Yankee Girl

by Mary Ann Rodman

“You have a sizable wad of chewing gum in your hair. Bubble gum, to be precise.” Miss Gruen pulled a hanky from her pocket, wiped her fingers, then blasted her whistle.

  All of 6B came running.

  “There is gum in Valerie’s hair,” Miss Gruen said to the class. “It didn’t grow there. Can anyone tell me what happened?”

  We looked at each other, then away. A few giggled. Leland’s wide grin said he wished he’d thought of it first.

  “Saranne stopped to pull up her socks and everybody fell on top of her,” Jeb volunteered.

  “Who is ‘everybody’?” demanded Miss Gruen.

  “Debbie and Carrie was all I could see,” said Jeb.

  “Debbie, did you have gum in your mouth?” demanded Miss Gruen.

  “No, ma’am,” said Debbie, grinning. “I still have gum in my mouth.” She blew a big bubble to prove it. Miss Gruen pointed to the trash can, then turned to Carrie.

  “I don’t chew gum,” Carrie said before she was asked. “I have braces. See?” She pulled the sides of her mouth wide so Miss Gruen could see.

  “That will do, Carrie,” said Toad Woman. “I’ll tend to this matter later.”

  Valerie stood next to Miss Gruen. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks.

  My stomach hurt.

  Miss Gruen sighed. “Let’s go to the office and see what we can do about this. The rest of you, back to class.”

  “Hey, what happened to recess?” protested Leland.

  “Recess is over,” said Miss Gruen as she and Valerie disappeared into the building. The rest of us followed, dragging our feet all the way to 6B.

  Miss Gruen was back in five minutes. With Mr. Thibodeaux.

  “We tried peanut butter, but it didn’t work.” Miss Gruen glared at us. “Now she has peanut butter and gum in her hair. She’ll have to have the gum cut out.”

  A girl giggled in the back of the room. Leland laughed out loud.

  “This isn’t funny, boys and girls,” said Mr. Thibodeaux. “Why, this might even be on the news tonight.”

  Mr. Thibodeaux talked on and on about being good citizens and loving thy neighbour, but I wasn’t listening. On the news! Walter Cronkite sticking a microphone in my face. “Alice Ann Moxley, did you know about this plan? And why didn’t you stop them?”

  I couldn’t sleep that night. Behind closed eyelids I saw the tears on Valerie’s cheeks. Her trembling lip. The pink rose of gum in her hair.

  After a lot of flopping and flipping, I finally fell asleep. What woke me? Car doors slamming? Laughter? Or was it the odd smell that drifted through the half-open window. A smell that reminded me of summer and lawnmowers.

  Gasoline. Gasoline?

  Something bright flashed behind my closed eyelids. Lightning?

  Rubbing my eyes, I looked out my bedroom window. It swam into focus. The letters “KKK”. On fire. In the grass. In our front yard.

  Chapter Nine

  JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Friday, November 20, 1964

  WHITE CITIZENS’ COUNCIL DECRIES RACE MIXING

  The police poked around the scorched grass. “Bunch of kids horsing around,” they decided.

  “Horsing around, my foot,” said Mama, tight-lipped.

  Kids or the Klan? Daddy discouraged both by hanging floodlights at the corners of the house. They glared in my eyes at night. Not that I slept much anyway. Life was just too crazy. It flip-flopped between normal and weird.

  School was the normal part. I got a C in math. In folk dancing, we moved on to the “Mexican Serape Dance”. Miss Gruen looked more like a toad every day.

  Then I’d go home, the weird part. “KKK” branded in our yard. People on the phone telling us to “go back to Yankeeland”. Sometimes they used dirty words. After a while, weird seemed normal. I guess you can get used to anything. Like being scared all the time.

  Valerie returned to school with her hair cut off. Cropped to her scalp, the new hairdo showed off the shape of her head and made her eyes look bigger.

  “Nigger gal looks like a nigger boy now,” Leland sneered.

  “Well, she sure looks different.” Saranne sounded disappointed that Valerie didn’t look perfectly hideous.

  I was all mixed up about Valerie. I felt crummy about how the Cheerleaders treated her. But hanging out with the Cheerleaders felt good. Sort of. They still weren’t all that friendly to me. I wanted friendly.

  Like that day in the clinic with Valerie.

  I gave friendship with Valerie one more chance.

  “I like your hair.” We were alone in the rest room. I lathered my hands. Valerie stood at the next sink, doing the same.

  “Thank you.” She kept her eyes on her soapy hands.

  “What do you call it? A crew cut?”

  Valerie’s eyes narrowed. Did she think I was making fun of her?

  “It’s called a natural. African women wear their hair this way.” She dried her hands on a brown paper towel, folded it neatly in quarters, and tossed it in the trash. “I told you I don’t need white friends.”

  Fine! If she didn’t want to be friends, I didn’t either. I had the Cheerleaders.

  And I had more important things to think about. Like Christmas.

  The Christmas season officially started the day after Thanksgiving vacation. The whole school smelled and sounded different. Instead of the old-lunch-and-Lysol smell, the halls shimmered with the aroma of fir tree, rubber cement, and gold spray paint. In front of the office stood a fir tree. Bit by bit, the tree acquired paste-smeared paper chains, cockeyed Dixie-cup angels, and glitter-covered Styrofoam balls.

  The halls echoed with classes practising for the Christmas pageant: the fifth grade singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” or the first grade screaming “Jingle Bells” at the top of their little lungs.

  “Same old pageant,” Jeb griped. “Each grade does the same skit every year.”

  “What does the sixth grade do?”

  Jeb frowned. “The manger thing. Shepherds, angels, the whole bit.”

  “Sounds okay to me. Why the frown?”

  “At church, I always get stuck being a Wise Man.” Jeb kicked a rock into the storm sewer. “Wear my dad’s bathrobe with cotton stuck to my chin? In front of the whole school and their parents? No, thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being Mary,” I said.

  “You might could be. The teachers assign parts, except for the angel. You have to try out for that. The angel sings a solo.”

  That counted me out. I couldn’t carry a tune with both hands. But at lunch the next day, I discovered I was the only sixth-grade girl not trying out. Or at least the only one besides Valerie.

  “I want to be the angel.” Saranne sipped her milk, and waited for someone to say, “Of course you’ll be the angel, Saranne.”

  Nobody did.

  “So do I,” said Debbie.

  “I can sing better’n you,” huffed Saranne.

  “Yeah, but I look like an angel.” Debbie batted her eyelashes. She was the prettiest cheerleader. And boy, did she know it!

  Tryouts were during recess. We squirmed on the splintery auditorium seats as girl after girl sang “The First Noël”, with Miss Gruen at the piano. Some were pretty good; some were just plain terrible.

  Saranne glided onstage, very sure of herself. Then she opened her mouth.

  Jeb covered his ears. “Sounds like a cat caught in a lawnmower.”

  Saranne smiled her wolf-fang smile and waited for everyone to tell her how great she was.

  Nobody did.

  Debbie’s turn. She swished her behind all the way up to the stage.

  “She just thinks she’s it.” Saranne poked out her lower lip.

  “Sssh,” said Andy. “I want to hear her sing.”

  Debbie sang sort of twangy, but on key.

  “She sounds like that country singer that died. Patsy Cline?” said Jeb.

  “I think she sounds good,” said Andy, jaw jutting.

  Debbie prissed off the stage, looking very please
d with herself.

  “Valerie Taylor,” called Miss LeFleur.

  Valerie? Whispers rippled through the auditorium.

  “Told you she was uppity,” Debbie said. “She don’t know her place.”

  “This oughta be good.” Leland reared back in his seat, one knee hiked over the other, arms folded against his plaid shirt.

  Valerie made her way down the aisle, her pleated skirt dipping behind her knees as she climbed the stage steps. She stood by the piano, hands clasped, took a deep breath, and fixed her eyes on the back of the room. And sang.

  She sang like a grown woman, her voice warm and sweet. Like molasses and honey mixed up together. She sang the whole song without a quiver or a giggle.

  “Wow,” whispered Jeb as Valerie returned to her seat. “Holy wow.”

  “She’s got it,” said Mary Martha. “Nobody else was even half as good.”

  “Well, a nigra can’t be the angel,” Saranne said in a sure voice.

  “Why not?” Mary Martha asked.

  Saranne blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Have you ever seen a picture of a nigra angel?”

  “Have you ever seen a real angel?” Mary Martha shot back.

  “I don’t know what y’all are fussing about,” said Andy. “Debbie’s gonna get it.”

  Onstage, Miss Gruen and Miss LeFleur sat at the piano, heads bent over a clipboard.

  “You just like Debbie,” said Jeb. “I bet she’s your girlfriend.”

  “Is not,” said Andy. “You take that back.” He balled up his fist. So did Jeb.

  Miss Gruen crashed a chord on the piano, and the boys dropped their fists.

  “Attention, please.” Miss Gruen stepped to centre stage, clipboard in hand. “Remember, your behaviour during practice will be reflected in your conduct grade.” She gave Andy and Jeb the Look. “The following students will have roles in the Christmas programme. Everyone else will sing in the chorus. Narrator: Tommy Wilbanks.” Tommy, a preacher’s kid from Miss LeFleur’s room, slumped in his seat, ears flaming.

  “Mary and Joseph: Mary Martha Goode and Skipper Andrews.”

  Oh, well. I didn’t really expect to get Mary.

  “The three Wise Men: Andy Cameron, Jeb Mateer, and Duane Hallum.”

  Jeb shrugged. “What did I tell you?”

  “Shepherds: Saranne Russell, Karla Briggs, and Alice Moxley.”

  Oh, chicken hips! Saranne and Karla, the girl who tried to burn Valerie that time in the rest room.

  Saranne jumped up, waving her arms. “Miss Gruen, girls can’t be shepherds.”

  “They can this year,” Miss Gruen said. “We have more girls than boys. Girls will be shepherds.”

  Jeb nudged me. “I’ll share my beard cotton with you,” he offered with a wicked grin.

  A beard! No way! Darn old Toad Woman! She could take the fun out of anything, even a Christmas pageant.

  “Now, the angel.” Miss Gruen paused. The sixth grade leaned forward in their seats. “We selected the person we felt would do the best job.”

  Debbie looked at her lap, smiling modestly.

  “The angel,” said Miss Gruen, “will be Valerie Taylor.”

  Silence. Jeb cracked his knuckles. Then the room exploded.

  “Boys and girls, boys and girls.” Miss LeFleur clapped her hands, but no one paid attention.

  Where was Valerie? Alone as usual, two rows behind everyone else. Her face glowed with happiness. And something else, too. Fear?

  Andy scowled. “How come Debbie didn’t get the angel? I think she sings good.”

  “Debbie sings very well, indeed,” Miss Gruen agreed. “That is why we need her in the chorus.”

  Debbie burst into baby sobs. “It’s not fair. Who ever heard of a nigger angel?”

  Saranne leaped up again. “I think we should vote for the angel.”

  Miss Gruen gave her the toad-eyed stare. “Saranne Russell, this is not a popularity contest. Now, sit.”

  “No fair,” mumbled Saranne, flouncing back in her seat.

  I hummed “The First Noël” on the way back to class. For once, Saranne and the Cheerleaders did not get their way. But they were my friends, weren’t they?

  I stopped humming, all mixed up again.

  December had always been my favourite month. Not this year.

  December crawled by, with rehearsal every recess. I hated every minute of it.

  Karla pinched me with her pointy fingernails when no one was looking, just for meanness. I pinched her back.

  “Was that supposed to hurt, Yankee Girl?” she jeered. My chewed-up nails didn’t have the same effect.

  “Girls, stop chitchatting and get onstage,” ordered Miss LeFleur.

  Saranne, Karla, and I slouched onstage to a masking tape X on the floor.

  “Where are the sheep?” asked Saranne. “We’re shepherds, aren’t we?”

  “The sheep are imaginary,” Miss LeFleur snapped. “Pretend they’re in the front row.”

  “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid,” droned Tommy.

  “Tommy dear, could you please read with a little more expression?” Miss LeFleur pleaded.

  “My daddy says the birth of Jesus don’t need no playacting.” Tommy shoved his smeary glasses back in place.

  “Nobody expects you to be Paul Newman, son,” said Miss Gruen from the piano bench. “Just try not to sound like you’re calling bus stations.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tommy cranked up again, in exactly the same voice. “And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not.’”

  Valerie drifted out of the wings.

  “Karla dear, could you please look afraid?” sighed Miss LeFleur.

  “I am,” said Karla. She didn’t look afraid; she looked mean. She glared at Valerie, like she might pinch the angel of the Lord.

  “Well, try not to look so ferocious.” Miss LeFleur got crabbier every day, muttering about how hard the holidays were. Adults were weird. What was so hard about Christmas?

  “And the angel said unto them…”

  “Tommy dear, please don’t hold your script in front of your face. We can’t hear you,” called Miss LeFleur from the back row.

  “But I can’t read it,” Tommy whined. “It’s all blurry.”

  “Why don’t you clean your glasses?” sneered Saranne.

  Tommy lowered his script an inch. “And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.’”

  Miss Gruen’s hands hit the opening chord of the angel’s solo. Valerie sang in that molasses-and-honey voice:

  The first Noël, the angel did say,

  Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay…

  The rest of the sixth grade, on risers below the stage, jumped in with the chorus, “Noël, Noël, Noël, Noël, Born is the King of Israel.”

  Another verse by Valerie, more Tommy. The Wise Men trailed out, late because they’d been arm wrestling backstage. We kneeled before the manger, Valerie and the chorus together belted out the last verse, and Leland, the one-boy stage crew, closed the curtains in a cloud of stage dust.

  I thought Valerie’s solo was the best part of the whole show.

  I was the only one who did.

  “Ain’t fair,” whined Debbie. “Miss Gruen favoured that nigger.”

  “We oughta do something about it,” Saranne chimed in.

  “Like what?” said Carrie. “We’re just kids.”

  “What do you think, Yankee Girl?” asked Saranne.

  “Well, uh, Debbie does sing good,” I stammered. I didn’t say that Valerie sang better.

  “See? Even Yankee Girl thinks I oughta be the angel,” said Debbie. “And I’m gonna be the angel.”

  Debbie said that so often, we all stopped listening. Then one morning, a short woman with a beehive hairdo left our classroom just as we marched in.

  “Debbie’s mama,” said Jeb. “Th
at don’t mean anything good.”

  I found out what it meant at rehearsal that day.

  “We have decided to involve more students in the pageant,” said Miss Gruen. “So two students will play the angel. Valerie and Debbie.”

  “’Bout time,” muttered Andy.

  “Valerie will sing from backstage,” continued Miss LeFleur. “Debbie will be onstage, mouthing the words. We think this will satisfy everyone.”

  I didn’t know who “everyone” was. Valerie didn’t look happy. Neither did Debbie. Only Miss LeFleur looked pleased.

  “How come I don’t sing?” Debbie pouted. “You said I could be the angel.”

  “I said you could be the angel,” said Miss Gruen. “I didn’t say you would sing.”

  Valerie sat stone-faced in the back row, staring straight ahead.

  Some kids wore big grins, nudging each other in the side as if to say, “We won!” Mary Martha stared at the floor, embarrassed. Jeb looked disgusted with the whole mess.

  “Places, everyone, please.” Miss LeFleur clapped her hands.

  “Why did Miss Gruen take Valerie’s part away from her?” I asked Jeb as we made our way to the stage.

  “Andy said that Debbie’s mama said if that nigger was the angel, she would ‘take care of it’. Debbie’s daddy’s got buddies in the Klan. Last thing Mr. Thibodeaux and the teachers want is a fuss with the Klan. Anyway, Miss LeFleur thought up the idea of Valerie singing backstage.”

  If Valerie didn’t think it was fair, she never said. Each day she stood offstage and sang the angel’s solo, while Debbie mouthed the words.

  “Debbie ain’t fooling anybody with that sorry act,” Karla said.

  “It looks tacky,” Saranne agreed.

  “It’s all that nigra’s fault.” Karla’s lip curled.

  Wasn’t it Debbie’s mama’s fault? “But—” I began.

  “But what?” Saranne and Karla said together.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, looking away from Karla’s fingers.

  Who was going to listen to me? I was just the Yankee Girl.

  The closer we got to pageant day, the worse things got.

  Tommy came down with bronchitis and burst into huge hacking coughs between lines. Miss LeFleur gave him box after box of cough drops. They didn’t help Tommy, but at least he shared them.