By the Author of
The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had
THE
LIONS
OF
LITTLE
ROCK
KRISTIN LEVINE
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Kristin Levine.
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Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America.
Design by Annie Ericsson. Text set in Columbus MT Std.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-101-55044-1
To my mother,
for telling me about the lions
Contents
THE HIGH DIVE
COFFEE, TEA OR SODA
QUEEN ELIZABETH
FIVE LITTLE WORDS
JAMES-THOMAS
A NEW PARTNER
A NEW ROOMMATE
A NEW FRIEND
THE FOOTBALL GAME
BEHIND THE GRIN
THE TALISMAN
BLOOD LIKE A JEWEL
NOT THE STOMACH FLU
FACING FACTS
TALKING TO DADDY
SENT AWAY
THE NEGRO CHURCH
WHEN PRETTY BOY DIED
COLORED
THE WEC
THREE GOOD THINGS
THE GEM
THE ROCK CRUSHER
HALLOWEEN
BETTY JEAN’S SON
BEING QUIET
AT THE MEETING
THANKSGIVING
GOOD ENOUGH
THE CHRISTMAS PARADE
AN UNWELCOME CHRISTMAS GIFT
THE AIRPLANE RIDE
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
MAIL, MEASLES AND MORE
MOTHER GETS INVOLVED
FACING FEARS
THE ROLLER-SKATING PARTY
SECRETS ON THE BUS
ROBES IN THE CLOSET
DYNAMITE
CONSEQUENCES
MOTHER’S SPEECH
AFTER THE SPEECH
STOP THIS OUTRAGEOUS PURGE
MAYBE BRAVE
SAINTS, SINNERS AND SAVABLES
THE KEYS
GOD BLESS MOTHER
GOD BLESS DAVID
WORRIES
STOPPING BY BETTY JEAN’S
AFTERWARDS
THE ELECTION
SPEAKING UP
THE LAST DAYS OF SCHOOL
SUMMER
THE HIGH DIVE, PART 2
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1
THE HIGH DIVE
I talk a lot. Just not out loud where anyone can hear. At least I used to be that way. I’m no chatterbox now, but if you stop me on the street and ask me directions to the zoo, I’ll answer you. Probably. If you’re nice, I might even tell you a couple of different ways to get there. I guess I’ve learned it’s not enough to just think things. You have to say them too. Because all the words in the world won’t do much good if they’re just rattling around in your head.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. To understand me, and how I’ve changed, I need to go back to 1958.
It was a beautiful day in September and I was standing on top of a diving board. The blue sky was reflected in the water below, the white board felt scratchy under my feet, and the smell of hot dogs wafted up from the snack stand. It was a perfect summer day—the kind you see in the movies—and I was positive I was going to throw up.
You see, it wasn’t just any high dive. Oh, no. It was the super-huge, five-meter-high platform diving board, the tallest at Fair Park Swimming Pool, probably the highest in all of Little Rock. It might have even been the highest in all of Arkansas. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t been afraid of heights. But I was.
Sally McDaniels had told me she was going to jump off and asked if I wanted to come too. Everyone over the age of ten had already jumped off the board a dozen times that summer. Except for me, and I was practically thirteen. It was easier to nod than say no, so there I was.
Sally was waiting behind me on the ladder. Blond and blue-eyed, she wore a pink suit the exact color of her toenails. Sally wasn’t really pretty, but no one ever noticed because she acted like she was. “Are you all right?” she asked.
No, of course I wasn’t all right. I mean, I wasn’t sick or anything, but I was standing perfectly still, frozen as a Popsicle, counting prime numbers in my head. A prime number is a number that can only be divided by itself and one. There are twenty-five of them under a hundred, and reciting them sure does help me when I’m nervous.
“Go ahead and jump,” said Sally.
I didn’t move. A plane flew across the clouds . . . 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 . . . I wished I were a stork and could fly away. Or a flamingo. Or a penguin. Except I didn’t think they flew.
“Marlee,” Sally said. “There’s a bunch of people behind us.”
I hated holding them up, so I took a step toward the edge of the platform . . . 13, 17, 19, 23 . . . but then I got dizzy and fell to my knees.
“Come on,” cried the boy on the ladder behind Sally. “Hurry up and jump.”
I shook my head and clutched the board . . . 29, 31, 37, 41. It didn’t work. I
wasn’t ever letting go.
Sally laughed. “She said she was really going to do it this time.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter and kept counting . . . 43, 47, 53 . . . “Isn’t that Judy Nisbett’s little sister?” someone said.
It must have only have been a minute or two, but I got all the way to 97 before I felt Judy’s hand on my shoulder. “Marlee,” she said quietly, “come on down. I already bought a Coke and a PayDay. We can share them on the way home.”
I nodded but didn’t move.
“Open your eyes,” Judy commanded.
I did. Not that I always do what my sister says, but—well, I guess I usually do. In any case, when I saw my sister’s clear brown eyes looking at me, I felt much better. She was sixteen and going into the eleventh grade. I could talk to my sister. She was smart and calm and reasonable.
“Do you want me to hold your hand on the way down the ladder?” Judy asked.
I nodded again. It was embarrassing, but I didn’t think I could do it on my own. Once I felt her palm on mine, it only took a minute for us to make our way down together.
“What a baby!” said the boy who had been behind me as he brushed past us to climb up again. Sally laughed, and I knew they were right. I was a baby.
“Come on,” said Judy. She picked up her book and her bag from the lounge chair where she’d been reading.
“See you at school tomorrow,” said her friend Margaret.
“See you,” Judy replied, waving good-bye.
Judy hadn’t even gotten her hair wet. She’d recently cut it into a short bob and wore it pulled back with a ribbon. My hair was the same brown color as my sister’s, but it was long and wavy, and sometimes I still wore it in braids. Sally said I looked like Heidi, but I didn’t care. I liked Heidi. She had that nice grandpa and her friend with all those goats.
Goats are okay, but what I really love are wild animals, like the ones you find at the zoo. The Little Rock Zoo was right across the street from the swimming pool. In the gate and down the hill, I knew the lions were pacing in their cages. At night, Judy and I listened to them roar, but during the day they were quiet like me. Judy and I sat on the wall by the zoo entrance as we shared a candy bar and a Coke.
“Sorry,” I said. I’d ruined our last day at the pool before school started again.
Judy sighed. “Why are you even friends with Sally McDaniels?”
I shrugged. Sally and I have been friends ever since we were five and she pushed me off the slide at the park.
“She likes to boss you around,” Judy said.
That was true. But she was also familiar. I like familiar.
“You need to find a friend you have something in common with,” said Judy. “Someone who likes to do the same things you do. That’s what . . .”
I stopped listening. I knew all her advice by heart. I needed to find someone who was honest and friendly and nice. I knew all the ways I was supposed to meet this imaginary friend too. Just say hello. Ask someone a question. Give a compliment. Maybe it would work, if I could ever figure out the right words.
I know it sounds odd, but I much prefer numbers to words. In math, you always get the same answer, no matter how you do the problem. But with words, blue can be a thousand different shades! Two is always two. I like that.
Judy finally finished lecturing, and I said, “It’s easier to put up with Sally. Sometimes she’s really nice.”
“Yeah,” Judy said. “Sometimes.”
2
COFFEE, TEA OR SODA
That evening after dinner, we all sat down in the living room to watch TV. By “we” I mean my family: Mother, Daddy, Judy and me. I have an older brother too, David, but he’d just moved out the week before to start college. My sister and brother and Daddy are the only ones I feel really comfortable talking to, so I missed David something terrible. In fact, when Mother made a fresh batch of iced tea for dinner, I almost started crying.
You see, to me, people are like things you drink. Some are like a pot of black coffee, no cream, no sugar. They make me so nervous I start to tremble. Others calm me down enough that I can sort through the words in my head and find something to say.
My brother, David, is a glass of sweet iced tea on a hot summer day, when you’ve put your feet up in a hammock and haven’t got a care in the world. Judy is an ice-cold Coca-Cola from the fridge. Sally is cough syrup; she tastes bad, but my mother insists she’s good for me. Daddy’s a glass of milk, usually cold and delicious, but every once in a while, he goes sour. If I have to ask one of my parents a question, I’ll pick him, because Mother is hot black tea, so strong, she’s almost coffee.
Mother and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, or even elbow to elbow. She’s always trying to get me to do stuff: invite that girl over, volunteer at church, read to that poor blind lady down the street. I know she loves me, but sometimes I think she wishes I were more like Judy. Mother and Judy like to read fashion magazines and go shopping. They get their hair done once a week and read long, romantic novels like Gone With the Wind. Despite our differences, Judy and I get along, but Mother expects me to be thrilled when she brings me home a new skirt or a sweater set, when what I’d really like is a new slide rule.
Ever since the Soviets sent up that Sputnik satellite last year, I’ve been studying really hard. Maybe someday I’ll study mathematics at college and become a rocket scientist. Only thing is, when our teacher told us last year that our country needs more of us to study math, I think she meant more boys. I watched all those talks on TV about the satellite really closely, and I didn’t see any experts who were women.
That evening we were watching our brand-new 1958 RCA 21-inch mahogany television console. It was so large, we had to move an armchair into the garage to make space for it in the living room. With rabbit ears on top, it got three whole channels.
Governor Faubus was on television, giving some sort of talk about Southern pride and communists and, okay, I tried to pay attention, but it didn’t really make much sense. I was more worried about who my teachers would be this year. Teachers are definitely coffee. When they call on me in class, it makes me so nervous, I can’t say a thing. Even when I know the answer. So there’s always a rough patch at the beginning of the year when I’m breaking them in.
People sometimes think I’m stupid because I’m so quiet. But I’m not stupid, I’m scared. Scared my voice will get all squeaky and people will laugh. Worried I’ll look dumb if I say the wrong thing. Concerned about being a show-off if I get the answer right. Convinced that if I start talking, people will notice me, and I won’t like the attention.
“Turn off the TV, Marlee,” Daddy said suddenly.
I jumped up to do as he asked. I could tell by his tone that something was wrong.
“I can’t believe the governor would rather close the schools than have you go with a couple of Negroes,” Daddy said to Judy.
“That’s not what he said,” Mother snapped. “It’s about states’ rights, preserving our way of life and respecting Southern traditions. Not to mention maintaining the peace.”
“There you have it, girls.” Daddy’s voice was pleasant, but there was a bite to it.
Judy frowned. “But what will I do all day?”
“You can get a head start on the fall cleaning,” said Mother. “Maybe wash the windows?”
Judy made a face.
“Or you can help Betty Jean with the laundry. It’s up to you. I’ll bring home a reading list and a math book to keep you busy after that.”
Betty Jean was our new maid. We’d never had one before, but with Mother going back to work, we needed someone to do the laundry and the cooking. Daddy’s been an English teacher at Forest Heights Junior High for a long time, but Mother’s first day of teaching home economics at Hall High School was supposed to be tomorrow.
“Do you have to go to work?” Judy asked.
“Yes,” said Mother. “Hall is closed to the students, but I signed a contract, so I have to go.”
“What about Marlee? Does she have school?” Judy asked.
That was just what I wanted to know.
“Yes,” said Daddy. “Only the high schools are closed. No one is trying to send Negroes to the junior highs.”
“Not yet,” said Mother.
Daddy ignored her.
We kissed our parents good night and went back to our room. “Lucky you,” I said to Judy as I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I was starting at West Side Junior High, and I wasn’t too excited about it.
“Yeah,” Judy whispered. “Lucky me.”
As I brushed my teeth, I wondered how I’d feel if a colored girl were sent to my school. Sally said you’d get lice if you sat too close to one of them, but Sally also said if you lit a candle in a bathroom and turned around three times, you’d see a ghost in the mirror. I’d tried it once when I was seven, and there was no ghost, just a lot of melted wax on the countertop. I didn’t believe much of what Sally said after that.
There had been a colored girl in one of Judy’s classes last year at Central High School, the best high school in all of Arkansas. For the first time, nine Negroes had enrolled: Minnijean Brown, Elizabeth Eckford, Ernest Green, Thelma Mothershed, Melba Pattillo, Terrence Roberts, Gloria Ray, Jefferson Thomas and Carlotta Walls. That was a mouthful, so people just started calling them the Little Rock Nine.
The integration had gone so badly that President Eisenhower sent in soldiers to help keep the peace. I remembered Daddy talking about being polite to the Negroes and Mother biting her lip. I’d been so busy watching both of them, I’d never thought to ask Judy how she’d felt about it. All I knew for sure was that she hadn’t gotten lice.
When Judy walked into the bathroom, I opened my mouth to ask. But my mouth was full of toothpaste and by the time I’d rinsed and spit, her mouth was full of toothpaste. And then it was time to go to bed.
The Lions of Little Rock Page 1