It's 1965, a small town in Georgia. Fifteen-year-old Callie Ingram is an "A" student, a regular at church, a nice girl who does what she's told. But after her beloved grandmother's death, Callie is all but ignored in the family she has left. Her distant, auto mechanic dad and rebellious older sister, Ruth Anne, are always fighting. To escape her loneliness and the turmoil at home, Callie takes an after-school job as a waitress in a diner. And there she meets Nick Gamble, a prominent, married businessman twice her age. Nick knows how to work his charm, and he leads Callie into a devastating love affair, with secrets that must be kept at any cost. When Callie's sister runs away and her dad's health fails, Callie becomes his caretaker and sole support. Desperate not to shame her dad and torn with guilt, Callie is equally determined to hold onto the lover who has become her obsession. But the real Nick is not the man of Callie's dreams. And when his world explodes, Callie faces the most excruciating decision of her life.
It's 1965, a small town in Georgia. Fifteen-year-old Callie Ingram is an "A" student, a regular at church, a nice girl who does what she's told. But after her beloved grandmother's death, Callie is all but ignored in the family she has left. Her distant, auto mechanic dad and rebellious older sister, Ruth Anne, are always fighting. To escape her loneliness and the turmoil at home, Callie takes an after-school job as a waitress in a diner. And there she meets Nick Gamble, a prominent, married businessman twice her age. Nick knows how to work his charm, and he leads Callie into a devastating love affair, with secrets that must be kept at any cost. When Callie's sister runs away and her dad's health fails, Callie becomes his caretaker and sole support. Desperate not to shame her dad and torn with guilt, Callie is equally determined to hold onto the lover who has become her obsession. But the real Nick is not the man of Callie's dreams. And when his world explodes, Callie faces the most excruciating decision of her life.
Bethany, Georgiaï»ż
January 1965
Chapter 1
I step off the city bus at the courthouse, buttoning my K-Mart fake cashmere coat up to the collar. The skyâs white as a blank sheet of paper, so cold it aches to take a deep breath. I hurry three blocks to the Rexall, purse dangling from my shoulder, heavy stack of school books shifting arm to arm. My ears are freezing numb and a blister at my heelâs popped and rubbed raw. Which means my new stockings are trashed.Â
Everythingâs still Christmassy in townâstrings of colored lights across the streets, decorated trees in shop windows, Santa scenes, train sets, doll babies. Now shabby and sad as a leftover turkey carcass.Â
Rexall just hired a new soda fountain guy and doesnât need anybody else. Miriamâs Fine Fashions is still closed for the holidays. The Beauty Box and the hardware store arenât hiring. Where the shops end on my side of Main Street, I cross the railroad tracks and try the other side.Â
No luck at the Five and Dime, Jinxâs Fabrics, or the Feed and Seed. First Bethany Bank, on the corner of Oak and Main, is shut down for the weekend. I cut through the bank parking lot and limp my way down Oak. I donât bother with Quigleyâs Funeral Home. Next is the two-story, blue Victorian house thatâs nowâaccording to the sign in frontâa lawyerâs office and an insurance agency. The doorâs locked. Friday afternoon might not be the best time to look for a job. I keep walking. The beautiful old homes give way to a row of one-story shingle houses with rusted awnings, overgrown yards, and old cars on concrete blocks. Iâm about to give up and turn around when I spot The Grill on the corner. Iâve always thought it looked seedy, a dingy-white concrete bunker of a place. Â
Merry Xmas and Happy New Year is scrawled across the front glass in fake, spray-on snow. Inside an aluminum Christmas tree rotates under a spotlight that changes from red to yellow to green. I take the green light as a sign and open the door. A cowbell clanks to announce me. Itâs a small diner with about a dozen red vinyl booths and a few tables in between, a jukebox in one corner, and a soda fountain where two cops are perched on stools, smoking and drinking coffee. Theyâre the only customers. Nobodyâs at the cash register. I stand by the Kiwanis bubblegum machine, shifting my books and shedding my coat, waiting for somebody to speak to. When the cops stand and head toward the cash register, a waitress in a turquoise uniform busts through a pair of swinging doors to meet them.
âBoots treat yâall right?â The waitress flashes the older, heavier cop a grin, takes his money, punches the register, makes change, and sticks his bill on a spike in less than three seconds. Her Elvis-black hairâs in a French twist. Her uniformâs so tight over her big bosom that the buttons strain to stay closed. Elsewhere, sheâs thin as can be.
âYou gals always take good care of us,â the cop says.
âYou know it, sugar.â The waitress grins and winks.
The younger cop pops a toothpick in his mouth and puts his hat on. I move aside as they pass me on their way out, handcuffs and keys jangling.
âHelp you, hon?â the waitress says. Her name tag reads Carlene.
âI was, uh, just wondering if yâall needed any help. Just part-time, I mean. Iâm in school.â
âYou old enough to work?â She looks me up and down, a teasing smile on her face.
âHow old you got to be?â
âOld enough to be hard-down desperate, I reckon.â She laughs. âWe did have a gal quit last week. Lemme go ask the boss man.â She disappears through the double doors again and I hear her yell, loud as a hog caller, âMr. B, somebodyâs out here asking for a job.â
In a moment sheâs back. âHe says come on.â
I look for a spot to leave my coat and books. Behind the fountain is a middle-aged, orange-haired waitress with a sour look on her face. If she was there before, I didnât notice. âMind if I leave my things here a minute?â I ask.
âSuit your own self,â she says, shrugging her shoulders.
âGo ahead. No skin offa her olâ buffalo hide,â Carlene says.
I leave my coat on one stool and my books on another and follow Carlene through the double doors into the kitchen. Steamy hot air and the smell of deep fat frying hit me in the face. Silverware clinks and plates clatter. A colored woman the size of a fridge is tending the grill. She wears a spattered white apron and a yellow shower cap over her hair. âJubilee?â I say.
She looks up, surprised, then breaks out a smile. âWell, if it ainât Little Sissy, Iâll declare.â She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. âYou grown two foot since last time I seen you. What you doing here?â
âLooking for a job.â
She forks meat from a vat of popping grease and piles it on a platter. A stack of whole catfish, missing only the heads. âI sure was sorry to hear Miz Caledonia passed,â she says. âMighty fine lady, she was.â
My throat narrows into a hard knot. I look away. âThanks.â
She turns her head and yells, âGet me some plates over here, Junior, and I donât mean tomorrow.â
A teenage colored boy in an apron lumbers over with a stack of plates. âThis hereâs my baby,â Jubilee says. âHenry Junior.â
âHey,â I say. The boy nods and sets the plates beside the fryer.
âBoss back yonder.â Jubilee motions with her head. âGood luck.â
At the back wall a bald man in a short-sleeved white shirt hunches over a stool. I head that way, dodging pools of water on the cracked linoleum floor.
âSir?â I say, standing right behind him. Heâs punching keys on an adding machine. âExcuse me, sir?â I say again. He doesnât move. âSir?â I say louder. He still doesnât move so I go ahead and talk to the back of his bald head. âIâm here to see about a job.â
He turns around slow as a sleepy dog. His nose is red and heâs gnawing the burned-out stump of a cigar. He rolls it from one side of his mouth to the other, under his thick gray moustache, yellow at the lips from tobacco. His eyes take a moment to find mine. âYa are?â he says. A blast of whiskey breath backs me up a step.
âYes, sir.â
âYou got any âsperience?â
ââSperience?â
âYou deaf?â
âNo, sir.â
ââSperience. You done any kinda job before?â He sways a little. For a minute I think heâs going to fall off the stool.
âNo, sir. But I learn fast.â
A crash of dishes makes him throw both hands in the air. âGod bless our happy home,â he says. âThat clumsy boy gonna put me in the poorhouse.â
âI got it, Mr. B,â Jubilee calls out.
Mr. Bâs foot slaps the floor and he swings around, squints at a wall calendar. âThisâs Friday⊠no, SaturdayâŠno, by God, itâs Friday.â He picks up a pencil, eraser end down. âWhatâs your name anyway?â
âCallie. Callie Ingram.â
âAwright, Cowiegram, six oâclock sharp to-goddamn-morrow.â First he tries to write with the eraser, then flips the pencil over and scribbles a K in the square for Saturday. âDonât drink the orange juice, it costs me a butt cheek. And donât count your tips in front of the customers.â
âYes, sir. Uh, do you mean six in the morning?â
âMorning for Chrissake, morning.â He swats the air like heâs after a fly. âJubyâll find you a uniform.â Then he starts punching the adding machine again.
I stand there, stunned. Did I just get a job? I turn and head back to the grill.
âHe said ask you for a uniform,â I tell Jubilee.
âLord, Lord.â She sets three catfish platters on the pass-through ledge, rings a bell, wipes her hands on her apron then shows me to the lockers.
#
First thing I do when I get home is try on my uniform. Itâs turquoise like Carleneâs and at least two sizes too big with puffy, peasant sleeves and an apron sewn into the skirt. Iâm still wearing it when I hear Daddyâs truck in the driveway. I rush to the kitchen. Ruth Anneâs all dolled up for a date, sitting at the table, drinking a Coke and reading Mademoiselle. She stole my cologne. I can smell it.Â
âWhat the hell?â she says. âYou look like a polka reject from The Lawrence Welk Show. Or one of those figures that jumps out of a cuckoo clock.â
âVery funny.â Soon as Daddy steps in the door, I say, âGuess what? I got a job.âÂ
He takes off his greasy Adams Fertilizer baseball cap and tosses it on the counter. He reeks of motor oil and cigarette smoke. âWell, Iâll be damned.â He smiles, squinting a little from the Viceroy dangling from his lips. âWhere at?â
âYou know that little diner on Oak? Itâll just be Saturdays and a couple afternoons a week. I start tomorrow.â
âThat place is a dump,â Ruth Anne says. âI ate there one time and got sick as a buzzard.â
âWell, long as you keep up your school work,â Daddy says.
âIâll keep up,â I say, smiling at the sick buzzard. Smirking actually.
#
I wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night.Â
âWhere you been?â Daddyâs voice, loud. âYou got a midnight curfew and here it is three a.m.â
âYou shoulda gone to bed.â Ruth Anne.Â
âAnswer me.â
âI went to a party with Gus. Not that itâs any of your business. Iâm seventeen years old, for Godâs sake.â
âYou are my business long as you live here. You been drinking. I can smell it.â
âSo call J. Edgar Hoover.â
âDonât you sass me, young lady. Who is this boy anyway?â
âDonât worry about it,â she says. Feet down the hall. Ruth Anneâs door opens, bangs shut. Daddy knocks, rattles the knob. âI ainât through with you,â he says, giving the door a kick.Â
I hear Ruth Anneâs window slide up, the screen pop out. Rustling sounds.
âI said open the goddamn door.â Â
No answer. Sheâs gone. My heartâs racing and my gutâs in a wad. Not that I give one subatomic particle what my sisterâs up to. It just kills me what she does to Daddy. God knows, heâs got a hard enough time trying to raise us without Nana.Â
Nice Girl is an immersive and addictive novel that hooks the reader in from the very first page.
Set in 1960s Georgia, Nice Girl creates a visceral setting to hold an intensely interesting story. Throughout this text, Folsom does an incredible job of creating an evocative backdrop to her story, effortlessly describing the small-town setting that protagonist Callie is navigating. When it comes to the time period and location of this text, no historical feature is omitted. From the beginning of the novel straight through to the end, the reader is brought on a journey through the swinging 60âs, which is achieved by the use of sensual language, colloquial dialogue, visual descriptions, and honest societal constructs. I found the writerâs immense attention to detail in regards to time-line and setting to be one of Nice Girlâs greatest achievements.
Another fantastic element of Nice Girl is Folsomâs attention to detail in regards to characterization. Throughout the text, the reader journeys through a tumultuous time in protagonist Callieâs life, watching her mental state and values shift drastically as she grows from a child into a young woman. No taboo subject seems off-limits in Nice Girl, with themes of family, alcoholism, trauma, age-gap affairs, and loneliness all explored transparently and empathetically. While Callie is the main character in this novel, her familial and romantic relationships play a vital role in the development of the novel as a whole. These relationships are an intricate and important part of the novelâs storyline that the writer manages fantastically, developing characters just enough that they feel complex, but not so much to take away from the main focus of the text. Folsomâs acute attention to developing these relationships also aids the pace of the novel, which flows perfectly from beginning to end.
If youâre looking for a unique, engaging, and easy-to-read novel that doesnât shy away from subjects that can often seem off-topic for a 1960âs setting, Nice Girl is the book for you. By juxtaposing the life of a seemingly ânormalâ fifteen-year-old girl with themes of age-gap relationships, family breakdown, and mental turmoil, the text takes on an interesting and immersive feel that all readers are sure to love.
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