“I never wear a ponytail,” Liz said.
“You do if you’re a cheerleader,” Ruth said.
She pulled back Liz’s hair into another tight ponytail and used barrettes to pin the stray ringlets in place. Without all of her flowing hair, Liz’s face looked smaller and a little forlorn. She studied herself in the mirror inside the lid of the jewelry box. “I’m not sure this is me.”
“You look real cute,” Ruth said. “All nice and tidied up.”
A little while later, a group of about eight girls showed up at the Wyatts’. Ruth had us form a line on the street in front of the house. She took off her cat’s-eye glasses and set them on the front steps, saying she cheered without them even though she could barely see, because there was no way on God’s green earth she’d make the squad wearing glasses that everyone knew came from the state’s free clinic. Without those ugly glasses, Ruth’s dark eyes were large and beautiful, but she sure did blink a lot.
Ruth stood facing us. She knew the words for all the chants, and she knew the moves and the names for the moves. She showed us the eagle, the Russian jump, the candlestick, the pike, and the bow-and-arrow, calling out the names in a loud, energetic voice. I had always been a little uncoordinated, but I gave it my best shot, and to tell the truth, it was actually fun. Liz, however, started out half-heartedly, flapping a limp hand when she should have been pumping with her entire arm, and the little enthusiasm she had steadily dwindled until she gave up altogether and went to sit on the Wyatts’ steps.
Ruth finished up by showing us the cartwheel split, which was the finale for some of the big cheers. It was difficult, she explained, but required if you wanted to make the squad. All of us except Liz lined up to try it, but none of the other girls was as coordinated and flexible as Ruth, and they couldn’t get their legs either up or apart. When it came my turn, Ruth stood next to me and grabbed me by the waist as I came through the cartwheel, then lowered me to the ground for the split.
“You’ve got it, Bean!” she said. She turned to Liz. “Now, don’t be discouraged,” she called out. “Practice makes perfect. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll work on it some more.”
“Right,” Liz said. She started pulling out the barrettes and ponytail holder.
“You can keep those for next time,” Ruth said.
“We can get our own,” Liz said. “If we need them.”
I wasn’t used to wearing a ponytail, but I liked it. It made me feel ready for action. However, the way Liz included me in her answer made me think I had to give my barrettes and holder back, too, so I pulled them out. “Uncle Tinsley’s got a ball of rubber bands on his desk,” I said. “I can use those.”
The other girls wandered up the street, and Ruth went inside to help Aunt Al finish up the canning. After a drink of water from the Wyatts’ garden hose, Liz and I got on our bikes.
“So you’re going to become a cheerleader now?” she asked.
“Maybe. What’s wrong with that?”
“All that rah-rah stuff. It’s excruciating.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When we showed up for work one day shortly after that cheerleading practice, Mr. Maddox ushered us into his office and closed the door. He handed each of us a thin little booklet with a blue leatherlike cover and fancy gold lettering that said BYLER NATIONAL BANK.
“I opened up a savings account for each of you,” he said. “These are your very own passbooks.”
I turned to the first page of mine. JEAN HOLLADAY was typed on the first line, along with JEROME T. MADDOX. There were columns marked “Deposits,” “Withdrawals,” “Interest,” and “Balance.” The deposit column had $20.00 typed in blue ink, and so did the balance column.
Now, Mr. Maddox explained, he could deposit our pay directly into our accounts from one of his own accounts. It would be simpler and more efficient, not to mention safer, because there was no chance that the deposited money could be lost or stolen. It would allow us not only to save money but to earn interest, accumulating wealth rather than squandering our earnings on soda pops and records.
Liz was examining her book. “It all looks very official,” she said.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Mr. Maddox said. “Like getting your driver’s license. Since neither of you girls has a dad—and Tinsley Holladay, whatever his virtues, ain’t much help in that department—I’m stepping up to show you the way things work. Welcome to the real world.”
“If it’s my passbook, why is your name on it?” I asked.