Less than a mile from the school, Ruth asked her mother to roll up the window. I’ll follow you home, Jesus, screamed from the radio of the metallic-gold Buick. Her mother wanted a black car, something more sensible, but Big John, of Big John’s New and Used Car Lot, who really was big and had been a star linebacker at Youncy High School before an injury left him with a rocking gait, gave her a great price on the gold model. “It’ll be a cool color for when you start to drive,” her mother had told her. Ruth said nothing to contradict this and let her mother believe what she wanted.
Her mother turned down the volume, so that 104.9, the Christian Rock of Youncy, didn’t ring in Ruth’s ears. Her mother banged on the steering wheel in tune with the music, under the impression that that the word rock made the music hip, though she disapproved of any other kind of rock music and forbid Ruth from playing it. The newly applied Lee Press-On Nails glistened. The gloss was clear; any other color was cheap and trashy. Her mother’s fingers were long, not short and mannish like Ruth’s own.
They entered the mill village, turning onto Myrtle, avoiding Juniper even though it was faster. Her mother had been born on Juniper in a house her parents rented from the same people they worked for, and she didn’t like the reminder of where she’d come from. Ruth was born and lived in a house her parents owned, or paid a mortgage on, in a solidly middle-class neighborhood they were proud of. Ruth scooted closer to the door and slumped down in her seat. They rolled past house after house, the same ugly brown-red brick. Some had porches, others steps with a plain iron railing out front that was functional, not decorative. Ferns or red geraniums hung from the baskets of the homes with porches; the red flowers clashed with the brick.
“Ruth, pull down that skirt.”
Her skirt had slid up her leg, not far, just a few inches above her knee. Ruth didn’t move to adjust it. At the stop sign her mother leaned over, but Ruth anticipated her and yanked it down to her knee before her mother could touch the cheap polyester made to look like wool. Ruth did this, not looking at her mother, but still staring out the window. A hunched-over old man dressed in a bathrobe, black socks, and slippers leaned over to pick up the newspaper, his robe opened, and Ruth averted her eyes and looked down at the plaid of the unform skirt. Green wasn’t her color, her skin too pale for it. If she dyed her hair blonde the color would be better, but only her mother was allowed to color her hair, to hide the gray.
