Paulsen. Shiner's real name was Robert, but ever since he got a terrible black eye when he made a scene tripping over his untied shoelace running to get to the ice cream truck back when he was in kindergarten, most everyone, including even his mama, has called him Shiner. I say most everyone because his teachers always insist on calling him Robert and since he’s not used to hearing that, he never answers in class when he’s addressed that way and ends up spending a lot of time in the principal’s office. 

No boy had ever asked me to go to Lite Brite with him. I'd daydreamed about Kevin Ritter asking me and maybe having my first kiss. But I didn't think he'd be at Pammy's party since I heard he was away with his family for the summer. I remembered that Ansel Mahler was going to be there and wondered what I'd do if he asked me. He'd probably want to do a lot of couple skating first, since besides football, hanging out at Rinky Dink's was his favorite thing to do. I bet his skates get filled up with sweat just like his shoes. As long as he didn't show me, I guess it would be ok. I had to have a first kiss sometime. And then I'd be more experienced for Kevin. When he asked me. If he asked me.

Pammy's brother Gilly was in a band called Offensive Line with some other guys from the football team and they were going to play during the night. I didn't think they were all that great. They were mostly just loud. Pammy said they'd been practicing for weeks in the garage and then Gilly, who played drums, went out to his cousin Bert's van and would practice there. Bert was over in Vietnam and had left his van in the Campbells' driveway. Gilly's drums belonged to Bert as well. After hearing Gilly play, Mr. Campbell said that was one more reason to hate the war Gilly ended up practicing in the van because Mr. Campbell said he could tolerate a lot, but since Gilly was no Buddy Rich, he needed to take his act outside the house. Gilly yelled that he didn't know who Buddy Rich was and didn't care because he was going to be the next Keith Moon and then Mr. Campbell yelled that he didn't know who that was and didn't care either. There was a lot of yelling and door slamming at the Campbells when it came to Gilly and the drums. Pammy figured he was doing more than practicing in the van because she could smell something funny whenever he was in there. Having spent time around Gilly, I thought that explained a lot.

As I turned to shut the car door, Mama said that she'd see me later, to be a good girl and to make sure I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Campbell to thank them. Mama was always very concerned about our manners. I told her I would and then stopped -- what did she mean by seeing me later? I was going to get a ride home with Pammy in the morning. Mama had forgotten to tell me until that very moment that Mrs. Campbell had called her and some other parents to ask them to come chaperone during the party. Mama was taking the late night shift. I know she waited until the last moment to tell me because I would have complained about her being there from the minute I heard the news. She tells me I'm too mouthy. I think I'm just standing up for myself. Daddy just leaves the room when we start to argue, muttering about having to put up with this for four more years until I go off to college or get married whichever comes first and where is his Scotch. She brightly said again that she'd see me later and I mumbled "not if I see you first" and shut the door quickly so she couldn't ask me to repeat myself. Her car had crank-down windows, which I usually hate, but was thankful for now, since she couldn't push the button to roll down the window and continue our discussion. I ran into the rink without a glance back, despite Mama honking the horn to get my attention. 

I was organizing my things to check them at the desk with Shotzie, the rink manager and surrogate mom to pretty much every kid in town, when I ran smack into someone who had magically appeared in front of me.

"Hi Nixie! I was wondering when you were going to get here. Did you bring your skates or do you need me to go get a pair for you? Gosh, I'm glad you're here. You look great. I notice you've let your hair grow longer. It's very pretty and it suits you. And you are so nice and tan. Have you been going to the beach a lot this summer?"

I interrupted the attack of questions.

"Oh hey, Harry. Nice to see you. Can you hold on a second?"

Harry Johnson. Pammy's cousin and Bert's younger brother. Harry lived in the next city over, so I didn't get to see him that often. Which was OK by me since he had been a big pest for as long as I'd known him. And he had liked me -- like liked me -- for as long as I'd known him, too. He was really smart and a really big nerd. And I couldn't ever imagine liking him that way. Ever. I was hoping he wasn't going to be at the skating party, since he always seemed to be either following me around or in my way. Like he was right now. I wondered why Pammy didn't tell me Harry was coming to the party. Probably for the same reason Mama didn't tell me she was chaperoning.  While I knew better than to totally sass Mama, Pammy was going to get an earful. 

I gave my sleeping bag, pillow and travel bag to Shotzie, who looked at me with sympathy and a little smile. She knew Harry, too. He was right there, just waiting to monopolize my attention. 

"I don't go by Harry anymore, now that I'm in high school. Everyone calls me Hank. It's so much more mature and befitting a high school man, don't you think?" Harry liked to use words like befitting. When Daddy used big words like that, it sounded neat. Harry sounded like the nerd he was.

"Hank is good. I'll call you Hank from now on." I was looking around to see if I could make a getaway. But the party had just started and there weren't too many people there yet.

Chapter Four

It was the kind of day that people write stories about. Or at least they should. The sky was the color blue of Nana’s Wedgwood china in some places and it was a pale blue, like the robin’s egg I saw at the Nature Trail museum, in others. It was not hot -- which was weird for June here in Florida -- and there was a little breeze. Not a cloud in the sky. I was imagining floating on the lake at Nana and Papa’s summer house, eyes closed, thinking about nothing.

Unfortunately, what I was really doing was lying on the trampoline in my backyard, looking at the sky and wishing that Porter and his stupid friends hadn’t destroyed the hammock pretending they were soldiers in Vietnam and using it as a net to catch the Viet Cong. The hammock was my place to go and think and read and meditate. Uncle Tommy showed me how to meditate when he was here for Christmas last year -- he took a class on Transcendental Meditation when he was in California. I still don’t really get it, but I still try to do it anyway. Maybe I’m too young and don’t have enough experience or something.

I did a jump bounce dismount off the trampoline and walked over to the patio to grab my book. Pammy had lent me her copy of “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.” There had been a lot of talk by teachers and the PTA about it being in our school library -- I wanted to read it to see what the fuss was all about. Jenny Parker said she thought it was “total trash.” Which probably meant that I would really like it. I’d make sure I did, anyway.

I lay down in the grass near where the hammock should have been, rolled onto my side and began to read.

I hadn’t gotten past page one when I heard the sliding glass door off the patio open and Mama’s voice rising above the door skimming in the track.

“Jack McKey  -- you had best stay out of those cookies. If I told you once I’ve told you ten times that they’re not for you, remember.”

Mama came over to where I was lounging in the grass and set a glass of lemonade next to me carefully on the lawn. Fresh squeezed -- none of that powdered Country Time for her. She had a glass for herself in her other hand and pulled a chair with her foot close to the edge of the patio, near where I was laying, and sat down with a sigh.

“Nixie Jean, please do not pull up any more blades of grass. Your father works very hard to keep this yard looking nice -- the least you can do is not destroy it. Your brothers do a fine job of that all on their own.” She kicked a stray basketball away with her bare foot and painted toes. Cherries in the Snow. Her standard summer color.

“Yes ma’am.” I sat up to take a sip of lemonade. Cool, sweet, tart. Just right. As always. Just like Mama.

“Who are those cookies for, by the way.” I was curious, mostly because I wanted one, but was trying to act grownup about it.

“The Junior League gals -- we have an Admissions meeting at Margie's -- I mean Mrs. Hart's -- house tonight and since I’m the chairman, I thought I’d make something nice.”

“Ah.” Mama did a lot of volunteer work -- Junior League, PTA, church. Now that Porter and Jack and I were older and more independent, she had more time on her hands and staying active with volunteer jobs helped to keep her busy.

“You don’t need to those cookies anyway,” Mama said after a moment. “You best be watching your figure. Especially now that summer and bathing suit season are here.”

“Uh-huh.” I mumbled. Mama set a great store by a person’s  physical appearance. Specifically my physical appearance. I was built like my grandma -- Daddy’s mother. We both were on the curvy side, with hips and a chest. I had been wearing a bra since the fourth grade -- the first girl in my class to do so. Jenny Parker was so jealous that she told everyone I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. Kids would come up and try to bump into me at recess and in the lunch line, just to see if it were true. I think Jenny only wears Her Majesty camisoles with little ribbons and pink rosebuds even now. I haven’t been to one of her slumber parties since elementary school and she always dresses for PE in the bathroom stall, so I don’t know for sure about the bra. I still like to think she’s flat chested underneath it all, particularly when she’s mean -- it makes me feel better somehow.

“I want you to stick to your diet when you’re at Nana’s house -- I know it’s hard, especially with Nana and Aunt Punch being such good cooks.” Aunt Punch, given name Evelyn, was Nana’s sister. “But you’re doing so well with it. People are noticing.”

Mama took a long sip of her lemonade and reached for her cigarette case.

I wasn’t sure what “people” she was talking about. Most likely it was just Mama herself. I didn’t think I looked that bad, but after the doctor told me that I was in a higher percentile of weight and height at my last checkup, she got it into her head that I was a “chubby” girl and put me on her version of a diet. Which consisted of her watching every thing that she could go into my mouth. And having me do exercises. And making me get on the scale every other day. I just went along with it -- it was easier to agree than to argue. The school nurse, Miss Rudolph, said I looked just fine for my age and physique and had nothing to worry about -- I went to talk to her about things after my doctor’s checkup. I thought Mama just didn't know how to deal with a daughter who didn’t look just like her -- tall and thin and the same size since college. I had heard Daddy mumble something about “mother/daughter stuff” under his breath more than once when we were having a talk about my diet and exercising.

“Hmmm.” I gave her as much of a response as I thought I could get away with. I didn’t want to pick a fight right now on such a pretty day. I leaned over and took a look to make sure my place in the book was marked. I didn’t have a bookmark and didn’t want to turn down the page of a book that wasn’t mine, so I used a leaf instead.

“It’s a nice day -- really nice for June, isn’t it?” Mama had lit her Virginia Slim and exhaled as she spoke. Daddy didn’t like her smoking at all, but especially hated when she did it in the house and so she would come out into the yard a couple of times a day to sneak a cigarette. She said it was a habit left over from college that she just couldn’t break, but I know that she had read an article in Ladies Home Journal about how smoking helped not make you as hungry and kept you slim. I figured that’s really why she kept on doing it.

“Yep. I miss the hammock though.”

“I know you do, honey. That is your special place, isn’t it. I cannot believe Porter and those Carson boys used it in one of their war games. Honestly. Your father wants to drive up the east coast on our way to Nana and Papa’s after Porter finally finishes with his tournament  and Jack is done with American Legion and we’ll stop at Pawley’s Island and get a new one.”

“Oh, you will? Thank you -- that’s great.” I sat up and smiled.

“Nana wants us to get one for the lake house too, although I’m not sure where they want to put it.”

“Maybe between one of those big oak trees between the house and the lake.” I offered.

“Maybe.” Mama took another drag off the Virginia Slim and exhaled slowly, as if gaining energy or power from the motion. It almost seemed as if she wanted  to tell me something serious. She often would come out and chat with me about this that or the other, but there was a different feel to this conversation.

We sat in silence for a little while, me trying not to mess with the lawn, her lighting another cigarette.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Mama motioned with her in-need-of-a-manicure hand over to the book beside me. Her standing appointment for hair and nails was a couple of days away.

“Um, it’s a book Pammy lent me. She says it’s pretty good.”

Mama took a long look at the cover. “Oh yes -- that’s the one that the PTA was all in an uproar about. I heard about it at tennis. Carolyn Parker wanted me to sign a petition to get it taken out of the school library. Of course I didn’t -- sign it, that is. You know how I feel about censorship.”

I sure did. As much as Mama rode me about my diet and exercise and being a well mannered Southern lady, she was also just as firm about trusting me and what I chose to read or watch on television. Most of my friends had restrictions on what they could or couldn’t watch -- not me. Along with my “facts of life” talk (which was really a waste of time because Pammy’s older brother Gardner told us all about that at one of her slumber parties way before the “talk”) Mama also told me that she wasn’t going to supervise what I read -- that I was a smart girl with good sense and she and Daddy trusted my judgment. I thought that was pretty cool and tried not to abuse their rules.

“Had a call from Tommy today. He’s going to be a few days later than he originally thought getting here.” Mama sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“Oh -- that’s OK. As long as we’re still going -- he is still going to drive me up to the lake house, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, me still looking at the sky, Mama taking thoughtful drags off the Virginia Slim.

She finally finished and rubbed the butt out on the edge of the patio. “Nixie Jean, I want you to make sure that you are nice to your Uncle Tommy -- he’s had a difficult past couple of weeks. Listen to him when he asks you to do something. Be sweet.” Her voice was tight -- it almost sounded like she had something caught in her throat.

“Of course I’ll be nice -- Uncle Tommy and I are pals. I’d love him anyway, ‘cause he’s family and all, but I really love him because he doesn’t treat me like a kid. He’s so cool.”

“Good.”

“Is he OK -- he’s not sick, is he?” Now I was worried. What did a “difficult past couple of weeks” really mean?

“Um." Mama took a long pause. I could see her thinking about her words.  "He’s fine. Health-wise. He’s just had a rough time of things lately. This vacation will be good for him. Hopefully.” Mama looked in her cigarette case, trying to decide if she wanted one more smoke or not. “I just wanted you to be aware. That’s all.”

“OK.”

We sat quietly again for a little bit. Finally, she stepped down to pick up my empty lemonade glass and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

“After a while, go down the street and look for Porter. He’s got summer school homework to finish and I want him to have it done before dinner. The Nichols are coming over for pot luck.” The Nichols were our next door neighbors -- Carrie, the daughter, was a couple of years younger than me and had a terrible crush on Porter. It was unrequited, however, as Porter hadn’t yet discovered his interest in girls. I laughed -- no wonder he had wandered off down the street.

“OK. Just let me finish this next chapter and I’ll go find him.”

Mama was opening the sliding glass door to go into the kitchen. “Thank you. Oh, and Nixie Jean.” She turned to look at me, a far away look in her eye.

“Yes Mama.”

“You know I’m very proud of you.”

“Yes Mama. Thank you.”

She smiled, and walked in the door just as the phone started to ring.

Chapter Three

“Hey! Pizza Face! Phone for you.”

Porter’s voice came through the intercom into the rumpus room, where I was trying to figure out how to make a macramé plant hanger to take to Nana for the lake house. It was raining outside and had been for a while. We get a lot of rainy weather in Florida in the summertime, but this was a lot even for us.

“Thanks. And make sure you hang up when I pick up. I mean it, Doofus.”

I got up off the sofa to get the phone. Which was in a real phone booth. My dad found it at a salvage yard and thought it would be cool to have at home. He’s an architect and likes weird stuff like that. Our house is kind of crazy, actually, especially in comparison to the other houses in our neighborhood. Daddy designed it and oversaw the construction himself. He’s very proud of it. It’s three stories with two parts -- the rumpus room is separate from the rest of the house but is connected to it by a closed-in walkway that runs over the driveway. Daddy said he wanted a place for us kids to be able to go and bring our friends and be as noisy as we liked and not bother anyone else in the house. Jack uses it a lot -- he and his friends come over and play pool and pinball and darts and listen to the stereo all the time. One night, it seemed like the whole high school football team was down there -- it took Mama and our maid Miss Bea a whole day to get rid of all the soda cans and dropped food and sticky that they left. I overheard Mama and Daddy talking to Jack not long after about some things that went on at the party that they were not happy about at all -- I think they must have been talking about weed, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear. They were in the family room and I was in the kitchen and would have heard it all if Porter hadn’t come in with his remote control car and scared me half to death. Jack was grounded for a week after that, so I guess it was something bad like weed after all.

Our house has got some other unusual things too -- like an open stairwell with a rock garden and a dumb waiter, which Daddy had put in because the kitchen is on the second floor and it’s easy to put the groceries in it and send them up rather than carry them up the stairs. When Porter was little, Jack and I decided the dumb waiter made a fine space capsule and we tried to put him in the it and send him from floor to floor on a flight. We almost had Porter convinced to do it, except Mama came home from her weekly hair appointment right then and we had to “abort the mission.” We were very into space talk and astronaut stuff back then, especially after Daddy took us one weekend to Cape Kennedy. Porter wore one of Mama's silver kitchen bowls on his head and pretended it was an "astronaut hat." He was really little then.  I still like it when Mama puts a chocolate Space Food Stick in my lunch.  Astronaut food is great, except for Tang which tastes like baby aspirin to me. Yuck. Sometimes I miss those days when all of us would play together. 

I sat in the phone booth -- thank goodness there’s not a pay phone in there. I saw that episode of the Brady Bunch where Mr. Brady puts a pay phone in the house and just held my breath hoping that Daddy wouldn’t think that was another “smashing” idea. He likes to use words like “smashing” and “brilliant” when describing things. Mama says he picked up talking like that when he went to college in London for a semester and that he should just cut it out because he sounds pretentious. I had to look up what pretentious meant after Mama said it, though. I secretly think it’s kind of cool and spend time trying to use words like that when I talk.

I picked up the phone. “Porter! You can hang up. Now! I mean it! Hello?”

“Hey Nix. Whatcha doin? This rain is terrible, isn’t it? My mom says that if it doesn’t stop soon, we’re going to need to build an ark. Whatcha doin’?”

It was Pammy.

“Not much. I’m in the r- room working on my macramé -- you know, that plant holder we tried in art class. I want to make one to take to the lake.” I walked out of the phone booth and over to the pit sofa -- the phone had a really long cord so you could move all over the room and still talk. You had to hold it just so, though, because it would make the phone booth door bang if you didn't.

“I’m also trying to stay away from Porter who smells like the cat box and is being a real pain today!” I raised my voice purposefully, in case he was still listening in. I heard a snicker and then the phone slam down. “Watching TV a little. But there’s not a lot on right now. The Watergate Hearings are on instead of other stuff. No As The World Turns today.”

“I know. It’s sooooooo boring. You’d think they could have scheduled them for a time when we weren’t on summer vacation.”

“Right Pammy. Why don’t we write Congress a letter and ask them to move the hearings to September when we’re back in school.” I sighed.

“Well, you did write that letter to Henry Kissinger and got an answer back, didn’t you?” I could hear her smack her gum. Grape. Her favorite. I don't know how she could chew that stuff, since the minute you chomped down on a piece you could feel the sugar crystals crunch. Ick.

I made a face. One of our assignments in English class this year was to write a persuasive letter to someone we admired -- people like Bobby Fisher and Elton John and Robert Redford and Reggie Jackson and Randolph Mantooth. Pammy wrote her letter to Ryan O’Neal, because between “Love Story” and “What’s Up Doc” she was convinced he was the man of her dreams. As for me -- I decided to write to Dr. Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State. He was always in the news and I really was interested in what was going on in the world. I read the newspaper every day and watched the evening news, although sometimes it was a little weird to see film from the war on the screen during dinner time. Mama wasn’t happy about the television being on while we ate, but Daddy thought it was a good exercise for us to watch and discuss the news as a family. As long as Porter and Jack remembered the “you must wear a shirt to the dinner table and no hats” rule, she was pretty much fine. Aside from making sure I didn't put too much food on my plate. 

I didn’t want to tell Pammy this, because she sometimes has a hard time not telling everything she knows, but I was kind of interested in the Watergate Hearings. More than kind of. I liked to see “government in action,” as my history teacher Mr. Daniels called it. There was something very dramatic about them as well -- it was like a big realistic play. And watching it made me feel smart and grownup. No wonder Jack called me Nerdy Nixie.

“Yeah, I did. And yeah, I got an answer back.” I had the letter from a State Department Under Secretary pinned to my bulletin board in my room; I was disappointed that Dr. Kissinger didn’t write me himself (one boy in our class got a hand written letter from his person, a wrestler named Dusty Rhodes. I figured that Dusty probably didn’t have anything better to do between matches, so that's why he wrote back.) but was even more disappointed that he didn’t send a picture like I’d asked for. I guess important government officials don’t have autographed photos like other celebrities do.

“But I think that me writing a letter won’t stop the Hearings from being on television.”

I heard munching on the other end of the phone which meant that Pammy had moved on from the gum and gotten into the Charles Chips. I saw the delivery guy in the neighborhood yesterday and the Campbells had been getting them brought to their house as long as I could remember.

“Um, Nixie. I gotta go -- my mom is yelling at me to come help with the laundry. Gilly left a bunch of stuff in his pockets and it all went through the wash and now there’s a big mess. I’ll call you later. Want to have a sleepover tonight? Ask your mom. We just got the Charles Chips and the Partridge Family is on TV. Bye.”

And with that, she hung up. I walked over to the phone booth and put the receiver back in its place and grabbed a grape NEHI from the little refrigerator in the corner. I sat down on the pit sofa, fully intending to work some more on my macramé. But the twine just sat there as I became glued to the set, watching Sam Ervin ask questions in a way that reminded me of Andy Griffith. Or was it Foghorn Leghorn. Government in Action.

Chapter Two

May 17, 1973

Dear Diary,

School dance tonight -- the last one of the year. No more eighth grade -- yeah! It was a pretty good dance, even though YOU KNOW WHO didn’t even look at me once. And I was wearing my new dress and everything. At least he didn’t dance with anyone special, not that I could tell anyway. Including that Jenny Parker. Blech. Oh -- that blech is for Jenny Parker -- NOT YOU KNOW WHO. Danced a lot with Ansel M.-- he’s nice, but just friend-nice. Not boyfriend-nice. But I think he might like-like me as more than a friend. What am I going to do about that. I don’t know.

Can’t believe school is almost over for the summer. I so want to get high honors on my last report card to just show up that smarty JP. And Uncle Tommy gets here the last day of school -- yeah! He’s not teaching any classes at his college this summer so he’s going to be with us at Nana’s lake house the whole time I’m there. Yeah again! I’m glad he’s driving me up there instead of Mama and Daddy -- they are so unfun and when they drive, we have to listen to their boring music on the radio. YUCK! I hope both Porter and Jack’s baseball teams keep winning so M&D stay here as long as possible and I can be on my own and have fun! Who knew my stupid brothers would be actually good for something?

Wonder what YOU KNOW WHO is doing this summer -- maybe I’ll get up the nerve to ask him before the end of school and then see if maybe we could be pen pals -- with me going away, that could be really good. I’ll see what Pammy thinks about me doing that -- how great would it be to be pen pals with HIM? Uncle Tommy says that writing as much as I can is good practice for being a writer. Which is why I try to write in you so much, Diary. Being pen pals with YOU KNOW WHO would be a double great thing. I could get to know him and impress him with my writing. That’s what I’m going to think about tonight as I fall asleep -- reading letters from YKW on the porch at Nana’s. Oh -- I’m also gonna think about Pammy’s skating party tomorrow afternoon, which is going to be so much FUN. I think Ansel’s going to be there because he’s friends with Pammy’s brother Gilly and it’s his party too. Oh boy. Oh well.

Until tomorrow, Diary.

Nixie

----------------------

Bryant Junior High

Home of the Pirates

1973 Yearbook

Property of Nixie McKey

Dear Nixie,

It’s been great sitting next to you in Math class. Thanks for all your help with the homework and everything. Your a great girl whos really cute and smart and a really good dancer. I hope that I can get to know you better and stuff next year. Or maybe even over the summer.

Love

Ansel Mahler

#78 Go Pirates!

Nixie Nixon (ha-ha -- don’t you think that’s funny?)

Have a great summer, Miss Smarty Pants.

Jenny Parker

Nixie,

I’m not gonna write a lot since we’re gonna see each other all the time until you go to your Nana’s house but it’s been a great year, hasn’t it. You are the best friend a girl like me could ever have (most of the time) and I can’t wait until we’re cool 9th GRADERS! Yeah! Oh -- thanks for all your help in English class with my essays. You’re the best writer I know and I’m so glad that we’re friends now cause that will be so cool when you are famous! I’m not going to tell you to have a great summer because I know you WILL! Wish I could go with you this year -- stupid music camp. Oh well.

Love ya,

Pammy

Miss McKey,

It has been a pleasure having you as a student this year. Your participation in class is always interesting and appropriate, particularly on Current Event days. You have also grown as a writer, and your Uncle Thomas should be very proud of you. I look forward to having you in my ninth grade honors English class next year. Please give your uncle my best. Have a good summer.

Regards,

Mr. Daniels

Nixie!

Didn’t we have fun doing the play this year -- and you’re right -- "Around the World in 97 Days would still be a better title."  You were SO great as Mrs. Murchison and can sing SO well -- almost as good as me. Ha ha! Can’t wait until next year’s show -- wonder what MK will pick out for us stars to do. Have a great summer -- maybe we can get together and go to the movies -- call me!

XOXOXO

Christopher

Trixie,

Be cool.

Kevin Ritter

Chapter One

“Hey Nixie! Look how much my feet sweated when we were dancing just now!”

The voice bellowed from across the refreshment table.

Ansel Mahler, dress shoe in hand, hobbled over to the punch bowl where I was pouring my third cup of sherbet drink. Being nervous made me thirsty.

“Wow Ansel. That’s something.” I tried to look interested. Mama and Nana always told me to be polite when “engaging in conversation, especially with a young man.”  All part of being a lady. Especially in social situations. Even gross ones like this.

“Isn’t it, though?” He grinned from ear to ear. “Wanna dance again later? When they play ‘Stairway to Heaven’?”

“Maybe.” I looked around to see who, if anyone, was watching us. No one was.

“Cool. I’ll come find you.” Ansel lumbered over, shoe still in hand, to the corner of the room where the football players were giving each other noogies and engaging in cookie-eating contests.  Their suit jackets were tossed on chairs and their ties loosened. They all looked at the sweaty shoe like it was some sort of prize in a contest. High-fives started flying Ansel’s way. He turned to look at me and smiled shyly.

It was the last junior high dance of the year. The Spring Fling. I was wearing my brand new Gunne Sax  -- a denim sundress with ribbon and lace trim that made me look at least 15. Well, I thought so anyway. And I was practically in ninth grade now -- that had to count for something. High school. Eighth grade was already almost a memory. Two more weeks of school and it would be summer vacation time.

I was thinking about having another glass of punch and was reaching for a cup when my best friend Pammy came rushing over, frantic and talking.

“Nixie! Oh my gosh you will never believe what I just heard. Jenny Parker told Susie Barnes who told Kate Zimmer who told me that a couple of boys stole some...” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “... vodka from their parents’ liquor cabinet and poured it in the punch. You better be careful.” Pammy was always worried about stuff like that -- she was a true blue friend but sometimes  she was really a big goody-goody spoilsport. You’d never think it to look at her, though. Pammy was the prettiest girl in school -- at least I thought so. Tall, with long blond hair. Like a Breck girl. But she was a little too prim and proper to be in with the popular crowd. Which didn’t seem to bother her at all. I envied her for that.

I grabbed the punch ladle and poured the fullest cup of punch I could and then drank it all in one big gulp, watching Pammy’s eyes bug out in horror.

“Aw Pammy -- you need to take a chill pill. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Do you drink I’ve been thinking?” I staggered around a bit to make my point, grabbing onto the table for balance. “Look. I can still touch my nose. Kinda. Now watch me try to walk a straight line. I saw this on an episode of  ‘Columbo’ once. Or maybe it was ‘Hawaii 5-O’”

“Nixie!”

“Don’t worry -- there’s nothing in this punch but 7Up and rainbow sherbet. Here, taste.” I refilled my glass and made her take a sip.  I needed to stop, though. Too much of this stuff had made my tummy ache a little. “Um, did you hear which guys had the vodka?” I tried to sound cool and casual when I said it, but my heart was racing just a bit, hoping to hear one name in particular.

“Um, no, not really.” Pammy was a little distracted as she poked around the half-empty trays of cookies. The football players had made a mess of things when they raided the refreshment table before their cookie eating contest. “I’m looking for some of those chocolate chip cookies my mom made. I can always tell which ones are hers because she puts nuts in them. Not many people do that -- but they should, because the nuts just make them taste better, don’t you think...”

“Yeah.” Now I was the one who was distracted. I was watching a group of guys at the front of the room, up by where the disc jockey -- not anyone great, just Coach Hall, the basketball coach/boys PE teacher -- were standing.  Honestly, I wasn’t sure why these things were called dances -- they mostly were all about groups of boys and groups of girls standing around, talking to each other, with the occasional group dance and every-once-in-a-while couple dance. The dance I had with Ansel was the only one I’d had as part of a couple that night.

What I was hoping for -- what I had thought about for weeks, what I written in my diary about, what I had dreamed about -- was the chance to have a dance with Kevin Ritter. He was the reason I was distracted, why I was watching that group of boys, who were now gathered around the audio equipment, looking at albums and telling Coach what to play next. He was why I picked this particular dress for the dance and worked so hard to get my hair to look just right and not so frizzy, which is hard to do with thick curly hair like mine that has a mind of its own.

Kevin Ritter. With his wavy light brown hair and brown eyes. And that smile -- even with braces, it was dazzling. Better than Donny Osmond. And David Cassidy.

“Whatchalookingat.” Pammy came and stood beside me, still chewing. The football players had obviously missed some of her mom’s cookies when they raided the refreshment table. Pammy’s mom had the reputation of being a great cook -- Mrs. Campbell’s cookies were always really popular at bake sales and parties and dances.

“Oh, nothing.” I wanted to sound confident and not give anything away. Too bad that didn’t work.

“Oh yeah... Kevin Ritter. He looks pretty groovy tonight.” Pammy wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Kevin Ritter always looks groovy.” I said, a little too quickly.

“I haven’t seen him dance with anyone tonight. He’s just been hanging around Coach Hall with those other basketball team guys, trying to be cool.”

“Kevin doesn’t have to try to be cool. He just is.” I sighed, even though I didn’t mean to.

“Jeez, Nixie. You so like him.” Pammy laughed.

“No I don't." I could feel my cheeks start to flush. "Well, yeah. Kinda.”

“Kinda nothing. Do you know him. like know him know him? Didn't you have English with him this year? Hmmm. Those jocks stick to themselves. Or the cheerleaders.” Pammy nodded towards Jenny Parker and the other members of the cheerleading squad, who were attempting to flirt with Kevin and his buddies.

She had a good point. Ansel, who was one of the stars of the football team, was an exception. We had math class together and sat across the aisle from one another. I let him copy down our homework assignment a couple of times, when he’d been absent because of an away football game. That obviously had made a good impression on him and his big sweaty feet, because he always seemed to make a point to say hi and talk to me whenever he saw me out of class. I took a quick look to see if he coming to ask me to dance again, as things were starting to wrap up, as it was nearly 10 o’clock.

“I think he does. Know me. He was on the stage crew for the musical this year, so he has to at least know my name. Right?”  I had a pretty large part in the junior high play -- not the lead, but I got to sing a solo. And the yearbook had a couple of pictures of me from the show, about which I pretended not to care but was in fact secretly really excited.

“I guess. Maybe.” Pammy sounded skeptical. I chose to ignore her comment.

The sounds of Three Dog Night and “Joy to the World” came blasting through the stereo. Coach had let one of the basketball players mess with the sound system and whoever it was obviously had good taste in music but didn’t know what he was doing.

“Oh wow -- I love this song.” Pammy started moving to the music, not caring that no one else around us was dancing. "JEREMIAH WAS A BULL FROG..." She started singing along as she danced.

“Me too.” I moved a little myself, careful not to be too obvious and draw a lot of attention.

Pammy stopped abruptly and looked thoughtful.

“What if we went up front and just sat on the edge of the stage -- close to where he’s hanging out. Then it wouldn’t be so weird and obvious for you to go and talk to him.”

“Hmm.” I wasn’t sure about this at all.

“C’mon. It’s not a big deal. Especially if you don’t act like it is.”

She had a point. “Fine. You go first.”

Coach had put “Rockin’ Robin” on the stereo and kids were moving onto the dance floor as Pammy and I weaved our way through the crowd to the front part of the stage. Kevin and his pals were still there, some sitting backwards on the metal folding chairs, others leaning back supported only by the back chair legs and a couple were up by the sound system with Coach.

We walked by their little group to a vacant section on the stage. I flipped my hair and laughed loudly as we passed by, trying to act cool but looking out of the corner of my eye to see if Kevin was watching. 

He wasn’t.

We sat on the stage, legs dangling and swinging in time to the music. The dance floor was packed -- kids were moving in couples and in groups. Part of me wished I was confident enough to go join them -- but I wasn’t.

“Well, did he see you?” Pammy finally asked.

“No. At least I don’t think so.”

“Boys are so stupid sometimes.”

“Yep.”

I suddenly was ready for the dance and the evening and my unmet expectations to all be over. The beginning notes of  “Stairway to Heaven” -- the traditional last dance song at our school -- began to play. I saw Ansel look around the room -- I figured he was looking for me. I smoothed my hair and straightened my dress. It was a big deal to dance the last dance of the night. Ansel finally caught my eye and lumbered forward to the stage, reaching me and holding out his hand.

“Hey Nixie. Wanna dance?” Straight and to the point. He had both his shoes on. Thank goodness.

With a glance over to Kevin, who was still sitting with his friends, still too cool to dance and still ignoring the cheerleaders, I nodded yes and followed Ansel to the floor. He put his arms around my waist and I put my hands on his shoulders -- he was too tall for me to reach around his neck -- and we began that standing and turning in a circle thing that we called slow dancing. I sighed and closed my eyes, just focusing on the music, trying not to get dizzy. Or to think about Ansel’s sweaty shoes.