My Cardboard Balcony

Sammy Lee Fits by Belinda Roddie She played banjo on Fridays, accordion on Saturdays, and a little bit of harpsichord at the church on Sundays. She smoked a cigarette when she tinkered with the notes and puffed each syllable out of her left nostril, like the whistle of a steam train tumbling down the far side of town on rickety, rackety rails. They called her Sammy Lee Fits, because her knees would get the shakes as she played, bouncing and rattling so the floor squeaked beneath her old rattlesnake boots. In between tunes, she drank enough rum and chewed enough bubble gum to suffocate a cow sweltering in the Appalachian August. And everyone loved her. But none so much as Buddy Ferret and his sister Janey, who drew straws and broke wishbones on their dinner plates in the saloon to see who would get to sing a duet with Fits and who would get to dance the two-step with her when  her fingers got too sore to rub the strings or kiss the keys anymore. It was al

We weren't even on the same level anymore. Not academically - I had skipped two grades - not mentally or emotionally, not even physically. She was in a lower grade, but she was beautiful. I was the stereotypical nerdy four-eyes who allegedly needed a makeover like in the movies. Still, she found time to call me. She still waved to me in the hallway when I hovered around my locker. And she even gave me little gifts during the holidays, some with little hearts squiggled on the cards.