Leaning over the scrapbook, she opened to a page near the front. What she found was a cardboard placard with the number 39 written on it. Next to it was a piece of paper on which a childish hand had written the following, so that it looked like the beginning of a newspaper article: VIVI'S VERY IMPORTANT NEWS

ISSUE NO. 1.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1934.

GIRLS POOT AND GET DISQUALIFIED.

BY VIVIANE ABBOTT. AGE 8.

Sidda smiled and turned the paper over, but it was blank. No story followed, there was only that heading. She scoured the nearby pages for more, but she could find no further information from "Vivi's Very Important News." She knew exactly who those girls were. 1934. The depths of the Great Depression. Huey Long was Governor of Louisiana-or dictator, depending on your viewpoint and your parish. She knew that Eugene O'Neill's play Days Without End had premiered that year, and that Pirandello received the Nobel Prize for Literature. But she did not have the faintest idea what her mother had been disqualified from, or who had done the disqualifying.

Shaking her head, she absentmindedly reached down to stroke Hueylene. If only that scrapbook could talk, she thought. Our Lady of Cherubim Chit-Chat, if only that scrapbook could talk.

7.

Vivi Abbott Walker knew she wasn't supposed to be drinking, and she knew she wasn't supposed to be smoking. That is why, after she'd cleared the dinner things and said good- night to Shep, she felt a little thrill as she stepped out on the back patio with a snifter of Courvoisier and a cigarette. She sat down at the wrought-iron patio table where she'd set up the Ouija board. She lit candles on the silver candelabra, which had been one of the many wedding gifts fron Teensy's mother, Genevieve. Then she went into a little trance.

She didn't pose any questions. She just sat there with the candlelight and the Ouija board and the sounds of the cicadas and the appealing idea that she was some kind of medium.

One hand rested lightly on the pointer, and Vivi smiled as it slid across the board and spelled out the numbers "1," "9," "3," and "4."

Ah yes, Vivi thought, my first encounter with Hollywood.

Vivi, 1934

You have got to have exactly fifty-six curls if you want a chance to win the Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest. Me and my best buddies, Caro and Teensy and Necie, spent all morning at the beauty parlor getting our hair just perfect.

Miss Beverly's Beauty Parlor was so busy you would have thought it was New York City. Teensy's mama, Genevieve, took us there to have our hair changed from rags to curls. Genevieve is the one who helped us all get our hair and costumes ready for the Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest. Yesterday morning she rolled our hair in rags and we were supposed to keep them in all day and all night.

But Caro ripped her rags out in her sleep. When we got to the beauty parlor, her hair was lying there straight as little boards. She said, "Those rags made my scalp itch and they pulled my eyes back like a Chinaman's, so I ripped them out and threw them in the garbage."

I know what she means. I've still got twitches around my temples that I sure hope go away before I grow up.

"I'm gonna wear Lowell's aviator cap," Caro said, and she whipped out her brother's cap, plopped it on her head, and tucked her hair underneath.

"What a splendid idea," Genevieve said. "Tres originale!" Genevieve always says things like this because she grew up on the bayou, near Marksville. She makes everyone call her by her first name, even kids. Whenever all us girls are together, she says, "Gumbo Ya-Ya!" This means "everybody talking at the same time," which is what we sure do.

Genevieve wouldn't even be here if she hadn't married Mr. Whitman, who owns the Garnet Savings and Loan. She met him in New Orleans, where a rich friend of her father sent her to the Ursuline nuns to learn to be a lady. Oh, but thank the Lord she came to Thornton! We adore her. She has jet-black hair and eyes just as dark, and her skin is smooth and she can dance any dance in the world. Besides the Cajun two-step, she has taught us all the jitterbug, Praise Allah, and Kickin' the Mule. Genevieve is the most fun of any grown-up I know-except when she gets her attaque de nerfs and has to stay in bed with the shades drawn. I want to be just like Genevieve when I grow up.

I made sure to count each curl when Miss Beverly took the rags off my hair and spun out curls with her fingers. I didn't want her to mess up and give me thirty-eight curls instead of fifty-six. Then, in walked Jack, Teensy's brother. He came right into the beauty parlor, where boys never come.

"Hey!" he said. "Brought yall some donuts. Just out of the oven at Mr. Campo's Bakery. Vivi, I got you a chocolate, like you like."

That Jack is so sweet. Not sissy-sweet. Just sweet. He is the best baseball pitcher in town. And the way he hits, people call him T-Babe, short for Little Babe because he can slug like Babe Ruth. Jack also plays the Cajun fiddle, but his daddy won't let him play at home. Mr. Whitman won't even let Jack be called by his real name, Jacques. Mr. Whitman forbids Genevieve to speak Acadian French around him. He says, "Speak English, Genevieve! For God's sake, speak the King's English!"

"Yall are a whole lot prettier than Shirley Temple," Jack said. "She looks like a little skunk compared to yall. Mais oui, yall are gonna bump old Shirley's name right off the marquee."

Caro was the first to hear about the Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest, because her father owns The Bob-one of the two movie theaters in Thornton. Mr. Bob also owns The Bob in Royalton and The Bob in Rayville, both down the road. His biggest movie theater is in New Orleans: The Robert. It's the fanciest of all The Bob Theaters in the world.

A month ago it was formally announced that The Bob would sponsor the contest, with a Shirley Temple man coming all the way from Hollywood. The girl who wins the contest gets to go down to New Orleans on the train and represent our town in the statewide Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest. And that girl also gets to stay at the Pontchartrain Hotel and be treated like a princess the whole entire time.

Girls just came out of the woodwork. Even some little colored girls tried to sign up, but the contest rules say only white girls could apply. It costs a dime to sign up, but Mr. Bob let some girls sign up without paying. Some people who came to The Bob today paid him with eggs or potatoes. All those eight Nugent kids get to come to the Betty Boop Club Saturday matinee by paying with one bushel of collard greens.

Genevieve had her dressmaker, Cecile, do up all our costumes. I have the darlingest little blue-and-white-plaid dress with a little red tie that fits me to a tee. Over it, I'm wearing a matching little blue coat and a black cap, all just like the outfit Shirley wore when she sang "Good Ship Lollipop." I modeled it for Father last night, and when he saw me, he said, "Come on over here and give your father a hug." He doesn't usually like to be hugged when he gets home, so I was surprised. I went and wrapped my arms around him, and then he gave me a two-dollar bill.

Caro's outfit is so spiffy! She has a little brown leather jacket that she borrowed from her brother, and she's wearing it over a pair of baggy dungarees, with an aviator cap on her head. Just like Shirley wore when she met Loop's plane in Bright Eyes. Oh, Caro is so beautiful. All my friends are beautiful.

Necie has a bright yellow coat and a white tam over her curls. And that Teensy, she has a pink ballet tutu, like Shirley got for her birthday in that movie.

I secretly think that I look the most like Shirley Temple. After all, I am the one with the blonde hair. But I wouldn't dare tell anybody this.

When Genevieve brought us to the theater this afternoon, they made us check in at the door, where a lady gave each one of us a piece of cardboard to hang around our necks on a string. The cardboard has our official contest numbers written on them. Mine is 39, Caro's is 40, Teensy's is 41, and somehow things got mixed up because Necie is number 61. I hate this cardboard hanging around my neck. It covers up the buttons on my little blue coat.

The Shirley Temple Look-Alike judge spends his whole life riding trains all over the country judging who looks like Shirley Temple and who doesn't. His name is Mr. Lance Lacey, but Caro just calls him Mr. Hollywood. He arrived yesterday, and Caro and her mother and father went to meet him at the train station. They took him back to Caro's house, and he changed out of his suit into a powder-blue shirt and loose, baggy pants that Caro said looked like pajamas. During supper, he received three long-distance calls. We don't get three long-distance calls in a month at our house! They all sat there, Caro and her parents and Lowell and Bobby, her brothers, just waiting for Mr. Hollywood to get off the phone so they could finish eating. Then this morning he got another long-distance call before breakfast!

I have always always wanted to be up on the stage of The Bob, and now here I am! Oh, I was meant to be a star! Standing up in front of the footlights, high above the audience. Lights, lights, lights! It's better than Christmas. It's hard to see out into the audience, but I can tell exactly where my brother, Pete, is sitting because he yelled out, "Hey, Stinky!"

I want to step out in front of all these other little ringlet-headed girls and break into a dance. Make everyone look at me, only me! But you have to stand in line. All we're supposed to do is stand up here and try to look like Shirley Temple. I hate it when I have so many other talents! I can sing, dance, spell "prestidigitation," recite "The Ancient Mariner," whistle, and act out stories I made up myself. These folks don't know what they are missing.

Mr. Hollywood's voice flows out all velvet from the microphone. "Shirley Temple represents what is best about America," he says. "Her innocence and smile are a ray of sunshine that beams across these forty-eight states. And when times look down and regular Joes have trouble buying a cup of coffee, Shirley's dimples can cheer up even the saddest Depression hobo. 'Little Miss Sunshine' has danced her way into the hearts of millions, lifting up our land with her unique brand of sweetness."

He glances back at us girls for a second, and then gestures our way. "Now it is my pleasure to be in your fine town and look over your crop of little girls. It's my job to judge which one of these young ladies comes closest to Shirley Temple's wholesome charm and innocence. Which one of them is adorable enough to cheer up this great nation of ours like America's Sweetheart?"

Oh, if only they would let me show my real talent, I could cheer up this nation! I would tell my story about Alligator Girl with the head and shoulders of a girl, and the rest of her body pure alligator. Kind of like a mermaid, but mean. Oh! I am the world's best scary-story teller!

If I could only strut my stuff, I would not only win this contest, but I'd win the one in New Orleans too. I would get my own private rail car with my own bathtub in it and velvet curtains, and then I'd invite Caro and Teensy and Necie to come with me on my trip around America. We'd go to Washington, D.C., where the President and Mrs. Roosevelt would be waiting, begging me to come have tomato sandwiches with the crust cut off. I'd tell them this Great Depression has gone on too long and I'll give them my ideas on how to help the poor folks at Ollie Trott's Trailer Paradise who lost their real homes. Oh, I'll wave to everybody and they will forget Shirley Temple ever existed!

Mr. Hollywood turns to us, with his hands up to his mouth, stretching out his lips. Has he hurt his lips? No, he is trying to make us smile wider. He gives a signal to the piano player, who starts playing "On the Good Ship Lollipop." Then he circles around us and stops at one girl who's wearing a fuzzy white fur coat. He makes her turn in a circle, then he writes something down on his clipboard. He doesn't say a word, just sort of examines her like you do a horse.

"My mouth is starting to hurt from all this smiling," I whisper to Teensy. Then, I don't have the slightest idea in the world what gets into her, but she hauls off and steps on my toe. So I step right back on her toe and grind down a little.

"Ouch!" Teensy hollers. She loves stuff like this. It's what keeps her going. She turns around at one of the other little girls and sticks her tongue out. Well, that makes that little sissy start crying.

"Titty-baby! Little sissy titty-baby!" Teensy whispers. Then out of nowhere, nowhere at all, Teensy poots! One of the biggest poots you have ever heard! You would not think that a poot that big could come out of a girl that small. The look on her face is shocked. She looks behind her like she can't believe she did it. Like when our dog poots and it scares him.

All the other girls heard it, though, and they back away from us. Like Teensy's poot is alive and might knock them down and crawl all over them. Teensy and I start laughing and we cannot stop. If you know of something funnier than pooting, then I wish you'd tell me about it.

Mr. Hollywood himself must not have heard the actual poot. He's still on the other side of the stage, still examining girls. But when he hears us laughing, he looks over our way, and I can see his lips moving, mouthing the words, "Be quiet."

Well, that makes us laugh even harder, and Caro and Necie start cracking up too.

"Shhh!" Mr. Hollywood signals, his Shhh! finger in front of his mouth. Then he takes that same finger and uses it at the corner of his lips to make a big smile, trying to make us do the same thing. The sight of Mr. Hollywood smiling like that just pushes us over the edge and we start howling, the kind of laughing that makes our mothers send us outdoors.

Then, all of a sudden, Mr. Hollywood turns on his fancy heels and heads our way. By this point, there is no stopping us. We couldn't stop laughing even if we wanted to.

Mr. Hollywood stops right in front of us. "Pipe down this very instant!" he says.

His eyes are popping out and his mouth is wide open, and we can see that he has not one, not two, but three rotten brown teeth! The front ones are shiny white, but those back ones are rotted! This just makes us scream with laughter. When we don't quiet down, he throws his clipboard slam-bam right on the stage floor, and takes a step toward us, and for a second I think he's going to hit us. But then he changes his mind.

He signals to the piano player to play a little softer. Then Old Rotted Teeth steps up to the microphone and says, "Some of our would-be Shirleys seem to think something is very funny. Numbers 39, 40, 41, and 61, would you please step over here to the microphone?"

When we get over to the microphone stand, Pete yells out, "It's Stinky!" I throw a kiss out to the audience.

Mr. Hollywood Rot-Tooth looks at us and smiles this big old fake grin. "Girls, since you know something so funny, I want you to tell it to the rest of us."

The four of us look at each other. Then Caro steps closer to the microphone. She reaches up and takes her aviator cap off and holds it down at her side. Her hair is flat as a rug. "Do you really want to know what is so funny?" she says into the microphone.

Mr. Hollywood leans into the microphone and says, "Yes, Number 40, we do."

"Well, okay," Caro says, and looks straight out into the audience. She opens her mouth and says loud and clear: "Teensy farted."

Well, the whole theater just busts its seams! They start laughing and hooting, and a whole gang of them up front-led by my brother, I bet-starts making poot noises with their hands. And pretty soon other sections of the theater join in making the same noise until it sounds like we're in one giant theater full of pooters! The few that aren't making poot sounds are screaming out things like "Yay! Teensy!"

All the other contestants have clumped together at the back of the stage. I am laughing so hard I can hardly breathe.

Mr. Hollywood shakes his clipboard in Caro's face and booms into the microphone. "What are your names, little girls? Girls Number 39, 40, 41, 61, give me your names immediately!"

We just stare back at him. It is so much fun to see a grown-up get this mad.

"I said: Tell me your Christian names!"

I am still dying to talk into the microphone all by myself, so I take a step forward. I take a deep breath and give a big smile to the audience. "My name," I announce, "is Pooty Pootwell."

The whole audience breaks into applause! For me. Waves of applause just wash up on the stage and crash against my new shoes. I knew they would love me if I had half a chance!

Old Mr. Hollyrot pushes me away and leans into the microphone. "All four of you are disqualified! Do you hear me? Disqualified!"

His hands are shaking so hard he can hardly hold his clipboard. His mouth is all pinched together, and the veins in his face are about to pop! All because of me!

The place is going completely wild. Popcorn flying all over the place, JuJuBes landing on the stage, and a group of boys standing up yelling, "Go Pooty!" Ushers are running up and down the aisles trying to make kids stop throwing their Coca-Cola cups in the air. They're yelling, "We want Pooty! We want Pooty!" and climbing over seats and stomping on the floor! It's wonderful!

The other little girls are crying and calling for their mothers. Some of the mothers rush up to the stage. You can hear them saying to us, "You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

But I am not ashamed at all. The whole theater is going mad and it's all because of me.

"Bring down the curtains!" Mr. Hollyrot says into the microphone.

And then Mr. Bob is at the microphone saying, "All right now, boys and girls, pipe down. I know you're a little stirred up, but I've got a special treat for you. Listen up now. Who wants to see an extra installment of Flash Gordon? If you all will settle back down, I'll show a special, unplanned screening of next week's installment, Flash Gordon and the Planet of Mongo." He signals to the piano player, who starts playing something soothing. The popcorn stops flying and kids start back to their seats. When you mention Planet Mongo around here, people shut up and listen.

Then Mrs. Bob steps up to the microphone and says, "Mothers, would you please come out and get your daughters? And those of you girls whose mothers aren't here, please come on back to the dressing room with me. Everything is just fine."

Teensy and Caro and Necie and I start to walk off the stage, but Teensy cannot stand it. She runs back to the center of the stage, turns and sticks her little booty out at the audience, and wiggles it for all she's worth.

Well, Mr. Lance Toothrot Lacey storms over to Teensy and yanks her arm so hard he just about pulls it off. And there he is, leaning Teensy over his knee with his hand in the air, about to give her a spanking right on her tiny little behind!

But Mr. Bob stops him. "Son, I think you better watch your manners. This child doesn't belong to you."

"I don't care who the hell she belongs to," Mr. Rottenteeth says. "She has ruined the official Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest! This has never happened to me before!"

Old Hollywood's voice has changed. He doesn't sound like a movie star with a velvet-curtain voice anymore, but like one of those fellows who come to town with the circus and spit out of the sides of their mouth.

"Well, that might be true, son," Mr. Bob says, "but you still don't take a hand to one of our daughters. Her own father can spank her if he sees fit."

Mr. Hollywood straightens his ascot and pulls down the cuffs of his sleeves. "Well, I'm glad you're the one who runs a hick movie house in this hick town with that bunch of under-age hick vixens. I'm on the next train out of here."

And then he turns to leave, but not before Mr. Bob says, "I'll be sure and call your Twentieth Century Fox pals and let them know you're on your way. When they ask me who won the contest, I'll just tell em our gals were too pretty to pick just one."

Genevieve is standing backstage, holding our coats, and oh, she looks mad! "Que mechante, Teensy!" she says. "You went too far with that last little butt shake! Que faiseur d'embarras!"

Genevieve pushes open the stage door and we step outside into the cold fresh air. Jack is there to meet us, blowing on his fingers, stomping his feet, and laughing.

"Go, Pooties," he says, "Garnet Parish Pooties are the best!"