Kate Fox & The Three Kings (3 page)

“In the evening, I shower like any normal person would. Sometimes I comb my hair before I shower, other times I forget. I wash my face with soap—towel dry my hair. If I ever get a zit, I read that toothpaste will dry it out, so I put toothpaste on any blemish.” Candace wrote down a note about toothpaste and urged me to continue. “Other than a shower and basic hygiene, my nightly routine isn’t very tantalizing. After dinner, I sit in my room, finish homework, and then spend the rest of the night reading.” My evenings were rather dull. The Smiths didn’t own a television or computer, and even if they did, Joy wouldn’t allow me to have free reign of electronics. Thus, I looked forward to quiet nights with my door shut, absorbing pages of contraband books and immersing myself in a fictional fantasyland.

“Oh! I forgot’ta say I read, too. I done read the Bible four times already. I’m on my fifth round this year—almost to Leviticus!” Candace boasted.

I started to tell Candace that I wasn’t reading the Bible for hours every night, but Mrs. Miller, who instructed all of us to prepare our presentations and critiques for our partners, cut me off.  “Are we ready, class? Mary and Naomi will go first, followed by Bekah and Lydia, Elizabeth and Hope, Bethany and Deb, then Candace and Kate,” Mrs. Miller paused, peering around the class to see if our small group had any questions. When no one spoke up, she took a seat in one of the front school desks that creaked under her weight, and then she motioned the first pair to begin their presentation.

Mary cleared her throat and went over the highlights of Naomi’s grooming schedule, one being that Naomi meticulously combed through every strand of hair on her head each night, inspecting the ends for any splits, picking the frayed hairs and casting them in the bin. Mary praised Naomi’s attention to detail but pointed out Naomi’s thin lips and offered suggestions on a plumper appearance: over-lining the lips, dabbing on a neutral pink lipstick, then placing a bit of gloss in the middle to mimic a fuller bottom lip. Mary even suggested a suction cup method, which I had never heard of before. Placing a suction cup on the lips before going out gave them a plump, red appearance. I wondered if the suction cup method needed to be timed, because I thought that was how people got hickeys. A face hickey would be terrible, but I kept my burning questions to myself.

My hands fidgeted in the pockets of my pleated khaki uniform skirt, and sweat began to condense on my palms as I arranged the details of Candace’s routine in my head. Candace’s mother was obviously giving her daily criticism, and I thought it cruel to add to her insecurities with additional critiques. As Bethany and Deb wrapped up their presentation, Candace and I exchanged nervous glances and slogged to the front of the classroom. Candace agreed to go first.

“After school, Kate works on improvin’ both what’s on the outside and the inside.  She eats fruits and veggies for dinner, in small amounts, then focuses on cleanin’ her skin. With whatever time’s left, Kate spends it with the Lord, readin’ the Bible,” Candace rattled off, reciting notes from her notebook. I spotted several nods of approval, and Candace nudged my arm with hers to begin.

I glanced around the room at all of my fellow students taking notes attentively. The classroom was part of a makeshift trailer, stuffed full of old, wooden desks, connected to the main school with a breezeway. The guys were privy to the regular classrooms, while the girls were stuck out here, forced to yell over the rattling air conditioning unit.

I cleared my throat and stared down at my unremarkable footwear, “Candace has a very… strict grooming routine. Every detail counts, and Candace is constantly researching ways in which to improve. She’s, um, incredibly proactive in enhancing her features and conscious of makeup colors that play to her strengths,” I spoke, feeling rushed to finish so I could finally get out of the classroom. Candace beamed back at my praise, but Mrs. Miller tapped her pen on the desk impatiently.

“And your critiques, girls? You know that was part of the presentation, so let’s have it. Everyone else has followed through,” the teacher prompted.

“Oh! Kate’s hair is so gorgeous, but I don’t think she knows how to style it. Her hair is always up in a bun or styled in a braid but wouldn’t it look so much better down? And maybe she could apply a bit of blush and definitely some lip-gloss. A peachy shade might look nice?” Candace posed the questions to the class.

Bekah chimed in: “I think a rosy color goes with red hair best. Purple eyeshadow looks good on redheads, too. If you wore makeup, maybe you wouldn’t seem so pale and sickly all the time.” Bekah was notorious for having an opinion about literally everything; she was a student who raised her hand for every question, volunteered for every opportunity, and spoke up even when no one was speaking to her. Her long blonde hair and tanned skin earned her only a handful of critiques during her presentation.

“Excellent input, Bekah,” Mrs. Miller praised, then turned her attention towards me. “Now, go on—tell us what Candace needs to work on. She deserves our utmost honesty. We are doing her a favor, Kate.”

I remained silent as I examined Candace’s nervous face. She was avoiding eye contact. “I have no critiques, Mrs. Miller,” I said, deflated.

With a single cock of her brow, Mrs. Miller shot up from her desk and stomped over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders and directing my face at Candace. “If she does not have our guidance, how is Candace supposed to get a husband to provide for her? How will she find a man to serve?” Mrs. Miller asked with a note of pity for Candace. “We are not leaving this class until you speak up, Ms. Fox.”

“Fine.” I was embarrassed and now the rest of the girls were groaning with disapproval at the prospect of having to stay past school hours. I gave Candace a final once-over: “Candace should use a product to control her frizz. I think she could use—-.”

“AHHHHHHHHH!” Mary’s scream interrupted my mumbling. She stood up so quick that she knocked her desk over, then ran to the corner of the trailer and hunkered down on top of the green shag carpet.

“What in the Lord’s name is your problem, girl?” Mrs. Miller yelled, perturbed.

“COCKROACH!” Mary hollered, and all of the girls went running out of the classroom.

And thanks to Mary’s outburst, my critique was over. “Thanks little buddy… Rest in peace,” I whispered, bending down next to Mary’s desk after everyone evacuated the room. The culprit suffered from blunt trauma and was now lying belly-up underneath the wooden desk.

During the month of February, the class practiced posture, taking note of hand placement —always clasped behind the back, never at the sides. What I affectionately referred to as the “constipated flamingo” pose was ingrained in our consciousness as our resting posture: instead of relaxing with feet forward and slightly apart, we were to position one foot delicately behind the other, at an angle. Each student demonstrated their best efforts at the end of each class, and we gave constructive criticism accordingly, often with a sprinkling of wardrobe suggestions thrown in for good measure.

“’A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner,’”
we recited from the Bible each day. As much as I appalled the concept of existing only to be attractive to the opposite sex, I found myself flushed with pride the few times Mrs. Miller pointed out how pleasant I appeared in my natural, reserved state.

April was not nearly as pleasurable, centering on sex education, which was more like abstinence education with very little talk of the actual act and much elaboration on the religious and social ramifications. At the start of each class, we were given a new verse to recite: “’
To the woman [God] said, I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.’”

We went around the room and took turns reading aloud from our textbooks. Naomi cleared her throat and began, “The school strengthens the teachings of the parents’, namely the father’s oversight of his wife’s emphasis on abstinence and intimacy with Jesus Christ alone to her daughters. The man of the household should warn his daughters of lust’s treachery in the eyes of the Lord, as well as ramifications of submitting to the flesh. Women become unclean as they embark on puberty, tempting men with their shapeliness. It is a woman’s duty to reject any advances of man, to not lure him in with cunning words or suggestive clothing. Any woman who lies with a man before wedlock shall be cast out of God’s holy kingdom, and the responsibility is with the father to reprimand his whore.”

Our final weeks of Charms class dealt with the second phase of physical appearance, as the counterpart to January’s teachings on making the most of one’s attributes. Attracting a husband started with possessing the qualities that men found attractive, Mrs. Miller explained. Men desired small, slender and quiet women, with conservative cleavage and rumps. Any feature too ample or generous was deemed lewd, and thus, considered undesirable. With only two weeks until graduation, Mrs. Miller, reported that today’s lesson was, perhaps, the most important one of the year. Starting at the left side of the classroom, girls shuffled into a single file line, waiting for their turn to approach Mrs. Miller, who held a yellow measuring tape in one gaunt hand. She scooted a bathroom scale in front of her brown leather loafers, motioning us to come up one by one to get our weight and measurements recorded. Candace was at the front of the line and appeared fidgety even though she probably only weighed a buck ten soaking wet.

“Arms out,” Mrs. Miller ordered, measuring under Candace’s arms, around her cleavage, then her waist and hips. Finally, she motioned Candace to step on the scale. “Go on an’ write this on the board, dear,” Candace hurried to pick up a dry erase marker. “Candace Cross: five feet, seven inches, 108-pounds, 30-inch bust, 22-inch waist, 28-inch hip circumference—no, no. You stay up there Candace,” Mrs. Miller shook her finger at Candace. “Jot down everyone else’s measurements.”

I was sweating by the time my turn finally came. The girl’s measurements showcased slight differences, a couple of pounds here and there. I gulped nervously before lifting up my arms for Mrs. Miller. Her eyebrows arched as she studied the tape measure. “Step on the scale,” she instructed without peering up, and I didn’t glimpse down at the number.

“Kate Fox: five feet, three inches, 38-inch bust, 29-inch waist, 39-inch hip circumference. 143-pounds,” Mrs. Miller rattled off as I tried to tune out the entire class rather unsuccessfully. Bekah and Naomi snickered as I walked back to my seat.

“Bawk BAWK, eat less chicken, bitch,” Bekah chided in my ear and giggled with the other girls when I sat down.

I spent the rest of class counting the moments until I was awarded delicious freedom. I tapped my foot in anticipation of the bell.  
Five… four…three… two…one.
The walk back to the compound was my most favorite and least favorite part of the day, in which I was allowed the time to fantasize about seducing a dashing businessman, idly distracted by his Blackberry. I’d catch his attention, batting my eyelashes and biting into an apple,
Lolita
-style. He would say, “Let’s get outta here,” in one of those old Hollywood-type accents. I’d hop into the passenger seat of his black sports car without questioning the consequences, and when Brushy Fork grew small in my rearview window, I’d chuckle, knowingly.
Goodbye, suckers.

Then again, the walk home was my least favorite part of the day, because it meant I wasn’t safe within the confines of the school walls. I dragged myself toward the Smith residence, toward unsettling reality.

I stopped at my locker before skipping out the double doors, only to find Gideon pacing down the hallway. His brow was furrowed and his lips appeared chapped and cracked; he double-checked that no one else was in the hallway. Gideon approached, shuffling his feet and toying with the end of a pencil eraser. He asked me to meet him at the clearing that evening, at our spot in the woods. “Don’t tell anyone,” Gideon he leaned in and whispered, then playfully grinned back at me when I nodded in agreement. But I didn’t linger on deciphering the meaning of our future meeting. I had bigger troubles to sort out.

When Wednesday night chapel commenced hours later, I lied to Joy and told her I forgot my study Bible at school. Obviously, I needed to retrieve it if I was going to get any of my weekly, Biblical self-loathing accomplished. Joy’s beady eyes inspected me up and down suspiciously, as she knew I lacked devotion, but perhaps optimism momentarily clouded her judgment: “Better be back within the hour, girl, or y’know there’ll be punishment,” Joy scowled and shook her pudgy pointer finger my way, then dove back into the box of Little Debbie’s she was demolishing. She was the only person I had ever witnessed sport perpetual frown; I often wondered if a smile ever dared graze her face. My guess was not only
no
, but
heck no
.

I hurried off into the forest, which seemed rather dreary for such a nice night at the start of a Kentucky summer. The full moon shone above but didn’t offer any illumination for my path, and I shivered without consent. I didn’t relish wandering alone, not here. Rumor was the forest was haunted by three notorious witches, who were hung by the founders of W.H.O.R.E. at the beginning of the century.

“
Kate
.” Was that Gideon calling? The voice was distinctly male and lingered in the air. I glanced down at my Dollar Store watch and set off in the direction of the secret spot, this time with haste. Forty-five minutes.

“Over here, Kate,” Gideon motioned in his direction. His plaid button-up and pressed khakis, practically Brushy Fork’s man uniform, appeared out of place on a night like this, in the middle of the woods. Gideon rolled up his sleeves, revealing his blotchy pink skin and muscular forearms. I glanced up at him, noticing the sweaty, uncombed hair plastered to his forehead. With his boyish cheeks a flush, Gideon folded his arms across his chest as I studied him.
He’s nervous. Maybe Gideon has finally decided to bust out of Brushy Fork with me. We could catch a bus and—-