Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Robin Talley

  Judy and I have been best friends since we were five. She’s supposed to listen to me.

  All my school friends listen to me. School is the one place where what I say and what I think matter.

  It’s still strange hearing Sarah talk so much in the first place. In school I barely hear her say a word. When she does, she speaks slowly, every sentence precise and deliberate. Most of the time she just walks stiffly down the hallways with her chin in the air, pretending not to hear everyone shouting at her, the way all the colored people at Jefferson do.

  I used to think maybe the Negroes really didn’t hear those things. That maybe they could tune them out the way I tune out a bad song on the radio, or Eddie making a dumb joke during choir practice about Mr. Lewis’s pants being too tight.

  But Sarah seems to notice everything. She pays attention to the tiniest moments. The most insignificant comments. I’d be impressed if I didn’t find it so tiresome.

  One afternoon, when we were arguing over which picture to use on the cover of our report, I said we shouldn’t use the picture Sarah had picked out because the model in the picture looked Spanish, not French. Sarah said, “You don’t think there’s a single person in all of France who’s got skin any darker than yours, is that it?”

  During our meeting today, while I’m still annoyed about what Kenneth said in Study Hall, the same thing happens. Judy has been telling us about an old lady, Mrs. McCormick, who came into Bailey’s and asked the cashier if they have lighter colored Band-Aids because she has “such unusually fair skin.” Judy and I always laugh about Mrs. McCormick—how she always wears a hat even when it’s cloudy outside and how she wears white gloves every day, even to the dry cleaner, to protect her “such unusually fair skin.” Mrs. McCormick’s skin is wrinkled so bad you can’t tell whether she’s as fair as Grace Kelly or as dark as Carmen Miranda. Judy and I are still laughing about it when Sarah interrupts us.

  “It’s good luck for Mrs. McCormick her skin is white and not black,” Sarah says. She’s leaning back on a box, one arm stretched over her head, playing with a rubber band. She looks so different than in school. There, her back is always straight and her face is always carefully composed. “Or she couldn’t find a Band-Aid to match even that much.”

  “Why do you have to make everything about color?” I ask her.

  “I don’t.” Sarah rolls her eyes. I still can’t believe she has the nerve to do that in front of us. “You’re the one who makes everything about color. What’s worse is half the time you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

  “That’s not true at all,” I say. “I barely even think about color. Or I didn’t until your people forced this on us.”

  “I know it would’ve been easier for you if we’d stayed where we were,” Sarah says. She yawns, covering her mouth with her hand. “But if our situations were reversed you wouldn’t have wanted to stay there, either.”

  I know better than to egg her on, but I can’t help it. “What do you mean?”

  “Your Biology class at Jefferson has a microscope at every single lab table,” Sarah says. “At my old school we had one. For the whole class. We all took turns.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not true. I don’t believe you.”

  “Johns doesn’t have enough textbooks for everyone to have their own, either,” Sarah goes on as though she didn’t even hear me. “We have to share those, too. No one’s allowed to take them home.”

  I never read about that in the paper. And Daddy never mentioned it.

  Well, but even if what she’s saying is true, everyone knows Jefferson is a better school than Johns. Jefferson is a better school than most of the other white schools around here, too. That’s just how it is. I’m about to say so when Judy says, “Hey, um, so, I have an idea.”

  Sarah and I turn to her. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised.

  “You do?” Sarah and I say at the same time.

  Judy nods vigorously. “For our project. Because it’s about French music, right?”

  I’ve never once known Judy to have an idea about homework.

  “What is it, Judy?” Sarah says. Then something strange happens.

  Sarah smiles at Judy.

  I’ve never seen her really smile before. I’ve seen her smile meanly, or sarcastically, but this smile is different. Genuine.

  She looks so different this way. Her face is lighter, somehow. Not whiter, exactly—her skin is just as brown as ever—but it’s like a dark shadow has been lifted off her. Her eyes take on a sparkle that makes her brown irises look golden.

  When Judy speaks again, I realize I’m staring. I shake my head so fast Sarah cocks an eyebrow at me. I blush like an idiot.

  “I spotted some old French records in the secondhand bin in the back,” Judy says. “And there’s a record player up in the window. It’s for display only, but if we just listen to a couple of songs, Mr. Bailey won’t find out.”

  Now I’m staring at Judy. I’ve never known her to come up with a plan like this.

  “That sounds perfect, Judy,” Sarah says, still smiling. “I’d love to listen to some French records.”

  I’m not sure how some old records are going to help us with our project, but when Judy brings in the box and the record player I figure it out. She thinks if Sarah and I are listening to music, we won’t be able to argue so much, and she won’t have to worry about us getting her in trouble.

  It turns out she’s right.

  “Édith Piaf?” Sarah turns an album over in her hands. “My Music teacher at our old school played this record for us years ago. That was before we knew enough French to understand the words, but it sounded so beautiful. For weeks after that I’d dream about Édith Piaf’s voice.”

  I’ve never heard Sarah say so many words in a row without once telling me I’m wrong about something.

  “Wow.” Judy smiles at Sarah, her eyes wide. “I’d love to hear it.”

  We set up the record player, turn the volume as low as we can and drop the record on the turntable. I haven’t heard this record since I was little. My mother used to love Édith Piaf. The song makes me think of my mother smiling down at me while she fixed supper. Or sitting in the living room, her head tilted back, a dreamy look on her face.

  Mom doesn’t listen to records anymore. I’m the only one in our house who still does. I’ll listen to the radio while I do my homework, or to records when I have a concert I need to practice for, but I don’t like to practice singing at home much. It’s better at school, where I don’t have to worry about who can hear me.

  I shake off the thought and try to catch Judy’s eye, but Judy’s watching Sarah. Sarah’s eyes are closed, and she’s mouthing the words to the song “La Vie en Rose.”

  “Do you know this song, Sarah?” Judy asks. “You should sing with it.”

  Sarah opens her eyes and shakes her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Judy says. “You sing with your church choir, right? It would be fun to hear you sing in French.”

  I wonder how Judy knows Sarah sings with her church choir. Do the two of them talk when I’m not here?

  Do they talk about me?

  I expect Sarah to tell Judy no again. Instead she closes her eyes, opens her mouth and begins to sing.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

  Sarah’s voice is wonderful. She’s better than the other girls in the Balladeers. Better than a lot of girls who sing on the radio, even.

  She’s better than me.

  And there’s something about the way her face looks when she’s singing that makes you want to stare at her forever.

  She keeps going, all the way to the end of the song. If anything her voice only gets better. When the song ends, Judy claps.

  “That was wonderful!” Judy sa
ys. “Linda, wasn’t she wonderful!”

  “Yes, she—” I start to say. Then I remember myself and stop talking.

  “You should join the school choir!” Judy says. “Linda, shouldn’t she join?”

  I clear my throat. Judy looks at me. I raise my eyebrows at her to be quiet. Judy shakes her head, confused.

  Sarah saves me from having to explain.

  “Thank you for getting the record player, Judy,” she says. She takes the record off the turntable and passes it to me, her hand brushing mine for a moment. My finger tingles. “I love Édith Piaf. You can take it back up front now, if you’re worried about getting in trouble with Mr. Bailey.”

  Judy smiles gratefully and packs up the record player.

  My finger is still tingling. For a moment I don’t know why. Then I realize it’s because my hand brushed Sarah’s.

  I just touched colored skin.

  Everyone used to say if you touched a colored person the black on his skin would rub off onto yours.

  In first grade, we played a game during recess called Nigger in the Hole. Whoever was in the hole stood in the middle of a circle with a bandanna tied around his face so he was blind, and then he ran around trying to touch you. If he tagged you, you were the new Nigger in the Hole. Everyone would say “Ew!” when you got near them until your turn was over.

  I haven’t thought about that game in ten years at least.

  When I touched Sarah’s hand, it should have felt disgusting. Like playing Nigger in the Hole.

  It didn’t.

  Sarah’s skin didn’t feel any different than anyone else’s. It felt smooth and warm.

  Now that I’m thinking about it, she didn’t have to brush my hand when she passed me the record. She reached all the way over. Almost like she was trying to have us touch.

  That’s a strange thing for a colored girl to do. Or any girl, really.

  When Judy comes back she’s smiling. I smile back at her, glad to have something else to focus on.

  “Were you in the choir at your old school, Sarah?” Judy asks.

  Sarah nods. “We won the county-wide contest last year.”

  “You did?” I’ve never seen Sarah at any competition I’ve been to with the Balladeers.

  “Yes,” Sarah says. “For the Negro schools. We weren’t allowed in the same contests you were.”

  She doesn’t sound angry this time. She’s not arguing with me. Just telling me something I didn’t know.

  “Do you want to be a singer when you grow up?” Judy asks Sarah. Judy’s face is earnest, but Sarah laughs. She has a nice laugh.

  “No,” Sarah says. “I’m going to be a teacher, like my mother. She speaks French and Spanish and she has her master’s degree.”

  She sounds so proud. I wonder if that’s what I sound like when I talk about Daddy.

  “Why not do Music instead?” I say. “If you like it so much?”

  Sarah raises her eyebrows. I remember too late I’m not supposed to be interested in anything about Sarah.

  “My parents wouldn’t want me taking Music in college,” she says. “They’d want me in something practical, where I can find a job.”

  “But what do you want?” I say.

  Sarah looks at me, a crease around her eyes I haven’t seen before. For once she’s actually thinking about something I said.

  “I love music,” she says after a minute. “Sometimes I think it would be wonderful to study it more, but it’s childish to think that way.”

  “No it’s not,” I say.

  She shakes her head, still giving me that look. “I have to be serious, Linda. I have to think about my future.”

  “Do you at least want to be a Music teacher?” Judy says.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah says. “I like Math, too. And History.”

  “You like Math?” I can’t believe anyone would like Math. Especially Sarah. She spends our Math classes sitting with her arms crossed and her steely gaze fixed on Mrs. Gruber. She always keeps her face blank, but I can tell she’s miserable.

  “Well, not this year,” she says. “It was always my favorite class at Johns, though.”

  It was? That’s too bad, that she can’t enjoy her favorite class this year.

  Wait. No. She brought this on herself. I don’t feel sorry for her.

  “I don’t like Math,” I say, so I won’t have to think about that anymore. “I like History, though. Last year for World History we did a project on ancient Greece. Did you know a lot of the Renaissance artists were inspired by the Greeks?”

  “Ugh, I hate History,” Judy said. “I can never remember dates.”

  “If you like History so much why are you in Remedial?” Sarah asks me. “And Math, too. I’ve been wondering. You seem too—I mean, I wondered why you’re in remedial classes.”

  I’ve wondered the same thing about her.

  “My parents asked the school to put me in Remedial freshman year,” I say. “I missed some school because I was sick when I was younger, and my father didn’t think I could handle the work in the harder classes. At least the homework is easier this way.”

  Sarah nods, frowning. “Well, anyway, I think recent history is more interesting than ancient. It’s more relevant to how the world works today.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “Ancient Greece was the foundation of civilization.”

  “Not of all civilization,” Sarah says. “The Egyptians were building pyramids two thousand years before the Greeks built the Parthenon.”

  “Did they really?” That’s interesting. Then I remember who I’m talking to and I add, “That can’t be right.”

  “It is,” Sarah says. “You can look it up in the encyclopedia.”

  “Then why does everyone talk about the Greeks so much?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Sarah points at my wrist, bare under the lace edge on my sleeve. Then she points at her own wrist. She’s saying it’s because the Greeks were white and the Egyptians were colored.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “People didn’t care about those things back then.”

  Sarah smiles a little. And I realize what I just said.

  This is all her fault. She’s twisting my words around, trying to confuse me.

  “People have always cared about those things,” Sarah says. “They’ve just cared in different ways. Sometimes it means the history books get written differently. Sometimes it means a war gets fought. Sometimes it means people wind up slaves. That’s why I like History so much. It makes you think about those things.”

  “That’s nonsense,” I say. “God made white people and colored people different, and he put them on different continents. Everything was fine until the races started to mix. That’s what caused all the problems we have today. Everyone knows that.”

  Sarah just shakes her head.

  I know she’s wrong, but I still want to hear what she has to say next.

  She makes me so angry. But there’s something about the way Sarah talks, the way she is, that makes me want to talk to her more without all these problems getting in the way.

  No. I’m not thinking clearly. This must all be some sort of trick she’s pulling.

  “Judy, what were you talking about with Tommy Dillard today?” I say. Sarah sits back, surprised. I ignore her. “I saw you two in the hall after fifth period.”

  Judy’s whole face lights up. Even her birthmark is shining under the makeup. She must’ve been waiting all afternoon for me to ask her about Tommy.

  “He asked me to the dance!” Judy says, holding her fists up in a little cheer.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” I say.

  Tommy Dillard is a skinny boy with glasses who plays the French horn in band. He’s not someone I’d ha
ve ever thought of dating. He should be good for Judy, though.

  “So,” Judy says, “I know you won’t be coming to the dance, Linda, because Coach Pollard wouldn’t want to. What about you, Sarah? Has one of those colored boys at your lunch table asked you?”

  My smile fades. I swallow, but my tongue sticks in my throat.

  Judy thinks she’s gossiping. She thinks from here we’ll launch into talking about dresses and makeup and corsages.

  Judy is my best friend, but sometimes she makes huge mistakes.

  First of all, she shouldn’t have mentioned Jack. From the lack of surprise on Sarah’s face, though, I can tell she’s already heard about him and me. She’s heard about the dance, too.

  “I can’t go to the dance, Judy,” Sarah says gently.

  “Why not?” Judy says. I try to catch her eye, but she’s looking at Sarah. “You’re not engaged, too, are you?”

  “Judy!” I snap. For Sarah to hear gossip about Jack and me is one thing, but for Judy to outright tell her we’re engaged is completely unacceptable.

  But Sarah only shakes her head. She doesn’t look shocked at all.

  “The dance isn’t for me,” she says.

  “Why not?” Judy says. “Don’t you like dancing? Didn’t they have dances at your colored school?”

  “I love dancing,” Sarah says. “But this isn’t a school dance. It’s a special dance some of the parents are putting on since the school canceled the prom.”

  Judy’s mouth drops open.

  “It’s a private dance,” Sarah goes on. “If it was an official school dance they’d have to let anyone in.”

  Judy nods. “So you couldn’t go—because—”

  “Because I’m a Negro,” Sarah finishes for her. “It’s a white-only dance.”

  Sarah turns toward me. I drop my eyes.

  A month ago I would’ve been thrilled about the dance. One last time to have fun before the end of high school. A chance to wear my new blue dress.

  But yesterday, when we heard David Baker’s parents had rented a hall and all the white juniors and seniors were invited, all I felt was a strange emptiness inside.