Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [7]
“My daddy’s a coal miner, and my mama sells pills.”
“What kind of pills?”
“It depends. What’s wrong with you?”
The host stifles a laugh. “I understand you’re an avid reader.”
“Yes sir.”
“What are you reading now?”
“The Ancient Art of Chinese Face-Reading. My Aunt Iva Lou gave it to me. She works at the li-barry.” Etta points to Iva Lou, who straightens her spine and beams as though she’s on camera.
“How interesting. What is the Art of Chinese Face-Reading, exactly?”
“Well. It’s all about how your face can tell you what kind of person you are and what the future holds for you.”
“A little hocus-pocus, eh?” Dan looks into the camera, raising one eyebrow.
“Not really. Like you. Your top lip is thin, and your bottom lip is thick.”
“Does that mean something?” Dan rubs his chin.
“You’re cheap.”
“Somebody’s been talking to my wife,” Dan deadpans.
“I’m sorry,” Etta says, realizing that she may have said something unkind.
“I’d like to crawl in a hole and die,” I whisper to Iva Lou.
“I’d like to crawl into a hole with Dan DeBoard,” she whispers back.
Dan tells our team that, as the challengers, they go first. He asks Etta for a number.
“Five for my cat, Shoo, who is five,” Etta says.
“If you have two baskets of peaches and in one basket there are three hundred fifty-six peaches and in the other there are two hundred ninety-eight, how many peaches do you have?”
Etta squeezes her eyes shut and tries to add in her head. Jane Herd’s little blue eyeballs roll back in her head and click up and down like the digits on an adding machine. Jane starts to shake; she has the answer. Etta’s expression of pure panic and desperation tells me she does not.
“Five hundred fifty-four?” Etta says weakly.
“Sorry. It’s six hundred fifty-four. Let’s go to the Kingsport team.”
Etta’s cheeks puff as though she may cry. Jane is so disappointed, her head hits the top of the desk like a bowl of cold mashed potatoes. The champions look over to see what clunked. Etta pulls Jane’s head off her desk by the scruff of the neck; there’s no blood, thank God, so Dan throws the next question to the opposition.
The Kingsport boys take the next three questions, answering each of them correctly, including one about the state capital of Vermont. “Look at the Skeens boy. He ain’t right,” Fleeta whispers. “He ain’t blinking.” Something is wrong with Billy. He is frozen, staring into the distance, his eyes round and vacant like pitted black olives. Our team has totally lost focus. Jane is obsessed with the monitor. She makes circles with her head, studying her face from all angles. She is sweating so profusely in the hot lights that the barrette is slipping from her side part. Etta obsessively twists the third button on her cardigan like a radio knob; it looks to snap off any second.
By halftime, we have managed to scrape up zero points, while the Kingsport boys have fifteen. “Turr-ible. Turr-ible,” Fleeta mumbles, and she goes outside to smoke. She paces in the hallway, alternately puffing and scratching her head with a pencil she found lodged in her upsweep. Mrs. White spends the break trying to thaw Billy.
As round two begins, we hope for a miracle.
“When water flows out a drain, does it drain clockwise or counterclockwise?” Dan asks Billy. Billy’s forehead folds into one deep wrinkle.
“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Fleeta says loud enough that everyone in the studio turns and looks at her. Dan drops his chin and rolls his head, encouraging Billy to answer. Finally, Billy opens his mouth and says, “Uhhhh,” without forming words. His mouth hangs open like an unbuttoned pocket. Then his “uhhh” turns into a strange hum. “What the hell is wrong with that boy?” Fleeta whispers.
Dan looks at the cameraman, who shrugs. Jane turns to her teammate. “Dang it, Billy. Say somethin’!” He says nothing, so she turns to him and shakes him.