The Queen of Kentucky Read online

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  This one’s for Mom and Dad.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  “When we get to high school, I want you to call me Ericka,” I say, taking off my tan leather work glove to wipe the sweat from my brow. I’ve been blabbing to my best friend, Luke, all day because A) talking makes the time go by faster, and B) I’m a jabber-jaw; but I might as well be talking to one of our cows. Luke just sort of moseys along down the row of tobacco next to me, nodding every now and then and chomping on his bubble gum. He has been totally unsympathetic to almost every gripe I’ve had today, from the sad state of my grubby fingernails to how humiliating it is to have to pop a squat in the weeds every time I have to pee. But this is serious. “Did you hear me, Luke? I’m for real. It’s Ericka.”

  He nods and swings his tobacco knife at the base of the huge stalk in front of him. I hate talking to his back, his white T-shirt soaked through so that I can actually see the freckles spotting his shoulder blades, but unlike the rest of the day’s conversations, this is one thing I really need him to hear me on.

  “Luke Foster!” I shout, stamping my boot in the dirt.

  “What, Ricki Jo?” he says, exasperated. When he jerks up to look at me, sweat drips down around his clear blue eyes and his sandy blond hair falls across his forehead and sticks there. I fight the urge to step into his row and push it back, mostly because I’m in making-my-point mode, but also because once he stretches up to his full height of six foot two, there’s no reaching it while maintaining my dignity.

  So, calmer, I repeat myself: “When we get to high school, I want you to call me Ericka.”

  “Yeah, great, whatever, Ricki Jo,” he says, pulling a bottle of water out from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “E-rick-a,” I correct, pointing my dirty tobacco knife at him and arching the prissier of my two eyebrows.

  He smirks in response and swallows. “We aren’t in high school yet.”

  “It’s to-morrow!” I say.

  “Then to-mor-row,” he mocks, “I’ll call you Princess E-rick-a. ’Til then, it’s plain ol’ Ricki Jo.”

  I roll my eyes and grab my own water bottle, totally not expecting a guy with a simple name like Luke to understand where I’m coming from. I’m starting HIGH SCHOOL. First impressions are important and double names are, I don’t know, babyish. It’s not that I hate my name, but Ricki Jo doesn’t have that… swagger. It doesn’t have the sophistication that Ericka does.

  I pull my glove back on and stretch, pushing my arms up and my chest out, willing my tiny frame closer to the blue sky. Squinting against the sun, I can’t help but feel defeated. So. Much. Tobacco.

  Cutting is the pits. I mean, nobody likes spending her free time working with her dad, her little brother, and dirt-covered men of varying ages. But cutting tobacco? A nightmare. First of all, Kentucky in late August boasts temps in the mid-nineties with a hundred percent humidity, so, yeah, it’s hot. Second, the tobacco is at full size, meaning each stalk is weighed down with sticky green leaves every bit as long as my arm and as wide as my hips. Bent over just about the entire day, a girl like me can expect sore shoulders from swiping at the thick base of the tobacco with a short knife, a sore back from hefting the chopped-off seven-pound plant upside down, and entire-body aches from then heaving said plant onto an inch-square splintery stick… a stick she is squeezing between her legs the entire time in some sort of sick balancing act.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I grumble, noticing a splinter in the meaty part of my palm. I wipe my knife on my T-shirt and dig into the flesh with the tip, the splinter both a major annoyance and a welcome distraction. “I hate—hate—cutting tobacco,” I gripe to no one in particular. (If I’ve said it once today, I’ve said it a million times, so I’ve kind of lost my audience.)

  “Me, too,” I hear from behind me. Surprised, I turn around to see my little brother, Ben, struggling, his brow knit in a combination of fury and despair as he teeters down my row, dropping sticks for me to eventually load up with tobacco. “I wish I were playing video games.”

  I can’t help but smile. Misery truly does love company, even if it comes in the form of elementary-school-aged monsters. Most summers, I’m the one dropping sticks (a way easier job), but this morning my dad decided that Ben is “of age,” so he’s been dragged to the fields for tobacco initiation and I got lumped in with the guys to cut.

  “Back to work, kids,” my dad says sternly, appearing out of nowhere. Ben’s shoulders droop as he wobbles away like a miniature tightrope walker, the long gray sticks bouncing over his little eight-year-old forearms. Before bending down to start my next stick, I give my dad my most exaggerated eye-roll/heavy-sigh combination, to which he responds with his age-old don’t-push-it expression before stepping over to his own row.

  Fuming, I reach for the stick at my feet; however, this is the precise moment that a small black garter snake slithers out in front of me. I do what any normal fourteen-year-old girl would do: scream my head off, dance in spastic horror, and throw my tobacco knife into the dirt—completely missing the snake. I look to Luke for help, but he’s laughing hysterically, which really gets my already hot blood boiling. Wrists on sweaty forehead, breathing totally out of control, I walk around in a circle until the disgusting little reptile slithers away.

  I am—officially—over it.

  “Ugh! I hate this job! I hate this job!” I shout.

  “Then go drop sticks with your lil’ brother,” Luke calls over from his row, a not-so-cute smirk playing all over his lips. “Cuttin’ is man’s work, anyway.”

  I glower at him, pick up my knife, and carry on.

  At Luke’s farm I’m the lone female, since his older sister, Claire, got pregnant last fall. She and I used to gossip nonstop to pass the time, but her brothers aren’t so chatty. I really could’ve used her this summer, too. If she were here, she’d tell me which teachers are cool and which are jerks, she’d give me advice about how high school is different, and she’d totally get why I’m basically freaking out. I swipe at the stalks in front of me and try to put myself in her shoes. Would I rather be changing a diaper right now or cutting tobacco? Hmmm…

  At the moment it’s a tough choice, but in reality, the tobacco eventually all gets cut, and quitting time always comes. But not for Claire. She’s 24/7 now—all baby, all the time. She was actually pretty popular in high school, but most of her friends jumped ship when she started showing. A couple of jocks started mock-interviewing her for Teen Mom, this MTV show about underage girls getting knocked up. Luke says she took it all really well, that she was strong and just laughed ’em off, but if it taught me anything, it’s that high school is scary and that I should get in good from the beginning.

  Which is why I’m so nervous. Which is why I want to make new friends, and be popular… or at least not unpopular. Which is why I need to make a really strong first impression tomorrow. And why I’m totally beyond ticked off about this god-awful farmer’s tan!

  As I bend, cut, lift, and spear, I’m fit to be tied. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon and the sun has not quit. I’m red from its rays, I’m red from slapping at bugs all over me, and I’m red from my temper. As I lift yet another huge stalk of tobacco up and spear it onto the stick between my legs, I can’t help but be mad. Even this doggone tobacco is taller than me! Even tobacco has hit puberty!

  “I don’t see why we’re helping y’all out, anyway!” I holler to Luke while rolling my white T-shirt sleeves up onto my shoulders for the millionth time today. “We don’t farm anymore. My dad took a factory job. This sucks!”

  A low voice growls too near. “We didn’t ask for y
our charity.”

  I turn and see Luke’s dad standing over me, a mean scowl on his face. I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see Luke in my peripheral vision, stepping quickly into my row, alert. The father and son couldn’t be more different. Although they’re both tall, Mr. Foster has that man weight on him that, at fourteen, Luke hasn’t grown into yet. Luke is dirty, wearing muddy boots and jeans and a once white T-shirt—I probably look exactly the same—but his dad wears coveralls stained from chew and dip, no shirt underneath, an old flask sticking out of one pocket and a faded handkerchief out of the other. Basically, Luke’s clothes were clean when we met at the barn this morning, and his dad’s weren’t.

  “We’re happy to help,” my dad says, coming to the rescue, my row suddenly the life of the party. Mr. Foster grunts, spits, and ambles off. Luke cuts a couple of stalks near me, all former teasing and eye sparkle gone. He mumbles an embarrassed “Sorry” and finishes off my stick. I roll my eyes and shake my head, totally annoyed.

  “Yeah, real happy,” I mumble.

  My dad’s hand lands firmly on my shoulder and I look up. “Watch that smart mouth, young lady. I can always lower it to five dollars an hour instead of six,” he threatens, staring me down until I finally break eye contact.

  I march over to grab my next stick with all the silent rebellion I can muster, my dark blond ponytail sweat-soaked and smacking me on the shoulders.

  Why are we even out here?

  My dad farmed his whole life, but this winter he got a job at the new Toyota plant in Georgetown, about a half hour away. With the government buyout and outrageous lawsuits against Big Tobacco, farming isn’t a stable way to make a living in Kentucky anymore. My dad’s always talking about all the vacant land around our county nowadays that used to thrive, but “a man’s gotta provide for his family,” so he gave it up. A lot of guys think he sold out, but when he first told us, I was happy as a lark! We’d still have cattle, a garden, and a small orchard, but no more tobacco. It meant he’d have to work nights, but he’d get a steady paycheck, no matter what the market did with the price of our state’s cash crop… and, more important, it meant that I was permanently off the hook from planting, pulling, setting, suckering, topping, cutting, housing, and stripping tobacco. Deliverance!

  Or so I was led to believe.

  Yet here it is, August, and although I’m getting paid now I’ve been a little tobacco fairy all summer long, flitting around the county on grudging wings. We’ve helped the Taylors, the Fischers, the Motts, and the O’Caseys. My dad is “too old to start sleeping during the day,” so he catnaps here and there and zombies himself from farm to farm, dragging Ben and me along in his shadow. I don’t know if he misses the farming itself or the idea of being a farmer, but I really wish he’d get over his identity crisis. Get a Porsche! A toupee! A tattoo! If you’re gonna do a midlife crisis, do it right!

  I swing at the base of stalk after stalk, pushing each of them over like Godzilla storming through Tokyo.

  I hate—

  Swipe!

  hate—

  Hack!

  hate—

  Cut!

  hate my life!

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  “You have the most adorable freckles,” my momma tells me that night as I sit on the floor between her legs and she rolls my hair. With a day out in the Kentucky sunshine comes a splatter of freckles all over my nose and cheeks. Not something I love, but not something I hate, either. My big ears, I hate. Freckles, I can live with.

  “Yeah, too bad they came from a day of work instead of a day at the swimming pool,” I complain.

  “You don’t even like swimming! You can’t jump in without holding your nose,” she points out.

  True. But if I were at the country club with the other kids my age, I would glide in from the shallow end or just plain jump in and drown. At least I’d die cool. But the country club is only for the “well-off,” and besides, our farm is way out in the boondocks, out by the county line, so it takes about twenty minutes just to get to town. And with gas prices killing my dad’s bank account (and therefore my social life), there has to be a pretty good reason to go—church, school, birthday party, etc.

  “Can you still smell the lemon juice?” I ask Momma as she combs my wet hair over my face. It’s naturally wavy, but I want true curls for the first day.

  “Uh-uh,” she murmurs, sectioning off another piece. “You excited for school tomorrow, baby?”

  Humph. Talk about your understatements. I’ve been counting down the days ’til high school all summer long. I try to nod, but she’s holding strong to the next strand of hair to be wrapped and snapped in pink sponge.

  I guess I’ll be a new kid, but I’ve actually lived in this town all my life. And it’s a small town. We’ve got one movie theater that plays one movie all week long; a Fashion Bug and a Walmart (though not Super); and McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and KFC. Yeah, we’ve got a few stoplights, but I personally think they’re just for show. Stop signs usually do the trick. Breckinridge, Kentucky. The epicenter of Nowheresville, USA.

  The reason I’m “new” is because I’ve gone to private Catholic school since first grade. Our town is a big Southern Baptist kind of place to grow up, but there is our one little cathedral and our one little K–8 school. There are a few other kids from my school who’ll be going to the high school, too, but other than that, everybody will already know one another. When you’ve got just one public school for the whole county, most of the student body has been acquainted since finger painting in elementary school and staring at one another at junior high dances. Everybody knows everybody. And starting tomorrow, I’ll be an everybody.

  “Your hair used to be straw yellow.” Momma sighs.

  I pass her another roller and think about what I’ll wear tomorrow and who I might already know. There are a few kids from 4-H, one of the few social clubs I’m allowed to participate in as a non–public schooler. Over the years, I’ve tried basket weaving and shown cows, but mainly I crochet and sew; and although I’m not talented, I love modeling my scarf/sweater/oven mitt creations at the county fair every July. I’ve also signed up every year for rec-league softball and basketball, since our little school didn’t have much in the way of extracurriculars (or school spirit in general), so a few of those kids know me okay. I’ll probably recognize a lot of faces, just from growing up here my whole life, but I’m still nervous about hardly knowing anybody.

  “Now it’s just that dishwater blond,” my mom continues as she snaps the last roller into place.

  I get up and kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Momma,” I say, looking in the mirror over the mantel to check my pink plastic Afro head. Dishwater? Seriously? Way to build the self-esteem before the most important day of my life, I think; but what I say is, “I’m gonna go get ready for bed.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” she says, gathering up her comb and spray water bottle. “And don’t forget to read your Bible!” she calls as I head down the hall to my room.

  Right.

  It feels like I just went to sleep. The sun is up and the air is electric. It’s the first day of school. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  Having strewn my entire wardrobe all over my room last night, I now wade through the mess and stand in front of my full-length mirror. My skin looks quite tan against the modest white summer dress I chose, my toenails are a pretty pink in simple brown sandals, and, best of all, my face is zit free. I lean in close to the mirror and check my eyes (big and hazel), my nose (long and freckled), and my teeth (straight, finally!) to make sure they are clean and clear. I dip one skinny finger into a jar of Vaseline and smooth it over my full, chapped lips—gloss for the creative girl. I shake my head and then grin as my dark blond curls bounce from side to side, although I’m worried it may look like I’m trying too hard. Hmmm… I cross my arms over my shoulders, then pose like I’m telling Luke a dramatic story, then put my backpack on and take it off again, all while keeping my eyes on mysel
f in the mirror. Lots of bounce. Yep, looks like I’m trying too hard. I quickly snatch a flimsy headband from around the doorknob and slide it on. Better. I take a step back and give myself one last up and down before deciding that I am as close to perfect-first-impression as I’m going to get. The dress isn’t new, but the training bra is. I smile every time I think about it.

  Preston County High School, here I come. I’m in high school. Agh!

  My younger brother and I stand on the front porch for our obligatory first-day-of-school pictures. Momma makes us do this every year, but whereas Ben is going to our old school, I am starting fresh. She arranges us like always: on the swing, in front of our flagpole, and at the bottom of our driveway where we wait for the bus. I oblige her scrapbook-in-the-making enthusiasm, but we made a deal that once the bus rounds the bend, the camera disappears.

  “Ricki Jo!” my dad yells from his four-by-four Dodge. Ben and I scoot back into the grass as he pulls into the gravel driveway, making it home from third shift at the factory just before the bus comes. He parks but leaves the truck idling, diesel engine gurgling, and I know he must be in a hurry because that’s such an out-of-character wasteful gesture (the gas money, not the fumes). With a huge smile on his face and a gleam in his eye, he heads over to where I stand, navy blue denim jacket in hand. “Look what I found.”

  I look.

  “It’s my old FFA jacket! Look at the embroidery. Clark Winstead—FFA President, 1986.”

  I stare.

  His face goes from excited to expectant to confused. “I thought you might wanna wear it today. Talk to Mr. Holland about joining FFA. You’ll fit right in.”

  I gape.

  FFA—Future Farmers of America. I’m fourteen, I’m four eleven, I weigh eighty-nine pounds, I have no boobs and no period, my ears don’t fit my face, and, to tell the truth, I’ve got a plantar wart on the bottom of my left foot. This is the first day of HIGH SCHOOL. And my father thinks I might want to wear his FFA jacket.