Yankee Girl

by Mary Ann Rodman

  “The Klan’s been watching our house.” She didn’t have to say anything more.

  “I’m scared of the Klan, too,” I said.

  Valerie’s grey eyes widened. “What would the Klan want with y’all?”

  “My daddy is an FBI agent.”

  “Oh.” Valerie smiled sadly. “What did the Klan do to y’all?”

  “Nasty phone calls mostly, telling us to go back to Chicago.”

  “Shoot, that’s nothing. They put sugar in our gas tank. Dead rats in the mailbox. We gave our dog away ’cause Daddy was afraid the Klan would kill her.” Valerie ticked off these things as if they were nothing. I knew they weren’t.

  “I’m scared someone will shoot through my window,” I said. “My bed is right under it. I sleep hanging off the edge so I can hit the floor and roll under the bed if I have to.”

  “I sleep on the floor. Saves time, just in case.” Valerie’s eyes met mine. She understood. Understood like no one else in the sixth grade ever could.

  “Want to be friends?” I blurted.

  Valerie looked away. “I told you. Just ’cause I go to school here don’t mean I have to be friends with y’all.” She laughed, but not like anything was funny. “You gonna invite me over to your house after school?” The warm, easy feeling disappeared.

  “Well, uh…” I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “Or you gonna come home with me?” She pointed to herself. Her fingernails were bitten down past the quick. Little blood crusts circled the thumbnails. It hurt just to look at them.

  Mrs. Messer poked her head in the door. “If y’all feel good enough to talk, y’all can go back to class,” she said. “Put your shoes on and scoot.”

  Valerie slid into her loafers, brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, and glided out the clinic door. She never looked back.

  I thought about Valerie the rest of the afternoon. I never thought somebody wouldn’t be my friend because I was white.

  I thought myself into one big, fat headache.

  My head still hurt when Mama picked me up after school for an appointment with Dr. Warren.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Mama as I reached for the radio knob. “That music makes me nuts. Driving in rain is bad enough. Why don’t you try talking to your old mother for a change?” She grinned. For a moment she was her old Chicago self. Maybe she could help make sense of things.

  “Mama, are Negroes really different from white people?”

  “Of course not!” Mama frowned, but didn’t take her eyes off the road.

  “Jeb says they are. Everybody in my class says they are.”

  “Well,” Mama said, “what do you think?”

  “Me?” I watched the windshield wipers tick back and forth. “I don’t think so. I talked to Valerie Taylor today. She didn’t seem all that different to me. Except she barely knew who the Beatles are.”

  It seemed so simple when you thought of it that way. Except that I knew it wasn’t that simple.

  “Is that so?” Old Mama had vanished. And this Mama wasn’t listening. “Keep an eye peeled for a parking place.”

  There weren’t any.

  “You’d think a doctor would have his own parking lot,” Mama griped. “I’ll drop you off while I keep looking.”

  Dr. Warren’s office looked pretty much like every other doctor’s office. Hard plastic chairs, fluorescent lights that hummed and flickered, boring magazines. I knew by now to bring something to read. I flipped open 16 Magazine to “Will Jane and Paul Get Married?”

  I squirmed in my seat, trying to concentrate on the article. I needed a bathroom. Now.

  Dr. Warren’s crabby nurse walked by with a stack of files.

  “Excuse me, but where’s the rest room?” I whispered.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall at the end,” she called as she disappeared behind the reception desk.

  Thanks for letting everyone know.

  There were three doors at the end of the hall. I opened the closest one and fumbled for the light switch.

  I blinked. The light was on, a single dim ceiling bulb.

  I was not alone.

  Negroes on backless benches or the floor, slumped against the walls, filled the windowless room.

  “I was looking for the bathroom,” I said to no one in particular.

  What are these people doing back here?

  A young man with a moustache and bloodshot eyes snorted and looked away. A motherly looking woman said, “Child, you ought not to be here.”

  “Why not? What is this place?”

  “We’re waitin’ to see the doctor,” said the woman in a soft voice.

  I had never seen a Negro patient at Dr. Warren’s. “It’s so dark back here. Why don’t you sit out front?”

  The woman shook her head. “You ain’t from round here, are you? No, we sits back here. When all the white folks is taken care of, then they come for us.”

  “You stupid girl, not that door.” The crabby nurse swooped in front of me and slammed the door. She pulled a key from her pocket and locked the door with a sharp twist. “Callie,” she hollered over her shoulder. “Who left the coloured waiting room open? It’s supposed to stay locked!”

  Coloured waiting room? A locked waiting room?

  Then I got it. Really got it.

  There was no way for a Negro girl and a white girl in Mississippi to be friends. No way.

  Chapter Six

  JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Friday, October 23, 1964

  FBI INVESTIGATES BOMBING OF NEGRO HOUSE

  Owners Suspected of Civil Rights Activities

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?” I asked Jeb at the bus stop one morning.

  “Halloween? That’s for little kids.” Jeb shifted a peppermint toothpick from cheek to cheek. “It’s football season,” he said, like that was the answer.

  It figured. Down South, everybody was football crazy. The boys collected football cards and talked about professional players like they lived next door. Everybody had a favourite college or high-school team. And of course, there were the Cheerleaders.

  I perched on an empty bike rack and watched them practise on the playground. They practised every morning, but today was different. Today they wore cheerleading uniforms.

  Dip, stomp, clap, and twirl. Their red skirts swirled out in perfect circles, matching shorts showing beneath. The girls jumped, their legs crooked sideways, hair flying in the crisp breeze. For a heartbeat, I was one of them, leaping, happy and free in the autumn air.

  For the first time, cheerleading didn’t seem silly. That sassy, switching skirt could make me a whole different person. A girl with straight hair, flipped at the ends. A girl with lots of friends who would never call her “Yankee Girl”.

  The morning sun glinted off Carrie’s red hair and shiny braces. Then it hit me. I needed to become a Cheerleader. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  I wanted friends. I wanted a jumper with a swirly skirt. I would be a Cheerleader. I’d ask Mary Martha about it. At least she talked to me. Sometimes.

  The first bell clanged. Kids jumped from the swings and jungle gym and lined up. Miss LeFleur stood at the front door, ready to drop the record-player arm on the “King Cotton March”. We filed in to the same record every morning.

  “Mark time, march. Left, right, left, right.” Miss LeFleur smiled and pumped her arms as her polished penny loafers kept time. Today she wore a pink sweater and a grey pleated skirt. Miss Gruen wore brown every single day. I bet even her underwear was brown.

  “Mary Martha.” I tapped her shoulder. “How did you get to be a cheerleader?”

  “My mama made me.” She sighed. “Saranne’s mama’s in charge and she asked my mama if I wanted to do it. I didn’t, but Mama said I had to.”

  “Sixth grade, forward,” Miss LeFleur sang out.

  Mary Martha and I stomped up the steps and down the hall to 6B.

  “All you need is a uniform,” she said. “Mama has the jumper pattern. We
all used the same one.”

  “That’s all?” Becoming a Cheerleader couldn’t be this easy.

  Mary Martha shrugged. “Sure. It’s YMCA cheerleaders and anyone who wants to can be one. As long as they belong to the Y.”

  “We do. But what about the cheers?”

  “What about them?” Mary Martha smiled. “Do they look hard to you?”

  “Then why are you guys always practising?”

  “Because Saranne makes a big deal out of everything. I’ll tell them at recess you want to join. And I’ll bring the pattern Monday.”

  I was going to be a Cheerleader. Happiness hummed inside me. Soon I’d have friends to share my jokes and secrets and Beatles records with.

  Then Mary Martha told the Cheerleaders at recess.

  Saranne balled her fists on her hips and glared. “You’re not in charge, Mary Martha Goode. You think just anybody can be a cheerleader? Next thing, old Valerie’ll want to be a cheerleader.”

  The humming feeling sputtered and died.

  “Anybody can be a cheerleader,” Mary Martha pointed out. “As long as they belong to the Y.”

  “I ain’t cheering with no nigra.” Debbie pouted as she unwrapped a stick of lime Fruit Stripe. “My mama wouldn’t like it.”

  Mary Martha blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Valerie doesn’t want to be a cheerleader. But Alice does.”

  Debbie smacked her gum. Saranne folded her arms across her flat chest and scowled. Carrie yawned. Cheryl picked at her cuticles.

  Nobody looked at me.

  “So that’s that,” said Mary Martha.

  I was a Cheerleader.

  Not that I noticed any big change on the bus that afternoon. I sat with a third grader, right in front of the Cheerleaders. They sat in their usual backseat, singing “Can’t Buy Me Love” to Debbie’s transistor.

  Still Invisible Alice.

  I turned around. “Saranne?”

  She looked up from the Song Hits magazine she and Debbie shared. “Yeah? Whaddya want, Yankee Girl?”

  “When’s the next football game?”

  “Next Saturday.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll write you some directions,” said Saranne. “It’s kinda complicated.”

  That was nice of her. The happy humming cranked back to life.

  The bus screeched to a stop at my corner. I started to stand, but couldn’t. I was stuck. I peeled myself off the fake leather. Something dangled down the back of my leg.

  Gum. Bright-pink bubble gum plastered to my skirt and the seat, with big strands stringing in between.

  “Hey, Yankee Girl. You got gum on your skirt,” snickered Debbie. “You oughta look before you sit.” The Cheerleaders burst into nose-snorting laughter.

  I stomped off the bus, everyone whooping and pointing at my gummy behind. I wished they’d all drop dead.

  By Sunday night I wasn’t mad any more. Maybe the Cheerleaders hadn’t done it. Maybe they laughed because it was funny. If it had happened to somebody else, I would’ve thought it was funny, too.

  I still wanted to be a Cheerleader.

  Mary Martha waited for me on the playground Monday morning.

  “I’ve got the uniform pattern.” She handed me a split-sided manila envelope with a crumpled tissue-paper pattern crammed inside.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a picture on the envelope?” I asked.

  “Carrie’s baby brother peed on the real envelope and it was too nasty to keep,” explained Mary Martha. “Can your mama make it by Friday? We’re wearing our uniforms to school on Friday again.”

  “Sure.” I wasn’t at all sure. How many times had Mama said, “I really don’t like to sew”?

  Mama frowned at the pattern pieces spread across the kitchen table that afternoon.

  “I don’t know about this,” she said. “I really don’t like to sew. There isn’t even a picture to go by. Looks like the bib piece is missing. I need a new pattern. Let’s go to the store.”

  The fabric-store clerk examined the wrinkled wad of pattern pieces.

  “This is pattern number 7602,” she said, peering through her bifocals.

  “Fine,” said Mama. “Where is pattern 7602?”

  “Discontinued.” The clerk handed the pieces back. “This pattern is at least ten years old.”

  Mama and the clerk spread the pieces across the cutting counter and figured how much fabric we needed. While they did that, I checked out the red cloth.

  I didn’t know there were that many kinds of red! Brick red, tomato red, fire-engine red. The clerk yanked out bolt after bolt of red, red, and more red, unrolling them across the cutting counter. I tried to remember exactly what colour the jumpers were.

  “Pick one,” said Mama, her voice one step from losing her temper.

  “Okay, this one.” I pointed to the fire-engine red. The clerks lashed off a length of material and folded it into a bag before I could change my mind. I hoped it was the right colour.

  Mama hadn’t told me the whole truth. She didn’t dislike sewing; she hated sewing.

  I stood for hours while she pinned pattern pieces to my clothes.

  “Hold still.” Mama jerked a tissue-paper strap. A pin rammed my shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Told you to hold still,” muttered Mama. “This would go faster if you’d stop wiggling and cooperate.” She tugged on the bib piece she’d cut from newspaper. A pin jabbed, I jumped, and the newspaper bib tore in Mama’s hand. We started over, pinning and tugging.

  “When will it be finished?” I asked.

  “Don’t pester, Alice.” Mama rubbed her nose where her sewing glasses pinched.

  “Is it too much to expect a hot meal at the end of the day?” Daddy griped as we sat down to tuna fish sandwiches and potato chips for the third night in a row. This would be the one week he was home for dinner every night.

  “It is if you’re trying to sew from a pattern with half the pieces and instructions missing,” snapped Mama.

  Far into the night I heard the sewing machine race down lengths of red cotton. Well, not exactly race. More like start and stop. Then mumbling, and I knew that the thread had run out or the needle had broken.

  By Thursday night, we were down to peanut butter sandwiches, no potato chips, and no Mama. From the guest room, I heard the sewing machine start and stop. Start and stop. Dinner was over, my homework done, and I had rolled my hair on orange-juice cans when Mama opened my bedroom door.

  “It’s finished.” She leaned against the door frame. Her hair was mussed, there were dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled. “Come see.”

  I tore down the hall to the guest room. Draped across the bed was my uniform! The white felt “P” for Parnell stood out, bright and bold against the red bib. I saw myself twirling and jumping, the skirt a perfect circle around me.

  I could hardly wait for tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Friday, October 30, 1964

  FBI JAIL FOUR IN ASSAULT ON CIVIL RIGHTS WORKER

  Friday. Spirit Day. The first day of My Life as a Cheerleader. I yanked the orange-juice cans out of my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. I looked like Jane Asher. Almost.

  I started to get dressed. Then I realized that Mama hadn’t made the blouse that went under the uniform jumper. Or the matching shorts.

  “Just keep your skirt down,” said Mama. “And you have white blouses.”

  But not one with short sleeves. I found a white blouse in my closet and rolled up the long sleeves.

  I checked myself in the big mirror in Mama and Daddy’s room. Something about the jumper wasn’t right. But what?

  Mama watched from the open door. “There wasn’t enough material to make the skirt as full as the pattern called for. I didn’t think it would matter.”

  But it did.

  I twirled. No swirl. No magic.

  The blouse sleeves unrolled. My bangs frizzed. The bib gapped like a kangaroo pouch. The white fe
lt “P” doubled over to look like a “D”.

  “I knew that made-up bib pattern wasn’t right,” said Mama.

  “It’s all right, Mama.” But it wasn’t.

  I wanted to tell Mama that this was the most perfect cheerleading uniform in the world. I knew she wanted to tell me that I looked perfect in it.

  But we couldn’t. It wasn’t the truth. So we just pretended instead.

  I trudged off to the bus stop.

  “Holy moly!” Jeb almost swallowed his toothpick. “Are you supposed to be a cheerleader or something? Halloween ain’t till tomorrow, you know.”

  “Of course she’s a cheerleader,” said Pammie, although she didn’t sound too sure herself. She straightened my blouse collar, stepped back, and squinted.

  “You need lip gloss.” She dug a tiny compact out of her purse. She stuck a finger in something that looked like Vaseline and smeared it on my mouth.

  I ran my tongue across my lips. It tasted like waxy strawberries.

  “Don’t do that,” Pammie said. “You’re licking it off.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Better,” Pammie said, but not like she meant it. She handed me her pocket mirror. My lips looked greasy, my hair like unravelled yarn. Same old Yankee Girl.

  The bus pulled up and the door wheezed open. From the back, Saranne yelled, “Hey, Yankee Girl, sit here. Shove over, Debbie. Let Yankee Girl sit down.”

  Oh, well. It would take them a while to get used to calling me Alice. At least I wasn’t invisible.

  I wedged in next to Debbie.

  “Hey,” Debbie protested. “You’re squishing me.” She gave me a hip butt, sending my rear out in the aisle. I didn’t care. I was sitting with the Cheerleaders!

  Debbie flounced and smoothed her skirt beneath her. Then I noticed.

  My skirt was fire-engine red. Debbie’s was tomato red. So were Saranne’s and Carrie’s and Cheryl’s.

  I had picked the wrong colour material.

  “Hey, your uniform is…” Debbie began.

  “Perfect, just perfect,” Saranne jumped in.

  “Really?” It didn’t look perfect to me.

  “Looks fine. Doesn’t it look fine, Carrie?” Saranne nudged Carrie.