We stay quiet the whole ride back to the Farrows’ house. The farther we get from the noise and bright lights, the weirder everything gets in my mind. One minute we’re at a cakewalk, having a blast, giggling at Chad and Robbie. The next minute, we’re hearing all that mean stuff.
As we pull into the driveway, Mr. Farrow breaks the silence. “Girls, politics is a dirty game everywhere, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen. I feel pretty bad about taking you.”
“But, Daddy, we didn’t know it would be like that!”
“You didn’t know, but I should have. I let you talk me into it, Abby, and that wasn’t wise.”
“But the cakewalk …”
“Oh, that blasted cakewalk.” Mr. Farrow slams the car door. “You girls fend for yourselves, all right? I’ve got work to do in my office.”
Abigail gets the cookie jar out. It’s chock-full of snickerdoodles she made last night. They turned out lots better than the cake. She slaps a Paul Revere and the Raiders album on the stereo. After a while, the glum feelings start shrinking away into the shadows. We sing along with the record. We dance. We drool at the album photos of the lead singer, Mark Lindsay. By the time we’ve played the song “Kicks” three times in a row, the rally has started fading away and I feel pretty good.
If I had my druthers, I’d wipe last night’s rally clean from my mind, like it never happened. Seems like Abigail’s already done that. While she and her dad drive me home in the morning, she begs and begs to go see a movie called The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, starring Kurt Russell. And if I know Abigail, Kurt’s poster is going to be hanging on her bedroom wall pretty soon.
Mamá left today’s newspaper neatly folded on my bed. She knows I need it for my election notebook. On the front page, there’s a big article about the rally. After cutting it out and gluing it in my notebook, I figure that now I can forget I ever went.
Still, Madeline Manning stares at me from her photo on my corkboard, and it feels like I owe her and all the black folks I know an explanation. “I didn’t know it was going to be like that. I just wanted to go to the cakewalk, and I couldn’t say no to Abigail. She’s my best friend, see?”
But probably Madeline Manning wouldn’t understand my sorry excuses, even if she could actually hear them. For one thing, she has tons of friends. They crowd the stadium seats, hollering their heads off while she holds up her brand-new gold medal and smiles for the cameras. I would be smiling, too. My mouth would get worn out from so much smiling.
I’m finishing my Saturday chores when the phone rings. “Three guesses who this is,” a girl’s voice says.
A happy feeling jumps on me. “Belinda?”
“Dang it, you’re good!”
“What are you doing? Still reading that book?”
“Not anymore. I stayed up past midnight finishing it.”
“I spent the night at Abigail’s, and we stayed up late, too.” As soon as those words pop out of my mouth, I’m wishing I could pop them back in. Lord knows I don’t want to fess up to Belinda that I went anywhere near Wallace — no siree. That’s when it comes to me how bad I want her for a friend. I really do.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m calling?” she says.
“Sure.”
“Let’s go running, you and me.”
“On a Saturday? What for?”
“So we can get ready for Field Day. Don’t you want to get good enough to win?”
“Of course I do!”
We meet at the playground and tuck our bikes behind a clump of azaleas. Then, after a warm-up at our usual pace, we charge up the street like we mean business. There aren’t many cars in this neighborhood, and the streets are shady. Granddaddy oaks curve over us with their arms full of springtime leaves. As we cruise along, I picture every part of the school driveway. This stop sign is right about where we’d see the pothole. This dip in the road is close to where we’d run through the patch of crabgrass. That garden behind a rickety wooden gate is just about even with the typing class. But I wonder just where on this street we’d round the last curve and see Mrs. Underwood with her feet spread wide, ready to break into a jig.
There’s one thing this run has that our school driveway doesn’t — a mean hill to climb. And boy, do my lungs notice. And boy, do my legs feel it. When we reach the top of the hill, Belinda is gulping for air, too.
“Ouch! That was hard!” I say between huffs.
“I second that,” Belinda says.
Even though my legs feel like wobbly toothpicks, I’m not one bit sorry we did this. Besides having ourselves a good run, it sure is a pretty day. The sky is clear, the shade is sweet, and twinkles of sunlight splash around us. Gosh, I feel the happiest I’ve felt in eons.
When we get back to the playground, Belinda says, “Let’s go down the slide,” which we do — a jillion times. We bust a gut laughing when the hem of my shorts gets hung on the ladder and she has to rescue me. It turns out that Belinda’s a whiz at monkey bars, too. Her hands switch lightning-quick from bar to bar, and she goes swoop, upside down, before you can figure out how did she did it. I take a turn next, and don’t you worry, I’ve got some tricks of my own.
Lightning goes crack, and the windows of the gym rattle. Rain pelts against the glass. On the other side of the canvas curtain that divides the gym in two, basketballs pound the wooden floor and sneakers thunder back and forth. Sounds like the boys are making a hailstorm over there. Man, that makes me jealous. I’d a lot rather be doing basketball drills instead of this — eleventy million sit-ups.
Mrs. Underwood barks out the rhythm. “Fifty-one, suck your gut in, fifty-two, get the lead out, fifty-three, all the way up …” By the time she gets to fifty-seven, she’s glaring down at a girl who’s starting to snivel. That girl better control herself, or we’re liable to be here for another fifty. “Sixty-five, don’t be lazy, sixty-six, keep it going …”
Suddenly, from the other side of the curtain, I hear Nick screech, “Quit hogging the ball, you turkey!”
And now Charles answers, “Get your nasty hands off me!” A tingle rockets up my spine. If there’s one thing that scares me, it’s when white boys and black boys start tussling with each other. I’m so afraid that everything will go upside down — the school, my friends, and even Red Grove. Golly bum, I guess I’m as bad a worrywart as Mamá.
I hear, “Try and make me!” It’s Nick again.
Then Spider says, “Whoa, fellas! Take it eeeasy!” Hearing him on the other side of the curtain is just like hearing him on the radio announcing a song: “Here’s the one and only Steeeeevie Wonder!” The whistle sounds for a new drill, and once again, the basketball pounds the floor in a steady drumbeat. Shoes squeak. A ball goes swish through the net, and a cheer goes up.
I wonder if anybody else noticed the boys’ commotion. Not Paige. She’s laid out like a fly under a flyswatter. Not Abigail, who’s holding her stomach and looking woozy. Belinda is fixing her ponytail and showing no sign of worry. Didn’t she hear them? But I think Belinda’s friend Willa might’ve. She’s up on her elbows, facing the gym curtains with a frown.
Then Mrs. Underwood bellows, “Now for push-ups!” and everybody groans.
In social studies, I watch for signs of anything brewing between the boys, but Charles doesn’t raise a fuss and Nick minds his own beeswax. Miss Garrett reminds us that tomorrow is the day we’ve been waiting for — the primary election — and that we’re expected to watch the returns. “If you don’t have a television at home, be sure to make arrangements. You’ll have a quiz on it Wednesday morning.”
The bell rings, and we start to collect our things. When Sam pulls a stack of books out of his cubbyhole, I spot The Book of Three sitting on top, pretty as you please. My eyes bug out. “Hey, where did you get that book?”
“From Belinda. We swap books sometimes.”
“You do?”
“Sure thing.” His eyes are round and blinking. Something in them says, “Why wouldn’t I swap books with her?�
�� Mine must be saying, “But how?” Are they buddies or something?
I make a mad dash for the boarding zone. In the crowded hall, I spy Belinda up ahead, jostling between clumps of kids. The buses are already lined up, motors grumbling and tailpipes belching blue exhaust. Before she gets on her bus, I snag her. “Hey, are you friends with Sam McCorkle?”
“Yep. We’ve known each other since way back when.”
“Back when-when?”
“Since kindergarten. My folks and his folks still get together sometimes.” Then she wiggles her eyebrows. “Makes me wonder why you’re asking.” I blush, and she grins all the bigger. “I know plenty of stuff about him, for your information.”
“You do? Like what?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Oh, come on, give me a hint!” But it’s no use. I get nothing but eyebrow wiggles. “I know: he likes Abigail, doesn’t he?” I say.
She claps a hand over her mouth and dies laughing. “Wrong! Wrong, Peewee! You’re not as smart as you think!”
Ricky takes the seat next to me and starts playing keep-away with a fifth-grader across the aisle. “That’s my pencil!” the kid says. “Give it back!”
Ricky cackles. “It’s mine now!”
“No, it’s not!”
Denise, my usual seatmate, is headed toward us down an aisle crowded with book bags and feet and band instruments. Once the bus gets in gear, she starts sliding. Ricky leaps up and snatches her ponytail. “Let go of me!” she shrieks.
“Come on, baby, let’s sit together.” By together, he means squeezed between him and me like a piece of bologna between two slices of Wonder Bread.
“Quit it!” Denise screeches. “You’re not my boyfriend, and you never will be!” She pulls away and keeps moving.
“Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy.”
The bus bumps over the pothole and makes its way around to the street, where it picks up speed. Now the boy across the aisle whines, “Can I pleeeease have my pencil back?”
The driver yells, “You, big kid — give that boy his pencil!”
“Here, whiny baby.” Ricky tosses the pencil to the boy and then hunches over his book bag, chewing his nails. After a while, he mutters sideways at me, “I told my cousin Tina about you.”
Now he’s got my attention. “What for?”
“So she can lick her chops about Field Day.”
“Humph. If she even exists.” I’m not about to show him I’m scared.
“You calling me a liar?”
“Somebody told me you like to cook up whoppers.”
He scowls. “They’re wrong! Tina’s real, and I’m going to prove it to you. You’ll be sorry, too, because when she gets here, you’re dead meat!”
“That’s what you think.” I even fake a yawn. But I’m starting to worry that Ricky could be telling the truth. If he is, I will be dead meat. I’ll be plastered flatter than a sausage patty, unless I get serious about running. Real serious.
He jabs me in the shoulder. “You’re quaking in your boots, aren’t you? Or whatever South Americans wear.”
“Shut up! You don’t know a blooming thing about South Americans!”
“I know they’re dark-headed spinach speakers.” There’s a mocking glint in his eyes.
“You mean Spanish?”
“No, I said spinach, and I meant spinach. Because whenever I hear somebody speak it, I want to barf.” I roll my eyes, but he keeps going. “Yep, Tina’s going to squash you flat like an angilada, or whatever y’all call it down yonder in spinach land.”
“Enchiladas are Mexican, doofus. I’m from Argentina.”
“Same difference. Y’all are all spinach talkers.”
“What an ignoramus.” I bet you a dollar to a doughnut that Ricky couldn’t find South America on a map if it was lit up in neon.
“Hey, I saw you at the Wallace rally the other night.” He jabs my arm. “Don’t deny it — I saw you!”
“So what? I was just there for the cakewalk.”
“Good one!” He puts on a little-girl voice. “I was just there for the cakewalk. Isn’t your sister a Brewer person?” I don’t answer. The bus sways over a speed bump. I’m figuring up how many blocks till my bus stop. Too many. I just might blow a gasket before then.
“In today’s primary, there are seven candidates for governor. Let’s name them.” Hands shoot up all over the room, and Miss Garrett starts to list our answers on the chalkboard. While she talks, my eyes turn to the window. Sixth-period PE is in session. I watch the lead group of runners until they disappear from view, which doesn’t take long — they’re running wide open. I guess they don’t know about saving something for the distance.
Miss Garrett’s chalk taps the number seven. “Who can name the last candidate?”
At first, nobody says a word. I sure can’t think of his name; he’s one of those candidates most people have never heard of. Finally, Belinda raises her hand. “Coleman Brown!”
“Excellent,” Miss Garrett says, which makes Belinda glow and me glow with her.
“Right on, sister!” Charles says. “Give her an A-plus, teacher.” Miss Garrett smiles and shakes her head at this, but Charles just keeps on yapping. “Come on, y’all. Power to the people!” Smiling big, he raises his fist in the Black Power salute.
Wouldn’t you know it? Nick can’t let this slide by. He hops up from his desk so fast that a book goes bam on the floor, making the flowers in Miss Garrett’s vase quiver. “Don’t y’all start that mess in here!” he barks. Lots of white people hate that salute. Two medalists in the 1968 Olympics got in big trouble for making it.
Miss Garrett whirls around. “Nick, hush!”
“I’m not going to hush till he does.” He points at Charles.
“You trying to tell us what to do?” Charles says. “Puh-leez. Those days are long gone.”
“Preach!” Willa says.
“Long gone?” Nick says. “You wish!” Ugh. I want to shut my ears. This reminds me too much of the Wallace rally.
Now the whole class starts rumbling and sniping. In no time, Charles is out of his desk and leaning over mine, in the direction of Nick.
“You want to make something of it?” Nick says.
I cower down in my seat, while the two boys’ faces nearly meet over my head. Charles’s eyes flash at Nick’s, and Nick’s eyes flash at Charles’s. They’re like dogs circling each other before a fight. And look who’s slapdab in the middle: me! Isn’t Miss Garrett going to do anything? Normally, she would’ve headed for the light switch by now, but I guess she’s like me — paralyzed.
Then I hear Spider: “Take it easy, y’all. Let’s just be cool, dig?” For once, he’s not joking or being a goof. After a few more seconds of flashing eyes, the boys drop back to their own desks. Whew. And you never saw Miss Garrett looking so grateful. After this, Spider’s got himself an A-plus in social studies — I bet you anything.
“Let’s return to the lesson, please.” Miss Garrett’s voice shakes a little, and I don’t wonder. “What’s a majority?” She writes a percentage sign on the board. “And what happens if no candidate receives at least fifty-one percent of the vote?”
Hands go up. “A runoff.”
She explains that if there is a runoff, it will happen four weeks from now, on June 2. But I can barely hear what she’s saying. My eyeballs stay on high alert for the least movement between Charles and Nick. Maybe fur didn’t fly this time, but guess who’s getting caught up in the tussle if they go fisticuffs for real? Me, the girl in the middle.
Our TV isn’t picking up squat, and Mamá can’t fix it. “Call your father at work. I’ve got to stay at this sewing machine.”
But Papá has too many repairs to finish. “Have you tried tilting the antenna in different directions?” he says.
“Yes, sir, a bunch of times. I get nothing but static.”
“Hm. It’s probably the weather.”
“But I have to watch electi
on returns — it’s my homework!”
“Ask Mamá to call the Sampredos. You can watch it over there.”
Lucky for me, Mrs. Sampredo tells Mamá it’s fine. I grab an umbrella and dash across the street. Mrs. Sampredo plumps up the sofa cushions and turns on the television for me. Their TV is way nicer than ours. No static, no wavy lines — you can see everything clearly. All three channels are broadcasting the returns, so I just pick one, while Mrs. Sampredo settles into the recliner and props her feet up. I can’t help but notice her silky Chinese slippers because Marina suggested we get Mamá new bedroom slippers for Mother’s Day. I wish we could get some as fancy as those.
I start off writing down almost everything the announcers say, stuff about what time the polls closed and what the turnout was like. I ask Mrs. Sampredo if she wants me to translate, but she says no, since she has to pick up her husband at work pretty soon. Fifteen minutes pass, and the vote tally barely budges. The announcers keep repeating themselves about how many precincts have reported. Blah blah blah. Surely I don’t have to write down everything.
The newspaper is lying on the coffee table. I check the sports pages, where maybe, just maybe, I’ll spot Tina Briggs’s name. Nope. Then I read the comic strips and scan the store ads. At Landon’s Department Store, lady things are on sale, including Dearfoams slippers. They’re not fancy-schmancy like Mrs. Sampredo’s, but the ad claims they’re silky soft, and they come in blue, which Mamá would love to pieces. I figure Marina and I better hurry over there to buy them.
After Mrs. Sampredo leaves to pick up Mr. Sampredo, I dial Abigail’s house. She snatches up the receiver in a flash. “Whoa, you must’ve had the phone in your hand,” I say.
“I’m expecting a call any minute!” She sounds out of breath. “Long distance!”
“From who, your brother?” He’s off in the army, at a post somewhere in California.
“Lordy, would I be sitting by the phone for him?”
“Well, who is it then?”
“Guess!” she says.
“Uh. Let’s see … long distance. Katya?”
“Nope.”
My Year in the Middle Page 6