Wrong by Wrong

You can't expect me to describe a place that's got nothing worth describing. Chopped dirt. Twisted black trees. Crumbling concrete. Fast and heavy bugs. Endless wheat. Old tires. You want me to go on? Rock Junction, Kansas is a warning of a town. If you were driving through, you kept driving. If you were condemned to live there, like me, you found something beautiful, snatched it up and started running...

My name is Rita Marcos and I taught high school English at Central Plains high school. I'm going to skip describing the high school because all you need to know is that it was a stonewall prison. I lived in one of those dust-bowl farmhouses that somehow looked black and white even though we painted it blue every year. And all you need to know about me is I was a beauty queen in a sea of obese, dead-eyed Walmart cashiers. I stood out for my grace and poise. I had to. I didn't have a choice. Please, God...

About three weeks into the school year, my truck broke down. And since I lived 12 miles from school, I woke up at 230, did my hair and nails and started walking. I got a good pace once I hit the main road. My silver and gold high heels clicked the road like a metronome. I used my fancy purple-feather hat to wave the bursts of mosquitoes out of my face. It was 56 degrees that morning, but I was too full of rage to notice. Why was I angry? The object of my contempt came up the road behind me on a chugging tractor. I moved to the south side of the road and he slowed down to a crawl. Let me introduce you to Jackson Hirst, a half a man, grade-A son of a bitch who pretended to understand machines.

"Nice job you did on my truck, Jackson. It is right and truly dead. Now it won't even turn over."

"I'd be happy to work on it some more."

"No thanks. I'll do it myself."

"Fine by me. You want a ride? School's about 9 miles. I'd hate for your pretty dress to get all dirty."

My pink chiffon and ruby silk dress was already flecked with mud. But I wasn't going to give him the slightest satisfaction of being right. I didn't care that he looked like Dennis Quaid.

"No thanks."

"I could go back and get my solid gold limousine with the silver tires if you want."

"You could just go to Hell and wait for me there."

"That's why I like you, Rita. You're not like the other girls..."

He stepped on the gas and the tractor pulled away. The exhaust tasted sweet.

"That's right, you son of a bitch! I'm better!"

My principal, Beth Gretzel, had the personality of a razor blade. She didn't tell jokes. She didn't laugh at jokes. The only time she smiled was when she was skinning, or planning to skin, someone alive.

With words, of course.

First bell rang when I was walking up the front steps of the school. She was waiting for me at the door. And she had a big grin on her plastic face.

"Miss Marcos, nice of you to join us."

"Good morning, Beth."

"You look...interesting."

"That's why you looked."

I tried to push past her and she blocked me.

"Do you value your job, Miss Marcos?"

"Can we have this little moment later? I have class."

"That can hold since you're already late. The issue here is your appearance."

When she said it, I heard that little burst of jealousy in her voice.

"I could wear this dress to a wedding, or an opera, what's the problem?"

"This is a place of learning. Your unique style is a distraction."

Several late students tried to sneak past us and Gretzel pointed at each one.

"To whom? Have you gotten complaints?"

"I've spoken to concerned parents. You need to dress more professionally."

"I should show up looking like a prison librarian?"

It's not my fault she had both feet in the grave and the body of a fire hydrant.

"Your job is on the line, Miss Marcos. I've tolerated your little costumes long enough. Now get to class..."

Frank Hauer, the assistant principal, met me in the north hallway as I was race-walking to class. He was a nervous tic of a man. He had little hands and little eyes and these long, ear-ring ear lobes. He was desperately in love with me.

Remember. Beauty Queen.

"I think Ellen is looking for you, Rita. Be careful."

"You're a little late."

"Are you okay?"

"What do you want, Frank?"

"I thought maybe we could try again. I was nervous. I had too much to drink. Let's try again."

I came to my room, 11-B, and saw my students through the open door. Some of them were reading. Most of them were sleeping.

"Try what again?"

"Oh, yes, what? You know, the other night, after we...I was nervous."

"If you can't even say it, Frank, why bother?"

I walked in my room and shut the door.