about what's happening, so that they no longer believe it's their fault when it does.
Chapter Two
intimate enemies
Ridgewood is a blink-and-you-miss-it working-class town of 2,000 in northern Mississippi. Big enough to have its own Wal-Mart but too small for more than a few traffic lights, Ridgewood is bordered by dusty state roads dotted with service stations and fast-food chains. It is the largest town in a dry county where the mostly Baptist churches outnumber the restaurants. The majority of the town is white, although growing numbers of African American families, mostly poor, are beginning to gather around its edges. Families have long made comfortable livings at local factories here, but threats of an imminent recession have given way to layoffs and a thickening layer of anxiety.
Ridgewood is a fiercely tight-knit community that prides itself in its family-centered values and spirit of care for neighbors. When a tornado cuts a fatal mile-wide swath through town, everyone heads over to rebuild homes and comfort the displaced. Ridgewood is the kind of place where grown children make homes next to their parents and where teenagers safely scatter onto Main Street without looking both ways, drifting in and out of the ice-cream parlor and game room after school. Year-round, going "rolling," toilet papering an unsuspecting peer or teacher's home, is a favorite pastime, sometimes supervised by parents.
By ten o'clock one October morning in Ridgewood, it was already eighty-two degrees. The Mississippi sun was blindingly bright, and the earth was dry, cracked, and dusty. We were having a drought. I was late getting to school, although the truth is in Ridgewood it doesn't take longer than a song on the radio to drive anywhere.
I raced through the front door of the elementary school, sunglass frames in my mouth, spiral notebook in hand. Cassie Smith was waiting. Tall and big-boned, prepubescently round, she had blond hair that waved gently in strings toward her shoulders, kind green eyes, glossed pink lips, braces, and a soft, egg-shaped freckled face. She was missing sixth-grade band class to be with me. Cassie met my eyes squarely as I nodded to herâI'd been laying low here, trying not to expose the girls who volunteered to talk to meâand we headed silently down the long, blue-gray corridor, down the ramp, underneath a still, rusty red fan, and toward the plain, cluttered room I had been using for interviews. Children were mostly oblivious to us as they slammed lockers and whirled toward class in single motions, their teachers standing stiff as flagpoles in the doorways. We passed class projects in a blur: elaborate trees decorated with sunset-colored tissue paper to welcome the autumn, which had actually been more of a summer than anything.
I motioned for Cassie to sit. We made a little small talk. She was whispering so softly I could barely hear her.
"So," I said gently, leaning back in my chipped metal folding chair. "Why did you want to come talk with me today?"
Cassie inhaled deeply. "This is happening
right now,
okay?" she said, as though to admonish me that I was not just some archaeologist come here to sift through dirt and bones. "My best friend Becca," she began, staring fiercely at her fingers, which were playing an absentminded game of itsy-bitsy spider against the lead-smeared tabletop, "I trusted her and everything. She called me and asked if I liked Kelly, who is our good friend. Becca said that Kelly talks bad about me and everything." Cassie sounded nervous. "I really didn't want to say anything back about Kelly because I didn't want to go down to her level." On the phone, Cassie tried to change the subject.
But when Becca called, Kelly had been over at her house. When Becca hung up, she told Kelly that Cassie had called her names. Kelly called back and told Cassie off.
Now, at school, Kelly was teasing Cassie relentlesslyâabout what she was wearing (she wore that outfit last week) or not
Chapter Two
intimate enemies
Ridgewood is a blink-and-you-miss-it working-class town of 2,000 in northern Mississippi. Big enough to have its own Wal-Mart but too small for more than a few traffic lights, Ridgewood is bordered by dusty state roads dotted with service stations and fast-food chains. It is the largest town in a dry county where the mostly Baptist churches outnumber the restaurants. The majority of the town is white, although growing numbers of African American families, mostly poor, are beginning to gather around its edges. Families have long made comfortable livings at local factories here, but threats of an imminent recession have given way to layoffs and a thickening layer of anxiety.
Ridgewood is a fiercely tight-knit community that prides itself in its family-centered values and spirit of care for neighbors. When a tornado cuts a fatal mile-wide swath through town, everyone heads over to rebuild homes and comfort the displaced. Ridgewood is the kind of place where grown children make homes next to their parents and where teenagers safely scatter onto Main Street without looking both ways, drifting in and out of the ice-cream parlor and game room after school. Year-round, going "rolling," toilet papering an unsuspecting peer or teacher's home, is a favorite pastime, sometimes supervised by parents.
By ten o'clock one October morning in Ridgewood, it was already eighty-two degrees. The Mississippi sun was blindingly bright, and the earth was dry, cracked, and dusty. We were having a drought. I was late getting to school, although the truth is in Ridgewood it doesn't take longer than a song on the radio to drive anywhere.
I raced through the front door of the elementary school, sunglass frames in my mouth, spiral notebook in hand. Cassie Smith was waiting. Tall and big-boned, prepubescently round, she had blond hair that waved gently in strings toward her shoulders, kind green eyes, glossed pink lips, braces, and a soft, egg-shaped freckled face. She was missing sixth-grade band class to be with me. Cassie met my eyes squarely as I nodded to herâI'd been laying low here, trying not to expose the girls who volunteered to talk to meâand we headed silently down the long, blue-gray corridor, down the ramp, underneath a still, rusty red fan, and toward the plain, cluttered room I had been using for interviews. Children were mostly oblivious to us as they slammed lockers and whirled toward class in single motions, their teachers standing stiff as flagpoles in the doorways. We passed class projects in a blur: elaborate trees decorated with sunset-colored tissue paper to welcome the autumn, which had actually been more of a summer than anything.
I motioned for Cassie to sit. We made a little small talk. She was whispering so softly I could barely hear her.
"So," I said gently, leaning back in my chipped metal folding chair. "Why did you want to come talk with me today?"
Cassie inhaled deeply. "This is happening
right now,
okay?" she said, as though to admonish me that I was not just some archaeologist come here to sift through dirt and bones. "My best friend Becca," she began, staring fiercely at her fingers, which were playing an absentminded game of itsy-bitsy spider against the lead-smeared tabletop, "I trusted her and everything. She called me and asked if I liked Kelly, who is our good friend. Becca said that Kelly talks bad about me and everything." Cassie sounded nervous. "I really didn't want to say anything back about Kelly because I didn't want to go down to her level." On the phone, Cassie tried to change the subject.
But when Becca called, Kelly had been over at her house. When Becca hung up, she told Kelly that Cassie had called her names. Kelly called back and told Cassie off.
Now, at school, Kelly was teasing Cassie relentlesslyâabout what she was wearing (she wore that outfit last week) or not
Similar Books
