BELLE AND THE CAROUSEL

By Lauran G. Strait

"ake your sweater, Belly-Boo."

Fourteen-year-old Belle cringed. What if one of her friends heard?

"Do I have . . . No one . . . ." Shuffling her feet, she looked at Momma. "Sorry."

Momma smiled and swiped soft lips against Belle's cheek. Her pleasant scent—a mixture of White Rain shampoo and Aqua Net hairspray—lingered near Belle's face. "S'okay, Miss Belly-Boo." Momma's lipstick smeared at one corner and her slip showed.

What a square. Belle sighed. It was 1968, for gosh sakes, and everyone else's hip mothers wore slacks. But Momma acted like it was still the fifties—preferring dresses, slips, pillbox-hats, high-heels, pearls, and candy-apple-red lipstick. She'd only stopped wearing gloves on outings this past year, and she always carried her purse. Momma was so old-fashioned it was embarrassing.

"Sure you won't come? Everyone will be there." Belle stared at the floor and held her breath. Having Momma along was the last thing she wanted.

"Yes'm."

Belle exhaled and met Momma’s gaze. Sadness pulled at the corners of Momma's eyes and lips. Belle looked away.

Momma would probably be the only one in town missing the fun. She couldn't abide wasting a dime, and she’d already said this was a huge waste of money. Why had Daddy left? It wasn’t fair that Momma had to work so hard all the time or that she had to worry so much about how they were going to pay for things.

Frowning, Belle tied her sweater around her waist and headed for the door.

"Mind your manners, young lady, and come straight home before dark."

"Yes, ma'am." Belle turned and hugged her mother.

She was going to the carnival!

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