by Robin Talley
Sarah nods. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you again. I’ll tell her after I go over to my brother’s school.”
“I certainly hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere.” Miss Jones’s eyes are still on her magazine. “I don’t know how they do things over in your part of town, but here we don’t let students cut class whenever they feel like it.”
“But my brother—” Sarah’s eyes are wide.
“You can go and get your brother after school,” Miss Jones says. “I’m sure the teachers at his kindergarten can handle him in the meantime.”
She’s not going to let Sarah get her little brother?
But he’s sick. He might be really sick. And he’s only in kindergarten.
He isn’t an agitator. He’s a little kid. He didn’t do anything wrong.
He’s sick, the same way I got sick when I was little. Being sick must be harder for him than it was for me, though, because he’s colored.
“May I please call my mother and tell her I’ll be late getting him, then?” Sarah’s hands are trembling harder than ever. She glances around at the other students gathered in the waiting area. They don’t bother to drop their eyes when they see her looking.
She doesn’t look my way.
“The phones in this office are for faculty use only,” Miss Jones says.
There are tears in Sarah’s eyes.
“Then could you call for me, please, Miss Jones, ma’am?” she says.
If something like this happened to me, I’d be shouting by now.
I wish I’d left the office after all.
Something aches deep inside me. As if this is somehow my fault.
“Or could you call my brother’s school?” Sarah’s still being polite even though water is threatening to spill from her eyes. “I can tell you the number—”
“I told you, we aren’t a messenger service.” Miss Jones slams down her magazine. “Now if I were you I’d get back to class before you get into more trouble.”
I think about Sarah’s little brother sitting in kindergarten, sick and miserable, waiting another two hours for the school day to end. Wondering where Sarah is. Why there’s no one who can help him.
It’s as though a switch has flipped over in my brain.
This is wrong.
It’s wrong.
It’s so wrong I almost say it out loud.
I almost tell Miss Jones it doesn’t matter if Sarah’s little brother is white or colored. What matters is he’s a little boy, and he’s sick, and someone should help him.
I almost—
But then I remember the six other people in the room, watching raptly as though this is their favorite television show.
It isn’t right, what’s happening to Sarah’s little brother, but that doesn’t mean color doesn’t matter.
It always has. I’ve always known that.
I paste a smile back on my face and turn around to leave.
Then I see them through the glass window. They’re watching, too.
Bo Nash. Eddie Lowe. Kenneth Cox. And two of the JV cheerleaders. They’re lined up against the lockers, looking right at me. Looking at me standing next to Sarah.
I push back from the desk, mumble another thank-you to Miss Jones, and walk out as fast as I can.
It’s not fast enough.
“What were you doing in there with that nigger, Linda?” Bo asks before the door’s swung shut behind me.
Bo’s the only boy at school who talks to me this way, as if I’m any other girl.
Jack doesn’t like Bo much. He went to school with one of Bo’s older brothers, and he says all the men in that family are all the same. They’ve worked for the same tobacco farm for more than thirty years. The Nash boys all start work as soon as they’re old enough to pull weeds. When they’re not in school they work from sunup to sundown. Jack says all that time in the sun has made the whole Nash family wrong in the head.
I heard Bo didn’t want to come back to school this year, but Mrs. Nash wanted him to get his high school diploma. He’s the first in the family to make it this close to graduating.
I feel bad for her. Imagine, having Bo Nash be the only thing you have to take pride in.
Bo smiles at me, but it isn’t a friendly smile.
“Do you need help washing the stink off, Linda?” one of the cheerleaders, Margaret, asks me. Her smile isn’t friendly, either.
“No,” I tell her. I look back through the window. Miss Jones is still talking to Sarah. It looks like she’s writing her a detention slip. To teach Sarah’s mother a lesson about not calling the school again, I suppose. Or to teach the whole family a lesson about being colored.
No. Like Daddy says, it’s not about us and them. It’s about right and wrong.
Except there’s nothing right about that fear in Sarah’s eyes.
“Which of the niggers is that, anyway?” Kenneth asks. “The superugly one?”
“No, that one’s shorter,” Bo says. “This is the one with the little sister. The house slave, remember?”
The others laugh. Eddie tells us the story again, about what Mrs. Johnson said in that History class.
“And I said if I had that nigger in my house, I’d put her to work real good, that’s for sure,” Bo says when Eddie’s finished the story. The boys laugh. The girls cover their faces as if that sort of joke makes them blush, even though their cheeks are still lily-white.
“I have to go back to English,” I say.
I leave without waiting for anyone to tell me goodbye. I know they’ll talk about me when I’m gone, but I don’t care.
Something’s changing inside my head. I don’t like it, but I can’t make it stop.
I walk fast down the hall, my skirt whipping between my legs and my loafers squeaking under my feet, mouthing silent prayers for Sarah’s little brother to be all right.
* * *
I’m still praying as I walk into Bailey’s that afternoon.
I’m glad I’ll see Sarah soon. She’ll tell me whether her brother made it to the doctor all right.
But Sarah isn’t here. The store is empty except for Judy behind the lunch counter and Mr. Fairfax dozing at the register. Sarah always gets to Bailey’s before I do.
“Where is she?” I ask Judy instead of saying hello.
“She said she might not come today.” Judy starts clearing a row of dirty milk shake glasses off the counter. “She left a note in my locker. Her brother’s sick.”
“Oh.”
“She said we should go ahead with page twelve and she’ll work on it at home tonight. Do you want to go in the back?”
Sarah’s not coming.
That strange feeling is back. The feeling that I’m the one who made this happen.
Which doesn’t make sense. I didn’t make Sarah’s brother get sick. I didn’t make Miss Jones act that way.
When I wrote those things in the school paper I was talking about ideas. I wasn’t talking about any actual colored people in particular. Certainly not Sarah or her kid brother.
Anyway, none of this is my fault. If it weren’t for her, if she hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t be feeling all these strange things.
“It’s just like a Negro to do something like this,” I tell Judy. “Pushing her work off on someone else. They’re known to be lazy and inconsiderate.”
Judy frowns. “Well, but—if her brother—”
“You believe that story?” I’m angry. I have a right to be angry. Sarah was supposed to be here, and she isn’t. “They’re all a bunch of liars.”
“But—I mean—Sarah’s never lied to us before, has she?”
“You don’t know that.” I glare at Judy. When did she start contradicting me? That’s Sarah’s fault, too. She marched into my lif
e and changed everything. “We don’t know anything about her. All we know is she’s an agitator and an integrationist.”
“I thought you didn’t mind her so much anymore,” Judy says. “When we listened to the music that time you seemed like you were starting to think she was all right.”
I drop my purse down on the counter with a bang, making Judy jump. “I’ve never thought that! Not for one second!”
Where is she, anyway? If she did take her brother to the doctor, shouldn’t she be back by now? Aren’t all the doctors’ offices downtown? Maybe the colored doctors practice farther out.
I don’t want to talk about Sarah. I want to talk to her. Why isn’t she here?
I step back so fast I bump into one of the counter stools.
“She’s awful.” I’m talking almost as fast as Sarah does. “She’s the worst of the lot. I can’t wait for the academy to open so I can get away from her. I mean, from all of them.”
“Will you really go to the academy?” Judy says. “We’re almost done with school for good. What’s the point of changing schools now?”
“There’s a huge point! It’s about right and wrong! It’s about standing up for what we believe in, and—”
“My brother is fine, thank you,” Sarah says behind me.
I spin around to face her. Two minutes ago I wanted nothing more than to see her. Now I only want to scream.
But she’s giving me that piercing look again. It’s hard not to shrink back from her gaze.
“Miss Jones was right, you know,” I say. “You can’t expect the office to do those kinds of things. Your mother should’ve gone to get that boy herself. Or your father.”
“My mother is a teacher.” Sarah’s eyes are locked on mine. She sounds calm. Frighteningly so. “My father works two jobs. They can’t just leave when they want to. And I certainly wasn’t doing anything important. Except sitting in Study Hall having pennies thrown at me.”
Why would anyone throw things at Sarah? Sarah didn’t do anything to anyone. She’s not like the others. She’s—
No.
Sarah is awful. I can’t let myself forget that.
“That’s your own fault!” I’m nearly shouting. “You came to our school. You knew we didn’t want you here!”
“Can we go in the back, please?” Judy’s stopped clearing the glasses. She looks anxiously between Mr. Fairfax and the door. “Someone might come in, and if you’re going to yell we shouldn’t be—”
“She’s the one who’s yelling!” I say.
“You’re right.” There’s no trace of a smile on Sarah’s face. “Everything is my fault. All of you were perfect, until we came in and ruined your perfect little lives. You can’t wait to go off to your perfect all-white school where you won’t have to see us anymore. You probably hate every second you have to look at me.”
I don’t hate every second I have to look at Sarah.
I kind of like looking at Sarah.
“What the Hell is this?”
The man’s deep voice echoes behind us, making me jump again. It sounds for all the world like the voice of God.
“Sir!” Judy stands up stick straight. It’s Mr. Bailey. “I wasn’t—”
Mr. Bailey strides up to the counter, right between where Sarah and I are standing, and grabs the two dirty milk shake glasses. He marches behind the counter and slams them into the trash can by the fryer. They shatter, the glass tinkling like music.
Mr. Bailey turns to face Sarah. He points to the back door. “You order at the back, girl, like all the others.”
“She didn’t order, sir.” Judy trips over her words, she’s trying to get them out so fast. “I didn’t serve her. Those glasses were left over from the last customers. She only stopped by to tell me the homework assignment.”
Mr. Bailey narrows his eyes at Sarah. “You’re one of those Nigras integrating the school?”
Sarah doesn’t say anything. Her eyes never leave his face. She’s gone paler than I’ve ever seen her.
I hate seeing her this way.
This isn’t like with Bo and Eddie and the others. Those boys might call the colored people names, throw things at them, even hit them. Mr. Bailey, though, is a grown man. And he looks like he just might kill Sarah for standing at his lunch counter.
“What’s the matter?” he says. “Can’t you talk, nigger?”
Sarah shrinks back. She’s shaking again.
I want to grab one of those milk shake glasses and smash it right over Mr. Bailey’s head.
“I won’t have integration in my store,” Mr. Bailey says. “You go on back where you came from. Tell your people not to try anything like this again.”
Sarah backs away, not taking her eyes off Mr. Bailey until she’s ten paces from the counter. Then she pivots on her heel and walks out of the store so fast I can’t catch her eye.
So I follow her.
I shouldn’t. Not with Mr. Bailey watching me.
But I want to tell her I’m sorry for what I said before. Even though I know what Daddy would say about me apologizing to a colored girl.
I know what Daddy would say about what Mr. Bailey did. He’d say he doesn’t approve of “those sorts of tactics.” That he wants us to remain a civil society. Then he’d say Mr. Bailey was right all the same. It’s his store and he has the right to serve whom he pleases.
Daddy’s right, of course. He’s always right.
I catch up to Sarah at the edge of the empty parking lot and grab her arm. She jerks out of my grasp and turns to run out into the street, even though the traffic light is still flashing.
“Sarah! Wait!”
When she hears my voice, she whips around so fast I take a step back and nearly fall off the curb.
“What do you want?” For the second time today there are tears in Sarah’s eyes. “Why can’t you and your people just leave me be?”
I swallow.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” I mumble. “And your brother, too.”
“Did you?” Sarah turns back toward the street. I think she’s going to run back into it again. Instead she says, “My brother is fine. He scared me half to death saying he was sick, but when I went over there it turned out he had a fight with a girl over a purple crayon and didn’t want to sit next to her anymore.”
I say a silent prayer of thanks.
“And as for me?” Sarah turns back to look at me. Her eyes are flashing. “I don’t think you care at all if I’m all right.”
“Mr. Bailey shouldn’t talk to you that way.” This is so hard to explain. My thoughts are all jumbled up. “You’re not like the others.”
“The other what? The other Negroes?” Sarah laughs. She wipes at the corner of her eye. “I’m exactly like them, don’t you see? That’s why you act the way you do. It’s the same with Miss Jones. It’s the same with everyone. Except it’s worse with you, because—”
She closes her mouth. I have to stop myself to keep from grabbing her arm again. “Because what? Why is it worse with me? Why?”
A car cruises through the intersection. It’s a man and a woman I don’t recognize. The woman looks out at Sarah and me. She turns to say something to her husband.
She’ll tell someone. She’ll tell them she saw me out here, talking to a colored girl in plain view of the whole town.
I shouldn’t have done this.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Yes, you do.” Sarah has already turned away.
That hurts, but I’m too afraid to answer her.
Sarah crosses the street without looking back. I fumble in my purse, looking for a pencil.
I have an editorial to write.
Lie #13
* * *
I CROSS OUT the last line. T
hen I draw an X through the rest of the page. My pencil tears the paper. The weight of it is too much, since I only have my left palm to bear down on.
I can’t print this. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t ever let anyone so much as see this piece of paper.
I crumple it up and stuff it in my skirt pocket. I dart glances at the risers on either side of me, but no one’s looking at me, thank the Lord.
When Mr. Bailey yelled at Sarah yesterday, he didn’t know who she was. He didn’t care. He just looked at her and saw a colored girl. Any colored girl.
I’ve never known a colored person before. I thought they were all the same. Like the ones Daddy tells us about. The lazy ones who aren’t smart enough to go to our schools. The criminals who need to be kept away from white women.
I didn’t know there were other kinds of colored people. People like her.
Except for her color, I don’t think Sarah is actually all that different from me, but what does that say about either one of us?
I’ll have to throw this paper down the toilet the first chance I get. I can’t believe I was so stupid as to put my name on it.
For now I need to act normal. Donna’s standing next to me, so I smile at her. She smiles back, then snickers at Mr. Lewis, who’s directing the Glee Club boys through their third run-through of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” It sounds just as dreary as it did the last go-round.
Our joint choir rehearsals have been harder to get through ever since Sarah joined the Girls’ Ensemble. In class she always sits at the front of the room, so I don’t have to worry about her looking my way, but in choir, I’m always nervous she’ll catch me watching her.
Not that she seems to have time for that. She’s too busy looking behind her to stop the other girls from putting things down the back of her blouse.
“All right, that’s it for today,” Mr. Lewis says once the boys have droned out their final chorus. I toss a quick goodbye to Donna and make a beeline for the hallway. I need to get to the first-floor bathroom, the one where no one ever goes.
When I push open the door, I almost trip I’m so startled. Sarah must’ve been in even more of a hurry than me.
She’s sitting on the floor against the far wall, her back straight against the cold tile, her blue wool skirt spread out in front of her. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back. When the door clicks shut, she looks up, sees me and rolls her eyes.