Pink Pencils By Carol D. Bradley
O
ne chilly morning in late August, I drove in to work like every other Saturday. I had a job behind a checkout counter in a big box office supply store. Banners hung in all the windows advertising back-to-school specials. That particular morning, before the early rush, a large, white Infiniti SUV pulled into a parking space close to the entrance. A woman rounded the back of the car and a girl stepped out of the passenger side. The woman wore a silver fox fur jacket, skinny jeans on mile-long legs, and high-heeled ankle boots. She looked like a model. Models were few and far between in the small city I called home. I watched her come around to close the
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door behind a stocky, red-haired girl. The model caught my eye because of her beauty but more for the contrast between her and the girl whom I presumed to be her daughter. The girl slouched under an Army Surplus jacket and baggy pants. Her ginger hair was cut in a short, curly bob, the opposite to the model who wore a long, wavy mane of highlighted blonde locks. The girl dropped her fists deep into her oversized jacket pockets. I smiled. I, too, had a rebellious daughter. I lost sight of them in the store until they came to the colorful pop-up display of pens and pencils in front of my checkout. The girl had a half-full shopping basket in her hand.
El Ojo del Lago / August 2022
“Oh, Heather, these are just darling,” the model said to the uninterested girl. She held up a package of pink pencils. “They even have glitter.” The girl ignored her mother and picked up a box of pencils stenciled with hockey team logos and dropped it into the basket. The mother followed behind down the next aisle and slipped the pink pencils, unnoticed, into the back of the basket. Several minutes later they arrived at my checkout. Heather began unloading her items while the mother inspected her manicure. “Good morning,” I said with a smile. “Did you find everything you need?” Heather looked up. “Yeah, I guess,” and shrugged. When she came to the pink pencils she turned to her mother. “I won’t use these,” she said with a sigh. “Well, we’ll take them anyway.” She looked at me with a pursed-lip smile. Maybe someday you’ll grow out of this wretched tomboy phase.” She took the package from Heather’s hand and slapped it down on the counter. Green eyes rolled and glared. She’s afraid of losing herself into the void of her mother’s abyss, I judged. “I have a daughter named Heather,” I said in an attempt to engage the girl. “She’s about your age.” A cell phone rang. The mother walked past Heather to the end of the counter. A manicured hand clicked open a designer handbag. “I have to take this,” she said, turned toward the windows, and walked away. I scanned through the hockey pencils, held the pack up for a close look, and said, “I coach a girl’s hockey team. My Heather is our goalie. She’s pretty good.” She looked up at me as her eyes sparked with interest for the first time. I felt confident engaging remote girls. After a few trials and errors, I relished the feeling I got when their eyes lit up. I scanned through more items and placed them in a bag. Heather began packing items into her new cammo backpack: notebooks, a calculator, a box of paper clips. “We practise on Sunday mornings, starting the week after next at the rink on 8th Avenue.” She kept packing. “I don’t know how to skate,” she said, focused on her task at hand. The mother’s voice rose. “I don’t care what happens to that woman. I want her gone by Monday.” Heather ignored her. “You can learn. Lots of girls are learning,” I said. “6:00 AM sharp.” The mother came back, took the drab backpack from Heather’s hands as if it was dirty, and tossed her platinum credit card on the counter. “Okay, I’ll ring this through.” I swiped her card, concluded the transaction, and gave the girl a quick smile.
They started for the door. The mother gripped the shoulder of Heather’s baggy jacket like she carried a rag bag. I turned to my next customer. “Good morning. Did you find everything you need?” “Is there another girl in your class named Heather?” I asked my daughter the next morning. “No, but there is one who goes to the private school out near the Bear Mountain Lodge,” she said and downed her cereal. “Her dad is the mayor of Roseville.” I nodded as I unfolded the newspaper. “She came to the store with her mother yesterday. I invited her to practice.” I picked up my coffee as my delightful tomboy daughter kept eating. “I can’t wait to start. Tommy doesn’t have much of a shot,” she said. Her little brother had been substituted for the team’s sharp shooters during off season. As proud as he was, he didn’t appear to be up to the job. “Me, too,” I said. “I hope the other Heather comes. And don’t talk with your mouth full.” I peered at her side-eyed and went back to my paper. I had two Heathers on the team to start the season. The other one showed up with borrowed gear and a check for her team fee written with a hand so strong two of the pen strokes broke through the paper. She was an eager student and quick to learn. A few weeks later she said, “I’ve been practicing, “as she skated circles around me. “I can tell,” I said, and placed her in the center position. We did dozens of faceoff drills. She had snappy reflexes, took to the game with heart, and got along well with the rest of the players. We were jelling as a team and winning games. Local politician’s wife in critical condition after single vehicle rollover – Distracted driving suspected, the headline glared off the page. The mayor of Roseville’s wife in ICU in hospital . . . I stopped and looked up at my daughter. “Geez, honey, look at this.” I showed her the story. “That’s awful,” she whispered. We signed the cheery get-well card displayed on the concourse of our town’s only shopping mall. I called the mayor’s office and left a message with his assistant on behalf of the team and our family. The other Heather didn’t show up for practice that Sunday, or the next. Games weren’t as fun as the team displayed her number on stickers at the back of their helmets. Christmas came and went. Mayor’s wife out of ICU. Long road to recovery, read the Saturday paper in January. One calm, frozen Sunday morning, Heather came to practice and sat high in the dark bleachers, elbows propped on her knees and watched. I climbed up Continued on page 46
