“I’m sure that was never boring.”
“Never,” Denise says, laughing. “I miss it sometimes. Now I mostly write magazine features. Some profiles.”
“What do you miss about it?” Edie asks. Sometimes I don’t think she’s paying attention, but she’s always listening. Quietly watching.
“About what I used to do?” Denise sips her peppermint tea. “The research. Feeling like I’ve reached a roadblock with a story and then realizing there’s another avenue I haven’t explored… another way to get to the truth.”
“It’s essential work,” Ms. Whitman says. “I’ve tried to convince my son to go into journalism, but he’s only got eyes for neuroscience.”
“There’s certainly more money in neuroscience. But I love what I do. That’s the most important part.”
After dinner, Edie and I go up to the attic. I didn’t want to lug the journals with me, so I made notes of the details that might help us figure out who Constance was.
“I found something in one of the books,” Edie says before I’ve even sat down. “I wanted to show you all day, but I figured it was best to wait until now.”
She slides something out of a black clothbound journal and hands it to me. A black-and-white photograph. The woman in it is pictured from the shoulders up, and like the pages in the diaries, the photo is faded and fragile. She’s wearing a soft-looking sweater and a bow in her dark hair, which is short and curled above her shoulders. I wonder what colors the sweater and bow are. She is white and her smile is big, with a slightly crooked front tooth, and her eyes look light-ish. Probably not blue, but maybe hazel or green.
“Who is this?” I ask, then turn it over and gasp. “It’s her?”
“I guess so,” Edie says. “Does she look like you thought she would?”
“Not really?” I don’t know what I expected her to look like. Maybe not like this, even though I’m not sure why. But it’s right there on the back of the picture: Constance, 1954. The year before the first journal. When she was still living with her family.
“I wonder if she still looked like this after she moved to California,” Edie ponders, staring at the photo.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems sort of like she reinvented herself. With whatever secret she’s hiding. Maybe this is just a reminder of what she used to look like.”
“Maybe.” But what could she have done to change what she looked like? Dyed her hair? And what was she hiding?
“She looks nice,” Edie says. “It doesn’t surprise me that she cares about other people so much.”
Edie’s right. She does look kind. Her eyes, especially. Still, I can’t believe she’s the woman whose life we’ve been reading about. For some reason, I guess I thought she could’ve been black, with the way she talks about black people and knows our history. I don’t think I’ll be able to get her face out of my mind whenever I open a journal.
“I did some research on Santa Barbara.” Edie picks up her tablet. “Did you know that my namesake was born there?”
“Who?”
“Edie Sedgwick! And the Chumash tribe lived in the area for thirteen thousand years before white people got here.”
“It’s really pretty in Santa Barbara,” I say. “Dad and Elliott have friends there.”
Edie slides her tablet toward me. “Do you want to look things up? I don’t like typing. And you already have notes.”
I unfold the piece of paper I brought with me and set it on my lap. The background of the tablet screen distracts me. It’s pitch black with a big, white moon in the center. Simple, beautiful, and slightly creepy.
“Is it weird having Denise stay with you?” Edie asks.
I shrug. “No, not really. She’s easy to get used to.”
“Even eating dinner with her and your dads? It’s not weird having an extra person there?”
“No, it’s kind of better, actually,” I say slowly. “They don’t ask me as many questions about school.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to not eating dinner with my dad.” Edie’s voice is quiet. “It’s not like he was even there to eat with us all the time, but he’d warm up a plate when he got home later. Or if he was out of town, he’d call right before we were about to eat so it almost felt like he was there at the table. I just… I knew when I’d see him again. And it’s different now.”
“Have you talked to him lately?” I don’t know if I should be asking, but if I were missing someone, I think I’d want to talk about them.
“Yeah, we talk almost every day. I mean, we text, mostly. He’s busy, and the time difference is hard. But he’s going to come out here as soon as he can. I might go spend the weekend with him in L.A. sometime.”
“That would be fun.”
“Yeah, it will be.” She pauses, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair. Then she says, “You look like her.”
I glance at Edie. “What?”
“Denise. You look like her.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. Am I not supposed to say that? I know she’s not really your mother.…”
I shrug. “She’s not not my mother.”
“Well, you look alike.” Edie smiles. “She’s pretty. And really nice.”
I nod. Then I focus on the tablet again. I don’t know what to say. I know I look like Denise. Dad and Elliott mention it sometimes, how I’m looking more and more like her every day. It’s a good thing, but it’s also weird. Even though she’s my biological mother, that’s all we share. We’ve never lived in the same house… well, until now. But she didn’t raise me. So it’s strange knowing there’s someone out there with my face when I don’t call her Mom.
“Let’s start on this,” I say, looking down at my piece of paper. I’ve only written a few things on it, anything that could help us figure out who she is:
1. Constance
2. San Francisco
3. Mr. and Mrs. Graham
4. Mrs. Ogden
5. Betty Graham
6. California School of Fine Arts
7. Santa Barbara
8. State Street
9. Schiff’s Department Store
10. Sanford
I hold the paper out for Edie to see.
“That’s a lot of s words,” she observes.
I spend the next few minutes typing in all the words: together, separately, in different order. Every search brings up a ton of results, but nothing that really means anything.
Edie sighs, frustrated. “Seriously, none of these things are helping? How is that possible?”
I look up each term separately again, but I don’t find anything new that I missed. None of the Constances that come up are our Constance. They’re either way too old or too young. And besides, we don’t even know her last name. Or Sanford’s, whoever he is.
“We need more information,” I say.
“How are we going to figure it out if we can’t do it this way?” Edie frowns. “Everything is on the internet.”
Suddenly, Denise’s words flash through my mind.
Feeling like I’ve reached a roadblock with a story and then realizing there’s another avenue I haven’t explored… another way to get to the truth.
I tap the pen against the paper. “Maybe there’s another way.”
December 5, 1955
I’ve begun purchasing the Negro newspaper every week now. I visit the same newsstand so I won’t cause additional suspicion. The man still grunts at me each time, yet he doesn’t further complain.
But today, he spoke to me. “They reportin’ about that old gal who wouldn’t move on the bus?” He pointed to the Sun-Reporter.
“Excuse me?” I said.
He slid a copy of the New York Times my way, open to an article with the following headline: BUSES BOYCOTTED OVER RACE ISSUE; MONTGOMERY, ALA., NEGROES PROTEST WOMAN’S ARREST FOR DEFYING SEGREGATION.
My breath hitched in my throat and I felt the man staring. I quickly pulled a fresh copy off the
rack and placed it on top of the Sun-Reporter. “I’ll take one of these, as well.”
He shook his head. “Better be careful with that help of yours. Those people gettin’ too uppity. Demandin’ so much, like the world owes ’em.”
I handed him a quarter, tucked the papers under my arm, and began to walk away.
“Wait a second, missy. I still owe ya—”
“Keep the change,” I called over my shoulder.
I won’t miss the five cents. I couldn’t stand to be near him another moment.
Before bed, I read the article. It detailed the arrest of Mrs. Rosa Parks, a Negro woman who refused to sit in the back of the bus, where Negro passengers must ride in Alabama. The article says the Supreme Court is already set to hear a case about bus segregation, from South Carolina. I’ve copied down part of the article because I still can’t believe it’s true.
Other Negroes by the thousands, meanwhile, found other means of transportation or stayed home today in an organized boycott of City Lines Buses, operated by a subsidiary of National City Lines at Chicago.
The manager, J. H. Bagley, estimated that “80 or maybe 90 percent” of the Negroes who normally used the buses had joined the boycott. He said “several thousand” Negroes rode the buses on a normal day.
Mama always used to say, “Real change take too long to come. Ain’t never gonna see it in my lifetime, and probably not in yours, girl.”
But maybe Mama was wrong. Because this… this is something. I bet Sanford would be part of the boycott if he lived in Montgomery. I am sure he is so very proud of it.
Love, Constance
POSER
DAD’S ART GALLERY IS POPULAR WITH LOCALS AND tourists, but he only hosts a couple of exhibit openings a year. So when he does, we get all dolled up and make a night of it.
Usually it’s just Dad, Elliott, and me, but this time it’s a whole crew: the three of us, plus Denise and Laramie. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to her since Beach Night, which was only a few days ago, but seems like forever. There’s always someone around at lunch or in the hallways, and we’ve been so busy with homework that we barely have time to text. I miss her.
“How was Gavin’s?” I ask when we’re in my room, getting ready. I can’t decide if I should wear a dress or a skirt.
Laramie is wearing a short denim skirt and a baggy white sweater that falls off her left shoulder. I keep looking at the deep purple of the tank top strap peeking out, but really, I can’t get over her skirt. I’ve never seen her wear one so short, and her legs look miles long.
She shrugs, picking at her fingernails. “It was fine, like I told you.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t say how it really was.” It’s not every day that we hang out with eighth graders. Well, I guess I never have.
Laramie is quiet, like she’s thinking about the best way to say it. “It was sort of fun, but…”
“But what?” I ask, holding up an oatmeal-colored sweater. I toss it on the floor. It looks too much like Laramie’s.
“Once we got there, Nicolette just sort of ignored me.”
I look at her in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. “So why’d you stay? You could have come to Beach Night.”
“I don’t know. It just felt like once I was there, I shouldn’t leave. They were nice enough to invite me.”
“And then ignore you all night,” I mumble.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Alberta.” Her voice is irritated, like she’s been sounding more and more lately.
“I don’t know what what’s like?”
She shakes her head. “Forget it.”
I don’t want to forget it, though. I want to know exactly what she means, because she’s my best friend. Because we’re supposed to tell each other everything. Even the uncomfortable things.
But just then, Elliott raps on my bedroom door and says, “Time to head to the gallery, ladies.”
I still haven’t decided what to wear. Laramie practically runs to the door, as if she’s grateful for the escape.
Dad’s gallery is located on Ewing Street, but it’s positioned at the end of the main drag. A few buildings down from Coleman Creamery and Rosa’s, but not as far as the post office and library.
A big chalkboard sign out front advertises in perfect, swirly script the opening show for the artist: Verbena Fujimoto. Inside, the single room glows with lighting that accents the paintings perfectly hung on the walls. Dad’s employees, Judith and Wyatt, are dressed in all black, setting up the table of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
Elliott heads straight for the food.
Dad sighs. “Honey, that’s for the guests. We have dinner reservations in two hours.”
“No one’s going to miss a handful of cheese and crackers,” Elliott says, already filling a tiny napkin. “I had to come straight from school—I can’t wait two hours.”
Dad produces a protein bar. “And I came prepared.”
Elliott grumbles and takes it, but only after he inhales three cubes of gouda first.
“Where’s the artist?” Laramie asks, gazing around at her paintings.
As if she heard Laramie talking, a tall woman with a shaved head enters from the back room. She’s wearing a floor-length sequined dress the color of pine needles and fringed leather earrings that hang to her shoulders. She has creamy white skin and lips painted candy-apple red.
“Wow,” Denise breathes on the other side of me. “I can’t believe she’s really here.”
“You know her?” I ask.
“She started out as a graffiti artist, and then people started paying attention. Now she’s doing gallery shows,” Denise says in a low voice. “Technically still up and coming, but all the true artists know Verbena Fujimoto. She’s going to be huge in, like, six months.”
Laramie and I walk around the gallery, checking out the paintings before the opening starts.
“I still don’t really know if I get art,” she says, tilting her head to look at a piece. It’s the outline of a girl filled with all kinds of objects against a hot-pink background.
“Elliott says it’s about analyzing the circumstances around the art.”
Laramie squints at me.
“Like… when it was made, who made it, and what their influences were.” I guess I remember more than I thought from when he and Dad get into their big discussions. Sometimes they last for hours.
“Oh.” She regards the piece again. “Well, what if you don’t know anything about it and just like the way it looks?”
“That’s what Dad says art is all about. How it makes you feel. And it’s what Ms. Rabinowitz said the first day of school.”
“It’s like at Gavin’s house, there’s all this expensive art we couldn’t touch, but it was honestly pretty boring. Nothing like this. I thought Gavin was going to kill Davis for bumping into a table with a sculpture of some old dude.” She snorts at the memory. And it’s weird that Laramie is laughing about something I wasn’t there for.
“Is he actually nice to you?”
“Who, Gavin?” She stares at the painting a few more seconds before she looks at me. “Yeah, he is. He’s actually the only one there who seems to care about who I am. He asks questions and stuff.”
I nod. That’s not the Gavin I know, but at least he’s being nice to Laramie. Even if I don’t understand why she’s hanging out with them, I don’t like the idea of them being rude to her.
“They were talking about Edie,” she says.
My eyebrows knit together. “About what?”
Laramie shrugs. “Just like they talk about any new kids.”
But I know Nicolette and Gavin, and that doesn’t mean anything good. “What did they say, Laramie?”
“Just… Nicolette called her a poser.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like, the whole goth-girl-from-New-York thing. It’s kind of a lot.”
“But that’s who she is. You should see her room.
I don’t think she owns any color that isn’t black, white, or silver.”
“Is that really who she is? I mean, I don’t know a lot of black people who dress like that.”
I freeze. “So?”
“It’s just… what if she reinvented herself to come out here?”
Reinvent. That’s the word Edie used when she was talking about Constance. And I don’t think Laramie is right, but I can’t help remembering how Edie immediately wondered if Constance had changed her whole look when she moved out here. That’s not what Edie did, too… is it?
“She didn’t,” I say, shaking the thought from my head. “I’ve seen pictures of her with her friends back in New York.”
“Okay. Well, it’s still a little strange. The way she looks.”
“And honestly, Laramie, how many black people do you even know?”
She frowns at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just, like… you don’t know how every single black person dresses. Maybe it’s normal in New York City.”
Laramie presses her lips together and wrinkles her nose like she’s smelled something sour. That expression reminds me of Nicolette so much that I cringe, but then, when I keep watching her, I see something else cross her face. She looks… uncomfortable.
“I thought you liked Edie,” I say, thinking back to that day on the beach when I was the one who felt left out.
Laramie brings both of her shoulders up in a shrug. “She’s fine, but I still think her black lipstick is weird.”
“You’re being kind of mean.” I wish my voice didn’t wobble. But I hate this. The way she’s talking reminds me of Nicolette, too. Laramie used to like Edie, and she didn’t say any of this when she first met her. Was she really thinking this the whole time, or did Nicolette change her mind?
“Oh, come on. You just met her.” Laramie laughs like we’ve been joking around this whole time. It makes my stomach hurt. “What, is she your best friend now?”
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