The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel; Stuff We Didn't Actually Do, but Could Have, and May Yet

by Jill Conner Browne; Karin Gillespie

• ISBN13: 9780743278270
• ISBN10: 0743278275
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2007-01-02
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Summary

From the #1 "New York Times" bestselling author of the Sweet Potato Queens books comes her autobiographical debut novel, chronicling the journey of how "eggzackly" she became the Sweet Potato Queen.

Excerpts

Chapter 1 In Jackson, the "beautiful people" were separated from the great unwashed by a short strip of blacktop called Yazoo Road. If you lived north of Yazoo, like Marcy Stevens did, you peed champagne and blew your nose in silk. If you lived south -- as I did -- you peed Dixie Beer and blew your nose in burlap. We were shit. They were Shinola. By my junior year at Peebles High, I had finished metamorphosing and was looking just fine, pretty even, when I was stopped in my tracks by a veritable vision. There, in the halls of my humble high school, stood the woman who, if God had loved me just a little bit better, would have been reflected in my mirror every morning. The tiny creature had a massive mane of red hair and big breasts. I still covet it all -- the tits, the tininess, and oh, mercy, that fabulous hair. All of her wondrous voluptuousness was supported by the most precious little feet you could ever imagine. She was so pretty and delicate I figured she likely hailed from the snooty part of town. Red hadn't noticed me gaping at her, because she was struggling mightily with her locker. She gave the combination lock one last turn and when she couldn't open it, a not-so-nice word spewed from her Cupid's-bow lips. "Durn" and "heckfire" were two acceptable cusswords for all but the overly Baptist kids. There was also the frequently used "shoot," which Southerners drawl into the longest word in the English language (shooooooooooooooooooooooooooot!). And even though most folks knew that "shoot" was just "shit" with eyeglasses on, you could get away with saying it during those innocent times as long as your granny wasn't in the same room. But little Miss Tiny Feet wasn't "durning," "heckfiring," or even "shooting," she was using the granddaddy of all curse words. (The one we solemnly referred to as the "fire truck" word because it started and ended with the same letters.) Even a potty-mouth like myself respected the F-word as cussing's fine china: I only drug it out for very special occasions. But Little Miss Redhead was saying it over and over. Maybe she wasn't quite the rich-girl-china-doll she appeared to be at first glance. As I got closer, I also noticed her clothes were completely wrong. She wore the snob-city uniform of a twin set and skirt, but her sweater was a bit too tight and there were picks and pulls -- signs of repeated wearings -- in the Banlon knit. The silver-spooners wore perfectly smooth Breck girl flips and pageboys, but her hair was big -- too big, and teased up like a red space helmet -- and her blush and powder was a half inch thick. "You new here?" I asked her. "Seems like you're having some trouble." "I can't get in my fuckin' locker," she said with a sigh when she saw it was just big ol' me. "I tried, and now I'm fucking late for home ec." "Why don't you let me give it a spin?" I offered, marveling at the fire trucks flying out of her lacquered lips. She gratefully handed me her combination, and I took to twirling the dial until the locker popped open. Inside was a photo of the Beatles, a smiley-face sticker, and a textbook calledAdventures in Home Living. "Thank you so much!" she said. "My name's Tammy." "I'm Jill." "Nice to meet you, Jill. I just moved here from Killeen, Texas, and don't know a fuckin' soul." She pointed to a poster on the wall that read "Key Club Information Meeting at 2 p.m. today in the gym. Open to All Interested High School Girls." "I was thinking I'd join this. Are you going?" she asked with what would have been a beautifully executed hair toss except that not a single one of her heavily Aqua-Netted hairs moved from its appointed spot in her coiffure. "No," I said, quickly. "Why not?" "I wouldn't fit in. It's mostly for girls who live north of Yazoo Road," I said, hoping she'd take the hint. "It says it's 'open to all high school g