Semiprecious

  SEMIPRECIOUS

  D. ANNE LOVE

  For my mother

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by D. Anne Love

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Also available in a hardcover edition.

  Book design by Christopher Grassi

  The text for this book is set in Mrs. Eaves Roman.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First paperback edition October 2009

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Love, D. Anne.

  Semiprecious / D. Anne Love.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Uprooted and living with an aunt in 1960s Oklahoma, thirteen-year-old

  Garnet and her older sister, Opal, brave their mother’s desertion and their father’s recovery

  from an accident, learning that “the best home of all is the one you make inside yourself.”

  ISBN 978-0-689-85638-9 (hc)

  1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. [1. Family life—Oklahoma—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction.

  3. Oklahoma—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L9549Sem 2006

  [Fic]—dc22

  2005014906

  ISBN 978-0-689-87389-8 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9696-5 (eBook)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m hugely grateful for Desmond Rochfort’s research and writing, which so eloquently explains the work of the Mexican muralists. I owe an even larger debt to Sarah Sevier for her unwavering enthusiasm, good humor, and patience. And finally, to my fellow writers in Austin, who were never too busy with their own work to ask how mine was going: Thanks, and Godspeed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My name is Garnet Olivia Hubbard. In five weeks and three days, I’ll be thirteen. My sister Opal, who is fifteen and the self-appointed Boss of the Entire Universe, rolls her eyes every time I remind her I am about to become an honest-to-Pete teenager. She says I’m still a baby. If I’d called her a baby when she was thirteen, I’d still be recovering from my injuries. Anyway, it isn’t true. I’m no baby. I’ve had to grow up fast, because of what happened on Mama’s birthday last summer.

  It was the first day of August, the last day of my regular life, and I didn’t have a clue. Just before daylight I got up, unlatched the back door, and went to the garden. The tomato plants and Mama’s pole beans were heavy with dew. Already the thermometer on the back porch was pushing ninety degrees, but I didn’t mind the heat. I love summer, when there are no math quizzes or vocabulary lists. You can sleep as long as you want, then wake up to a clean slate where anything is possible, and you can make the day into whatever you want it to be. I wanted Mama’s birthday to be perfect.

  Deep in the corn rows the air was humid and still. I thumped the bugs off the corn, gathered four ears, and picked half a dozen tomatoes for the dinner Opal and I were making for Mama, a tradition as important as going to the opening game at the ballpark every spring, or staying up until midnight on Christmas Eve. The birds were waking up and singing their little hearts out. The morning freight train clattered through town bound for Dallas, its whistle echoing through the trees along Piney Road. At Mrs. Streeter’s house next door, the screen door slapped open and her three-legged cat shot out and perched on the porch railing. Mrs. Streeter, in her nightgown and rhinestone-studded glasses, marched across the grass to fetch her copy of the Mirabeau Daily Monitor. She picked it up and waved to me on her way back inside.

  Then the lamp in my room came on, a sign Opal was up, getting ready to bake Mama’s cake. As for Mama herself, she was still out like a light, getting her beauty sleep so she’d be fresh for her party.

  My daddy was on his way home for the celebration. He worked on a ship called the World Explorer. It was based in New Orleans but sailed all over the Gulf of Mexico looking for places to drill for oil and gas. Mama said it was dangerous work, but Daddy said the pay was good, and he liked being outside instead of behind a desk. The worst part of his job was his being gone so much. Already he’d missed my first baseball game of the season and Opal’s portrayal of Juliet in the eighth-grade play, which had gotten written up on the entertainment page of the paper. Me and Opal had been mad at him for missing our important events, even though it wasn’t his fault. When it came to Mama, he wasn’t taking any chances on making her mad by missing her big day. He got permission to come home for her birthday, even though he’d have to turn right around the next morning and drive all the way back to New Orleans.

  I cut some okra off the stalks and headed for the house. The screen door banged as I came in, and Opal said, “Shhh! Don’t wake her up.”

  I shucked the corn, rinsed the tomatoes, and helped Opal make a double batch of chocolate frosting. When the cake was done, we set it on the rack to cool, then tiptoed past Mama’s door to get cleaned up. Later, we made PB & J sandwiches and iced tea for lunch and ate on the back porch, then finished frosting the cake.

  We heard Mama’s door open and close, and then the squeak of the faucet in her shower. Opal cocked her ear, listening for the beginning of Mama’s daily serenade. Occasionally Mama sang a gospel tune, but mostly she sang country. She claimed to know the words to every song ever played on her favorite station, WSM. Today, though, we didn’t hear anything but the shower running and the banging of the old pipes.

  By five o’clock we could hear Mama opening and closing drawers, moving around in her room, getting ready for her grand entrance. Opal gave up watching for Daddy and went to our room to play records. I was sitting in Daddy’s easy chair by the window, reading Black Beauty for the umpteenth time, when I saw his pickup barreling down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. I yelled for Mama and Opal and ran out the door to meet him.

  “Hey, sugar pie!” Daddy unfolded himself from behind the wheel, scooped me up, and twirled me around. “Where’s your mama?”

  “In her room, getting ready for the party. She’s been in there all day. Opal thinks Mama’s in one of her bad moods.”

  “On her birthday?” He set me on my feet again.

  “Uh-huh. She didn’t sing in the shower today. And last night she hollered at me and Opal for no reason, and then she started crying.”

  Daddy shook his head and took his duffel bag out of the truck. Then he reached under the seat for a bouquet of roses wrapped in wet newspaper. “Maybe these’ll cheer her up
.”

  But we both knew better. When Mama was in one of her snits, it took more than flowers to bring her around.

  “Is that Mama’s present?” I pointed to a box in the back of the truck.

  He nodded. “But let’s leave it here for now so we don’t spoil the surprise.” He handed me his duffel bag to carry. “Have you been practicing your fastball like I showed you?”

  “Yes, sir, Daddy. Want to see?”

  “As soon as we’re through with supper.”

  We went up the steps and into the house.

  “Melanie?” Daddy called out. “I’m home.”

  And then Mama twirled into the kitchen, smiling like the refrigerator saleslady on TV. “Hey, Duane.”

  “Happy birthday!” Daddy handed Mama the roses and bowed like a prince in a William Shakespeare play. “I was afraid they’d wilt before I got here. August in Texas. Hotter than the hinges of hell.”

  “Don’t cuss,” Mama said. “It’s not refined.”

  Daddy laughed and swept her into his arms and kissed her with loud smacking sounds until she started giggling.

  “Duane Hubbard, behave yourself!” she said. But she was smiling, a hopeful sign that relaxed the knot in my stomach that all week had been winding tighter and tighter.

  For days Mama had been jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers. She’d tried to hide it, but Opal and I noticed how she looked right past us when we talked to her, like she was seeing something else entirely. Plus, she was in constant motion. When she crossed her legs, her foot jiggled, and her fingernails drummed on the tabletop. Late at night she prowled the kitchen, cleaning cupboards and banging pans just like she’d done the year I turned ten, when she’d left us and headed for Nashville.

  For as long as I could remember, Mama had the idea that she could be the next big thing in Music City if only she could get there. Performing at the Ryman Auditorium was her one dream in life. The time she left us, she got as far as Dallas before Daddy caught up with her and sweet-talked her into coming home. Since then, me and Opal have had to stay alert for signs she might leave again. Trying to keep your mama from running off is exhausting. I was glad Daddy was home, even if only for one day.

  Mama put her roses in a vase and finished setting the table. Then Opal came running down the hall and Daddy picked her up and twirled her around.

  “Daddy!” she yelped. “Put me down. I just finished curling my hair and you’re getting it all messed up.”

  “Oh, don’t be a fussbudget. You’d look pretty if you were bald-headed.”

  Opal waved him away, but any fool could see how Daddy’s compliment pleased her. She said, “The chicken is ready for the pan.”

  “Okay,” Daddy said, “but first …”

  Me and Opal started laughing because we knew what was coming next. A shaving cream company had put up silly advertising rhymes along the highways, and Daddy brought us a new one every time he came home.

  He said, “Here’s one I saw this morning. ‘Spring has sprung, the grass has riz, where last year’s careless driver is.’”

  Then me and Opal yelled, “Burma-Shave!”

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” Mama said. “It’s downright tragic, if you ask me. And besides, there is no such word as ‘riz.’”

  “Oh, Mama, don’t be a spoilsport,” Opal said. “It’s just for fun. Besides, it reminds people to drive carefully.”

  If there was anybody in the great state of Texas who needed good driving reminders, it was Mama. Behind the wheel she was a regular menace, driving too fast, singing too loud, stomping on the brakes half a second before the traffic lights turned from yellow to red.

  Daddy tied one of Mama’s aprons over his jeans and started heating oil in the iron skillet we used for frying chicken. When the oil was smoking hot, Opal dipped the chicken pieces in egg batter and flour, and dropped them into the pan. Daddy dug a fork out of the drawer and started turning the chicken as it browned, all the while telling us about the men on the World Explorer, and that last Thursday they had helped rescue a man who had abandoned his rig after his welding torch sparked a fire.

  “You see?” Mama was sitting at the table, watching us make dinner. “I told you it’s dangerous out there. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days, Duane Hubbard. Then what?”

  Daddy kissed her on the nose. “You worry too much. Hand me that platter.”

  Me and Opal set out our feast, and an hour later the four of us were sitting at the kitchen table, full as ticks. The fan turned in a slow half-circle, blowing the hot, stale air. On the TV in the living room, the news announcer talked about the Olympics coming up in Rome, Italy, the integration sit-ins happening all over the place, and whether Senator Kennedy could be elected president and save our country from the Communists.

  A couple of years before, the Russians had sent some satellites called Sputniks into space and the Communists had held a big convention in New York City. Ever since, people were scared the Communists would take over America. At school we practiced ducking under our desks and throwing our arms over our heads, in case the Russians bombed us to kingdom come. Like that would save us.

  One day over lemonade and sugar cookies, Mrs. Streeter told Mama the whole world had turned topsy-turvy, and that she was more afraid of the Negroes, who had had enough of drinking from special water fountains and staying in hotels just for colored folks, than she was of the Commies. Several Negro kids had integrated a white high school up in Arkansas, and Mrs. Streeter said it was just a matter of time before colored people took over the whole country. Mama said it was a crazy time all right, and truly amazing that the outside world was totally discombobulated, but things in Mirabeau had hardly changed at all.

  As we finished Mama’s birthday dinner that night, I had no idea that my own personal world was about to turn upside down too.

  Daddy polished off the last drumstick and took a long drink of iced tea. Opal left the table and came back with Mama’s cake. I lit the candles, two pink and white 3s we’d bought at Woolworth’s. We gave Mama her presents, a quilted pot holder and an African violet from me, a lipstick from Opal. FIRE AND ICE, it said on the bottom of the tube.

  “Thank you, girls!” Mama beamed first at me, then at Opal. “I don’t know what I’d do without my precious gems.”

  The sound of her voice washed over me like a rush of warm water. Happiness worked its way up from my toes and curled around my heart. Daddy leaned over the table and kissed Mama on the lips. It was such a perfect moment I felt like bawling. I wished for a camera to capture that night, to freeze it in time, but that would have been a mistake. As I found out later on, the worst pain in the world comes from remembering a happy time when you’re stuck knee-deep in misery.

  “Make a wish, Mama,” Opal said. “Before the fan blows your candles out.”

  “Oh, my land, I cannot think of a single thing to wish for.”

  Opal rolled her eyes at me. We both knew better. Mama knew exactly what she wanted, the one thing she’d coveted since she’d first laid eyes on it back on the fourth of July.

  We were standing outside Sadler’s Music Store that day, our dresses limp as yesterday’s handkerchiefs, our chocolate ice-cream cones melting and running down our elbows in a brown, sticky mess. Waves of heat danced on the sidewalk and seeped through the concrete so hot it burned my feet through the soles of my sandals. I stood on one foot and then the other while Mama cupped her hands to her eyes and peered into the window.

  “There it is, girls,” she said, her face lit up like she’d swallowed a lightbulb. “That guitar is just like Cordell Jackson’s. If your daddy asks, tell him this guitar is what I want for my birthday.”

  Behind Mama’s back, Opal heaved an exasperated sigh. All Mama talked about was how Cordell was the most talented woman in the music business. Not only did she write and record her own songs, she produced them too. Mama was determined to be the next Cordell Jackson.

  Now, watching Mama cut big slabs of her
devil’s food birthday cake, I could barely sit still for thinking about how happy she’d be when Daddy gave her the guitar. Mama set the cake on our plates, Opal poured everybody some more tea, and we dug in. But Daddy couldn’t wait to give Mama her present. He sat on the edge of his chair, his eyes snapping with his secret. After a couple of bites, he set his fork down and headed out to the truck. “Wait here,” he called to Mama. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mama licked frosting off her fork and leaned back in her chair, craning her neck. Daddy hollered, “Don’t peek!”

  She laughed and winked at Opal and me, so excited she could hardly stand it. She put down her fork and covered her eyes. Then Daddy came back toting a huge box topped with a red bow.

  “Ta-da!” He bent down and kissed the top of Mama’s head. “Happy birthday!”

  Mama looked first at the box, then at him. “Duane Hubbard, what in the world?”

  Daddy ripped open the box and lifted out a vacuum cleaner. “Top of the line, sugar, and looky here. A toe switch, so you don’t even have to bend over to turn it on.”

  Mama stared at him like he was from Planet Krypton, then busted out bawling.

  “Aw, Melanie, don’t cry,” Daddy said. “If I’d known how happy this would make you, I’d have got you one long before now.”

  Mama jumped up, ran into their room, and slammed the door.

  Daddy looked like a grenade had gone off in his hand. “What did I do?”

  Opal started clearing the dishes. “We told you what she wanted, Daddy. We told you twice.”

  “A fancy guitar, when all she knows is three chords? That don’t make a lick of sense.”

  “Mama says the best songs ain’t nothing but three chords and the truth.” I ran my finger through a gob of chocolate frosting on the side of the cake, licked it off, then handed Opal the cake plate.

  “Don’t say ‘ain’t,’” Opal said. “People will think you’re ignorant.” She turned back to Daddy. “Women don’t want practical things for their birthdays. You’re supposed to give them something romantic, or something fun.”