‘Well, you could still finish,’ says Diane. ‘I bet you could. And then, who knows?’
‘Yeah, I’ll move to California like the Beverly Hillbillies,’ I crack. ‘I’ll get a cement pond.’ That last sentence I say in my silliest hillbilly accent.
‘I despise that television program,’ Diane says, frowning. ‘It’s so corny.’
‘I hate it, too!’ I say. ‘But my mother and grandmother love it.’ I pause to consider something. ‘So that show isn’t how rich people live?’ I’m joking, of course, but it’s worth it when Diane laughs. The sound fills the room, which suddenly doesn’t feel so empty anymore.
Soon we’re talking at almost the same time, Diane’s sentences sliding over mine and mine over hers, like they’re getting to know each other, too. I can see Diane relaxing a little in front of me, dropping her shoulders, dropping the ends of words. As for me? The last time I felt this comfortable spilling secrets and talking things over in this room, it was with Cheryl. It’s nice.
‘Isn’t it funny, you hanging out with a tea sipper like me?’ she asks.
‘How’d you know we call you that?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Tea sippers.’
‘I live on planet Earth, you know,’ Diane says, smiling. ‘Even if most of that time was spent in River Oaks.’
I hear the front door open, Mama’s work shoes hitting the floor, and some low talking between my mother and my grandmother. I’m sure Grandma is alerting Mama to Diane’s presence. Then my bedroom door opens. Diane pops up on both feet, tucks her hair behind her ear.
‘Hello, Mrs Barnes,’ she says. ‘I’m Diane Farris.’ I can’t believe how quickly she can put on her company manners.
‘Hello,’ my mother says, more softly than normal. ‘Evie,’ she says, peering at the floor, ‘you could at least straighten up a bit if you’re going to have a friend over.’ She looks at Diane again, tips her head a little. I know she’s trying to understand how Diane is here in her house with her bad daughter who wears too much eyeliner and has too little common sense.
‘Diane doesn’t mind,’ I say. ‘Really.’
‘I can help her tidy up if you’d like,’ she says.
My mother pauses, stares at Diane, and blinks. ‘My goodness, any influence you could have on my daughter would be much appreciated,’ she says. ‘Now I need to get cleaned up before we eat.’ After she walks out, Diane and I share a glance and a grin.
‘You’ve impressed my mother quite a bit, in case you couldn’t tell,’ I say.
‘I live to please,’ Diane says, before putting her hands on her waist and peering around. ‘And I really can help you fix this room up if you’d like, you know.’
I shoot Diane a no way look and slide off my bed.
‘Maybe next time,’ I say, smiling wider, and we head into the hallway toward the kitchen.
Dinner is pork chops and butter beans. Grandma and Mama aren’t sure what to make of Diane, who pulls her pageant-queen self out again and chatters on, making up a story about coming to our part of town to ‘help a sick aunt’ and going on and on about how much she’s enjoying Eastside High. But they seem impressed, smiling and nodding as she fills the empty pauses with observations and questions about just how my grandmother gets her pork chops so tasty. This gives Grandma an opportunity to elaborate on her cooking skills. Skills, she notes, that she wishes I would be more interested in learning.
‘I should learn more about the kitchen, too, Mrs Davis,’ Diane says, in between careful bites, and Grandma smiles. When dinner is over, Diane insists on clearing the table and doing the dishes. I help, and I quickly make Diane take over drying because she clearly hasn’t washed many dishes in her life.
As we finish up, we hear Mama and Grandma turn on the small television in the living room. Diane takes this as her cue to leave.
‘It was so nice to meet you both,’ she says, smiling broadly.
‘You’re welcome in our home anytime, Diane,’ Mama says.
‘Thank you so much,’ she says, nodding. I’m almost surprised she doesn’t curtsy.
I walk Diane out to our porch and shut the front door behind me.
‘Good grief, Diane,’ I say good-naturedly. ‘My mother and grandmother are going to be all over me about how come my manners aren’t as nice as yours.’
Diane sighs in embarrassed acknowledgment. ‘I can’t help it. I’m like a well-trained show horse around adults, especially when I meet them for the first time.’ She snaps her fingers for emphasis and then mimics a voice I can only guess is her mother’s, high-pitched and snooty. ‘Diane, dear, please come in and say hello to Mr and Mrs Cullen. Now parade around and open up your mouth so they can see how well you trot and how nice your teeth look.’
I snort, and loudly, too. Diane can certainly be funnier than I expected. I suspect this is one of the things that made Johnny Treadway fall in love with her. And I think about how it’s something that might make Connie and the other girls like her a lot more, too, if only they would give Diane a real chance.
‘Anyway, Evie,’ she says, ‘I should be leaving.’ The weight of our conversation in the listening booth at the Jive Hive feels heavy between us, but neither one of us mentions it. Diane just reaches out and hugs me. ‘Thanks for being my friend,’ she whispers into my ear.
‘Thanks for being mine,’ I say, and I stand on the sidewalk watching her walk all the way down the street until she rounds the corner.
When I head back inside, I find Mama and Grandma watching The Andy Griffith Show. ‘What a lovely young lady she was,’ Grandma says, managing to pull her eyes away from the set to look at me. ‘You should bring her by more often.’
‘You can bring her by whenever you’d like,’ Mama echoes, then pauses and frowns a bit. ‘Although I have to tell you, she reminds me of some of those society ladies I see at the Shamrock. She talks like she’s …’ Mama struggles for the right phrase, then simply says, ‘Like she’s got plenty of money.’
I shrug, hoping if I ignore the comment Mama will let it drop, but as I head toward my bedroom, she presses me. ‘How did you meet her, exactly?’
I hover in the space between the living room and the hallway, tucking myself around the corner so I don’t have to make eye contact.
‘Just at school,’ I say. ‘We have the same English class.’
Mama doesn’t say anything at first. I don’t think she believes me – after all, what’s a girl like me doing bringing home a girl like Diane Farris? But she doesn’t push the issue.
‘I’m going to my room,’ I say.
‘Come back if you want to watch The Joey Bishop Show!’ Grandma shouts as I make my way down the hall.
In my room alone, I crawl into my bed and under my bedspread. I’m by myself now, with only my thoughts as company.
If Cheryl were here, maybe I could tell her how Diane and I really met. And if Cheryl were here, I could tell her about Preston Fowler and his rough hands and his slurred threats. I could tell her about the smirk on his face that’s been burned into my brain every waking moment since Saturday night.