He stops, nuzzles me into his side. “I’m just proud of you, you hear? You’ve given an old man a happy heart.”
“Aw, thanks, Papaw. But you’re not that old.”
“Since when is seventy not that old?”
“I heard it’s the new fifty.”
“Hogwash,” he says, reaching for the next box.
“What about Dolly Parton? You’re always talking about what a beauty she is. Y’all are the same age.”
“Ha. She took a dip in that fountain of youth.”
“She certainly did. And it cost her a fortune.” Mamaw has stepped out of the truck, but left it running. The poor woman doesn’t do well in the August heat.
Papaw and I continue to stack boxes on the dolly. “The only problem this old man has,” Papaw says with a glance at Mamaw, “is thinking about how much your grandmother and I will miss you.”
“It’s not like I’m off to New York City. I’m only down the road.” My high school guidance counselor had encouraged me to apply for scholarships at more prestigious universities much farther away. As much as I wanted to get away from Blue Mountain—Population 650—I didn’t want to be that far away from my grandparents. They’re the only family I have. And I’m all they have. Besides, I’ve been wanting to be an Ole Miss Rebel since I was a little girl. “I’m sure I’ll be home all the time.”
Papaw turns to face me, puts his hands on my shoulders. “You listen here. We don’t want you doing that. This is your time, Cali baby. You need to soar like that ol’ eagle. We’ll be just fine.”
I feel a lump in my throat. I’ve always been a protector, never wanting harm to come their way. “Thanks, Papaw.” I bite my lip before grabbing a couple of bags from the truck bed. I do not want to cry today.
Mamaw looks up at my new multistory home. “Wonder what floor you’ll be on?”
“I don’t know; let’s go find out.”
Since I’d been accepted into the Barksdale Honors College, I could have lived in a nicer dorm with bigger rooms, but I chose Martin. Because Martinis primarily a sorority dorm. Most every girl who lives here will be going through Rush. That’s another dream of mine. Not only have I longed to be an Ole Miss Rebel, I’ve had my heart set on sorority life. But one of my obstacles—and there are many—is that I don’t know anyone who belongs to a sorority. Blue Mountain girls do not Rush.
As we walk the long stretch toward the dorm, amidst an army of luxury cars and SUVs parked every which way, I can’t help noticing how most of the girls are dressed—extra-large T-shirts and workout shorts with fluorescent Nike tennis shoes. Why do they dress like this, and how do they all know to do it? I have on a pair of cut-offs and a cute top. I look down at my Nike tennis shoes with gratitude that I had found them on sale only a week ago. But those T-shirts. They look so… big.
The line to check in is out the door and down the sidewalk. Girls, accompanied by their parents, brothers, and boyfriends, are standing in the extreme heat with all their personal belongings. It strikes me as funny as I eye the crowd. Couches, headboards, chairs, rugs, boxes, suitcases. It looks like a long line of high-class refugees.
I can tell this tries Mamaw’s patience. There are no lines in Blue Mountain, Mississippi, and she’s lived there her whole life. As for me, I couldn’t care less. Nothing about this experience is going to rob me of an ounce of happiness. Papaw suggests that she go inside and sit down while he stays in line with me. He escorts her in and I hold our place. As hot as it is, I’m still getting chills at the thought of which girls will become my friends and possibly sorority sisters.
While waiting for Papaw to return, I text Jasmine for an update. Originally, she had planned to be here by now, but her last text said she was still a couple of hours out. We’ve been texting all week and I can’t wait to finally meet my new roommate. Jasmine won’t be going out for Rush. But I understand why.
Papaw and I while away the time, talking with the other girls and parents. Mothers seem to be in charge, barking orders like military sergeants. Dads, waiting patiently for their next assignments, are talking to one another in line. Two girls in front of us see each other and scream at the top of their lungs. They throw their arms around each other and dance out their hug. Papawrears his head back and holds his ears. He does stuff like that to be funny. My grandfather has never met a stranger.
***
When we finally open the door to my room, three scorching hours later, all the way up on the ninth floor, a tidal wave of excitement floods through my veins, out my pores, and pops into goose bumps all over my arms and legs. Standing in my own dorm room, looking around at the khaki-colored walls, linoleum floor, even the tiny closets, exhilarates me beyond my wildest dreams.
I dash over to the bare window to peek at my view. With my hands gripping the sill I can’t help but gawk at the gargantuan sorority houses directly across the street, imagining myself walking up to one of the front doors as a member. But when I remember something that happened last fall I retreat back, slumping my shoulders. It was a Saturday afternoon. The Daisy Tree gift shop where I work was super slow that day. Two ladies from Memphis had stopped in to look around. They were passing through Blue Mountain on what they called “an antique treasure hunt.” While I was checking them out I overheard them discussing Ole Miss Rush. So I perked up my head and eavesdropped on their conversation.
One lady asked the other if a certain girl had a pedigree. The other replied, “Of course she does. She wouldn’t be able to rush without one.”
I wanted to stop her right then and there and ask her to please tell me what she meant. Because I had no idea you needed a “pedigree” to belong to a sorority. And to be perfectly honest, I had no idea a pedigree had anything to do with a person. I consider myself an intelligent human being, but this was news to me. My best friend Rachel’s mom always bragged about having a “purebredpedigreedPom.” And she took it for granted that everyone in America knew that Pom was short for Pomeranian.
Try saying it out loud. Purebred pedigreed pom.How’s that for a tongue twister? That’s exactly how Mrs. Smith referred to PomPom. “PomPom, my purebred pedigreed Pom.” PomPom’s American Kennel Club certificate was framed, like it was a college diploma, and hung in their den. That’s how I knew it was true.
When I looked “pedigree” up in the dictionary that night the third definitionread: “distinguished, excellent, or pure ancestry.” That’s when I got it. My birthright does not include a pedigree. For the first seventeen years of my life, it didn’t mean doodly squat. But now I’m not so sure. My family is not, well, we’re certainly not prominent or even conventional. That’s for darn sure.
After a minute or so I pull away, climb up on one of the beds, and lie down on my back. Pushing away worry, I close my eyes, tasting sweet freedom and independence for the first time. When I blink my eyes open, my grandparents are standing side by side, gazing down at me.
“You are a picture, Cali Watkins,” Papaw says. “Look at our pretty baby, Marge. She’ll be president of the student government one day. You wait and see if I’m not right.”
“Well she certainly has the potential.” Mamaw’s bitterness, that sour pill she swallowed when my mother ran amok, gets the best of her sometimes. “Let’s get started, Charlie. We don’t have all day.”
