Burn Down the Ground (22 page)

The black and white fake fur coat I received for my tenth Christmas rested on top. I thought about how I had worn that coat the first and only time it ever snowed on Boars Head. Mom woke us up early so we could play in it before it melted. It was a
thin dusting of dry, light flurries that barely covered the dirt but still delighted my brother and me. That was when we scraped together miniature snowballs and set aside a few to keep in the freezer. Those were gone, too, when the electricity was shut off and the fridge defrosted.

When Dad burned our belongings, I twirled myself on the tire swing to tighten up the rope.

This is the very last time I will ever swing on this swing
.

I wanted to feel sadder at leaving behind Boars Head and all our memories there, but I couldn’t muster a tear. Fort Worth held promise. There I would be a stranger. I could truly reinvent myself. I was banking on this move to give us a clean slate. Each twist of the tire swing gave me a 360-degree view of the home we were fleeing. The shed’s windows were boarded up and the front door was shackled with a heavy padlock and chain. A warning sign that hung on the outside read, KEEP OUT VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Our vegetable garden, tilled by Dad and planted and tended by Mom and me, was shriveled and brown. The VW Bug was rusting by the spot where the old outhouse had collapsed. Weeds sprouted on the rectangular patch of land where the trailer once stood before the bank took it.

We had had our chance, but nature was reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

“Kipree!” Dad shouted from the barn, snapping me out of my reminiscence. I lifted my feet and the tire unwound, sending me into a wild spin. I looked over my shoulder and Dad signed. “Come. Let’s go.”

As we drove away, the ashes of our burned belongings still smoldered.

THE MIRACLE WORKER

M
om rented a small house in North Richland Hills, a suburb northeast of Fort Worth in the school district we had chosen. Our three-bedroom ranch sat at the corner of Grove Street and Bedford Euless Road on a block of identical houses, all with simple but well-maintained landscaping. The majority of
our neighbors were retirees who had owned their homes for decades, but a few were renters like us. Within walking distance from our house were chain restaurants, bars, motor inns, and a teenager’s paradise: the North East Mall.

What I liked about our new digs was that it blended in with the others on the block. It wasn’t an eyesore and, for once, I didn’t feel ashamed of it. Mom had rented a three-bedroom because David was still in high school, and he would be living with us. But he was finishing his junior year in Montgomery, so for the first time I was given the bigger bedroom, which had a cool double door and a window that looked out onto the busy roadway.

On one of my first afternoons in North Richland Hills, I was peeking out through the living room curtains. I noticed a girl who looked to be about my age. I raced to the front door and said, “Hi!”

“Hi back atcha,” she said.

I stepped barefoot onto the hot blacktop and howled.

“Put some shoes on, girl!”

I had spent my life barefoot on Boars Head. Even after Maria nearly stepped on a rattlesnake, I wasn’t convinced of the practicality of shoes. My feet were so tough that after stepping on a nail playing hide-and-seek with the King boys, I just yanked it out and kept on running. I didn’t even bleed. Here in Fort Worth, however, all the streets were paved. After baking in the Texas sun, the asphalt was scorching hot.

Michele was a thin girl with flawless, deeply tanned skin and a short bob of tight, kinky curls. Two rows of thick metal braces made her mouth too small to fit her bucked teeth. Despite her awkward looks, she was full of confidence.

Michele didn’t want to know the why or how of I came to live on Grove Street. She was my friend without being concerned about my history. She was also boy crazy and wanted to educate me on the eligible bachelors in our neighborhood, which was fine by me. There were plenty and she knew each and every one.

The first day at my new school was approaching and there was no way I was blowing my first impression by wearing the wrong outfit. New clothes were essential, which meant I needed money and a job. I walked up and down Bedford Euless Road and Grapevine Highway looking for work. My fifteenth birthday was a few months away, but I wrote sixteen as my age on each application and Mom’s name as my yacht club supervisor. She had worked with me there and at the fireworks stand, so she really was my best reference. I was turned away everywhere, except Showbiz Pizza Place, a restaurant chain also known as Chuck E. Cheese featuring video games and an animatronics band.

I still had my uniform from the Walden Yacht Club, so I was ready to start work the day after I was hired. My white shirts had yellow stains in the pits and my pants were too short, but I let the hems out for an extra inch. Showbiz issued me a polyester red and black apron and a black plastic top hat. Nobody even called Mom.

My first day of work, I was introduced to the other employees, mostly juniors and seniors in high school. The boys had acne and the girls wore hair-sprayed bangs and plenty of makeup. I sounded like Tom Sawyer recounting my adventures in Montgomery, from the run-ins with snakes to swimming in the creek to riding Charlie Brown. I didn’t mention that I had just moved out of a shed.

At Showbiz Pizza, I was in charge of children’s birthday parties, presetting the tables with party hats and balloons. I served pizzas and soda to the kids and Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers and pitchers of beer to the parents. When the animatronics band, the Rock-afire Explosion, started playing “Birthday” by the Beatles, it was my cue to bring out an ice cream cake covered in lit candles. After everyone had finished, I cleaned off the tables and set another round of decorations for the next party.

Every two hours, Chuck E. Cheese, the human-sized mouse who was the restaurant’s mascot, would make an appearance. One of us would have to dress up in the gray, furry costume for the short performance. The girls didn’t like wearing the smelly, hot, heavy outfit, with a headpiece that was certain to mess up their hair. But I loved being the center of attention and took the job seriously, making sure each time I stepped out on the floor I was performing. “After all, the
E
in Chuck E. Cheese stands for ‘entertainment’!”

The job was harder than the one at the yacht club, but I didn’t have to share my tips. I pocketed anything from five to twenty dollars per table. After a particularly raucous party, the birthday kid’s father took me aside and slipped money in my hand, saying, “You did a mighty fine job. Thank you, young lady.”

He walked away and I unfolded the cash and saw I was holding a one-hundred-dollar bill. I had never seen one before and was sure it wasn’t meant for me. I chased after him, “Sir! Sir, I think you made a mistake.”

“No, honey, you keep that for yourself. Get yourself sumpthin’ nice,” he said with a wink. My eyes grew wide and I gushed, “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

I walked across the highway and headed straight to North East
Mall, still wearing my pit-stained shirt and too-short pants and clutching my plastic top hat with my polyester apron stuffed inside it. I soon discovered that stores like Express and Contempo Casuals were a lot more expensive than Weiner’s and Wal-Mart. I shopped for new school clothes and bought my first pair of brand-name jeans, Gloria Vanderbilt’s. The Gloria Vanderbilt label wasn’t that popular anymore and the only ones on the rack I could afford were dressy, baby blue, and pleated in the front, not the dark blue denim with gold thread that I wanted. But there was no hiding the embroidered swan on the right pocket where everyone could see it. Wearing clothes with an authentic, recognizable logo instead of the usual discount duds branded me a freshman fashion icon.

Dad wasn’t working, so he was in charge of enrolling me in my new school. After our tour of campuses, we had chosen Birdville Independent School District, home of the Richland Rebels. The Confederate flag waved proudly from the flagpole, was stuck on every bumper in the parking lot, and was pinned on the jackets of all the kids. I was disappointed to learn that “high school” didn’t begin until the tenth grade. I was insulted. I had almost completed my freshman year of high school in Montgomery and had served as class secretary. I was bigger than junior high, but I couldn’t change the rules.

As the first day of school drew near, I realized that one thousand students was a large class. I decided that Smithfield Junior High, one of the district’s middle schools, might be more manageable. For the first time, I was going to a school where David and his bad grades and troublemaking weren’t going to precede me. This was my first real chance to debut the new and improved Kambri Crews.

Dad strutted through the hallways of my new school like it was named after him. We entered the principal’s office and approached a woman with a desk plate that read “Ms. Butler.”

“Hi, my name is Kambri Crews and I’m supposed to start school here,” I said, instinctively taking charge.

She looked at my father, who smiled. “Yes, we’ve been expecting you.” She handed me a clipboard with a stack of papers and instructed my father, “I just need you need to fill out these papers.”

I interpreted her directions and judging by her stunned expression, Ms. Butler had never seen a deaf person. She stared with her mouth agape, gawking at Dad like he was a sideshow freak. I wanted to scold her for her rude reaction. Instead I snipped, “He’s deaf.”

“I see that,” she nodded, then got back to work.

Dad filled out the emergency contact information and handed me the document pointing to a blank signature line. “Sign your mama’s name.” The sentence above read that this signature would be kept on file and used as a comparison for correspondence with parents, such as report cards and excuses for absences.

“I can’t sign this,” I signed back. “You need to sign.”

“I know what it’s for.” Dad raised his brows quickly up and down with a mischievous smile. “You sign for your mama. That way you can write your own letters.” I shot a quick look at Ms. Butler. She was none the wiser, answering phones and taking messages.

My eyes grew wide. I was a fast thinker, and immediately calculated that this would give me full authority to cut school without
my parents ever knowing. I searched Dad’s face trying to figure out his motive for letting me “authorize” my own signature. Maybe he didn’t fully understand what it meant.

Seeing my astonished expression, Dad put his index finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

He had such disdain for authority that he didn’t even want it for me. At school, I strictly played by the rules, so Dad had to mentor me in how to be a delinquent. I wrote “Christy Crews” in cursive letters, and marveled at my skillful forgery.

Dad glanced at my writing and signed, “Not bad. Looks the same.” All of those years playing bank teller with Mom’s old checks had paid off. He gave me a conspiratorial wink and I handed the clipboard back to Ms. Butler.

“All right, young lady, let’s take you to your homeroom.”

Dad waved goodbye and added, “Good luck.”

Ms. Butler gave me a quick tour of the school, assigned me a locker, and escorted me to my first class. Students whispered and pointed as I walked past. For my debut at school, I had chosen to wear my new Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and a long-sleeved light pink tunic top with black polka dots cinched at the waist with a wide, black belt. As Ms. Butler introduced me to the class, I grew self-conscious and worried that my outfit might be too flashy. Rather than show my insecurities, I held my head high with my shoulders back, the way Mom always stood. When lunch break came, I was petrified that I might have to sit by myself and considered skipping the cafeteria altogether.

I heard a familiar voice call my name. “Hey, Kambri!” I turned to see Michele walking toward me, flanked by two girls. “She’s the girl I was tellin’ you about.” She introduced me to her friends
and showed me how the lunch line worked. “Go get your tray and then come sit with us.” I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and relaxed for the first time since I had entered the building.