Yankee Girl

by Mary Ann Rodman

  “See? I told you they’d be okay.” Jeb sounded like Jeb again. He let himself out as the Chrysler bumped into the driveway.

  I yanked open the driver’s door before Daddy turned the motor off.

  “Where have you been?” I burst into tears. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Where have you been, young lady?” said Mama. “We called and called.”

  “I was at the Mateers’,” I blubbered. “Why didn’t you call there?”

  “We did,” said Daddy. “The line was busy. Then when we got through, there was no one home to answer the phone.”

  “Why didn’t you call somebody else?” I hollered.

  “Who?” demanded Mama. “Just who else could we have called?”

  She had a point. “You’re four hours late!” I yelled, to change the subject.

  “We had a little emergency,” said Daddy. “Inspector Ryan’s ulcer kicked up so we took him to the hospital. We didn’t think it would take so long for a doctor to see him. I’m sorry.” Daddy hugged me close. “I promise you, nothing will happen to us.”

  You can’t promise that. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Nobody knows what’s going to happen.

  It was weird knowing Daddy had made a promise he couldn’t keep. Like I’d grown up all in a minute. I didn’t want to be a grown-up. Not yet.

  The following Monday, Valerie and Lucy arrived at school in a strange car driven by a strange woman. As she passed me on the playground, I could see that Valerie’s eyes were wet and red. Something terrible must have happened. Valerie never cried.

  I looked around. The Cheerleaders had their heads buried in Song Hits, memorizing the Beatles’ newest, “Eight Days a Week”. The coast was clear.

  “Hey, Valerie.” I touched her elbow. “Anything wrong?”

  “Daddy’s been arrested.” She looked down at the asphalt. “There was a march yesterday and they arrested everybody. He’s in jail.”

  Arrested! What did you say to someone whose daddy was in jail? I decided on “Gee, that’s too bad.”

  Valerie whirled to face me, chin up, eyes flashing.

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “It’s an honour.”

  “What did he do?” I’d never heard of a minister getting arrested.

  Valerie’s eyes lost their flash and just looked sad. “He got arrested at the march in Alabama yesterday. He promised nothing would happen to him.” Her lip quivered.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but Valerie wasn’t listening. She stared at Miss LeFleur on the steps, taking the “King Cotton March” out of the record jacket.

  “Daddy came home Friday, just for the day. You know what we did Friday night?” Valerie’s voice sounded far away. “Daddy and me? We watched The Addams Family on TV. That’s our favourite show. We hardly ever get to watch it together ’cause Daddy’s hardly ever home. But he was home Friday night. We made popcorn and watched The Addams Family. Lucy was asleep and Mama was at a meeting, so it was just him and me. He sure likes that show. His favourite character is Cousin Itt. We laughed our heads off.”

  It was hard to imagine the Reverend Taylor laughing his head off. I always pictured him like he was on the news, solemn-faced in a suit and tie. Did he wear sport shirts at home and walk around in his socks, the way my daddy did?

  I stared at the back of Valerie’s neck as we marched into school.

  I realize now we have something else in common, Valerie. We’re scared for our daddies.

  Because eleven-year-old girls have no say in what happens to their daddies. No matter what kind of promises those daddies make.

  Chapter Fifteen

  JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Thursday, April 1, 1965

  STATE OFFICIALS SAY VOTER RIGHTS BILL WORK OF NEGRO TROUBLEMAKERS

  The pink Cadillac moved on.

  “I told you we were too boring for the Klan,” said Daddy. “They won’t be back.”

  Still, I checked the street every night before I went to sleep.

  After all, there are things that daddies couldn’t promise.

  I watched Valerie. She didn’t look like somebody whose daddy was in jail. She stood for the Pledge, sat for the Lord’s Prayer, and answered Miss Gruen when she was called on. Same as always. Only her bit-up fingernails gave her away. Valerie Taylor was one cool customer.

  I wished I could tell her that.

  “I can’t wait for Class Day,” said Cheryl.

  “What’s Class Day?” I asked. “Is that like graduation?”

  “Sort of,” said Carrie. “Except that it’s before the end of the year, and we don’t get diplomas. It’s a programme to show our parents what we’ve learned. And they hand out some awards. It’s a very big deal.”

  “I can’t wait for the Class Day party,” said Debbie. “Even if Mary Martha is giving it.”

  “Not that we like that nigger lover,” explained Saranne. “But I want to go to her party.”

  As soon as Mary Martha and Skipper announced they were throwing a graduation party, the Cheerleaders made up to Mary Martha. If it had been me, I would have been so happy that they were talking to me again, I’d have tap-danced on the ceiling. Not Mary Martha. She was her usual calm, polite self.

  “My cousin’s band, the Walloos, is going to play,” she told us. “They know all the Beatles songs.” She showed us an invitation.

  Mary Martha Goode and Skipper Andrews invite you to a party in honour of the Parnell School Class of 1965

  Friday, May 7, 1965

  6:00 until 10:30 p.m.

  Eastlake Country Club

  Dress: Semiformal

  R.S.V.P.

  “What does semiformal mean?” asked Debbie.

  “It means what you wear to Class Day,” said Mary Martha.

  Miss Gruen had already spelled out what to wear Class Day.

  “Sunday-school clothes. Boys: jackets and ties, dress shoes. Girls: pastel dresses, white shoes.” She gave us the Look, daring us to show up in shorts and sneakers.

  We compared Class Day dresses at recess.

  “Mine came from Memphis and, boy, was it expensive,” bragged Saranne. “It’s yellow and has ribbon stripes up the front.”

  “Mama bought mine at Kennington’s,” said Mary Martha. “It’s pink.”

  “Hope somebody tells ol’ Valerie what pastel means,” said Saranne. “Be just like a nigra to show up in a red dress. They do like bright colours.”

  That’s not so. Valerie wears pastel dresses all the time.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it.

  I worried that Mama would sew my Class Day dress. I didn’t want to go through that again.

  Instead, we went to La Petite, a fancy girls’ store next to Dr. Warren’s. Mama gasped at the price tags, but said, “The sky’s the limit. You only graduate from sixth grade once.” She smiled and added, “I hope!”

  I pulled out every size-eleven pastel dress on the rack, while Mama watched from a gilt-and-brocade armchair. A saleslady with silver hair in a French knot hovered over us. She hinted that powder blue was my colour, and that perhaps yellow was not. Such a nice lady, in her tailored navy dress and high heels and expensive-smelling perfume.

  Especially since Mama and I weren’t dressed for shopping in such a fancy place. My plaid skirt was safety-pinned at the waist where I’d popped a button. Mama wore a denim skirt, a bandanna-print blouse, and red Keds. And bobby socks! Nobody wore bobby socks!

  The doorbell pinged softly. A dressed-up Negro woman and a girl my age entered the store.

  I didn’t pay them much attention as I twirled before the three-way mirror. I had found the perfect dress, powder blue with an Empire waist and forget-me-nots embroidered on the bodice. I was sure Jane Asher had one just like it.

  As I admired myself, the Negro girl clicked hangers back and forth on the rack. Maybe she was looking for a Class Day dress, too.

  “Oh Mama, I love this one.” She pulled out a hanger with a pink lace shift.

  The saleslady was at the girl�
�s side in a flash. I didn’t know you could move that fast in three-inch heels.

  “Shall I ring it up for you?” she said. It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it. Polite but cold. Real cold.

  The Negro woman shook her head. “She’ll try it on first. Where are your dressing rooms?”

  The saleslady’s smile froze. “We have no dressing rooms.”

  I thought she was joking. After all, there I stood in a dress with a big price tag dangling from the sleeve.

  “That girl is trying on a dress,” said the Negro girl, looking at me.

  “I said, we do not have dressing rooms,” repeated the saleslady, no longer smiling. “Now, do you want the dress or not?”

  “Put the dress back, Demetria,” said the girl’s mother.

  “No need.” The saleslady swept the dress from the girl’s hands, returning it to the rack with a sharp click of the hanger. “Good afternoon,” she said in a frosty voice, ushering the mother and daughter out the door.

  The saleslady turned towards us, smile back in place.

  “I’m so sorry,” she fluttered. “Honestly, nigras think they can shop anywhere.”

  “Can’t they?” Mama’s eyebrows met in a single line.

  “I suppose,” said the saleslady. “But now they think they can try on clothes in the store.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Mama said.

  The saleslady gave Mama a long look. “I can tell y’all aren’t from around here. I suppose up North nigras do as they please, but not here. Would you buy a dress a nigra tried on?”

  Mama got to her feet. “Alice, take the dress off. We’re leaving.”

  “But Mama…”

  “We’re going to a store where everyone is treated the same,” said Mama.

  The saleslady smiled unpleasantly. “Then you’ll have to travel a ways. There’s not a white store in the state of Mississippi that lets coloured try on clothes. If they want to try on clothes, they can go down to Farish Street, to the nigra stores.”

  “And I don’t suppose they’re allowed to return clothes, are they?”

  “Of course not. Who would…”

  “Yes, I know. Who would buy something worn by a Negro.” Mama looked at me. “Alice?”

  I was supposed to say I didn’t want the dress. But I did. It was the most perfect dress in the world and I wanted it.

  Bye-bye, perfect Jane Asher dress.

  “I can wear my Easter dress,” I sighed as I trudged back to the dressing room.

  Mama waited until we pulled out of the store parking lot before she said, “I’m really proud of you, Alice.”

  I knew I had done the Right Thing, but it didn’t make me feel one bit better. I didn’t want to be the only girl without a new dress for Class Day. My Easter dress was a hand-me-down from one of my cousins. A hand-me-down didn’t make me feel like Jane Asher.

  If a secondhand dress wasn’t enough to worry about, the Cheerleaders had dates for the party.

  “Our first girl-boy party,” Debbie said. “Andy is taking me. Our first date,” she sighed with a sappy look on her face.

  Date? Sixth graders with dates?

  It looked that way. Carrie and Tommy. Mary Martha and Skipper. Every day someone else announced they had a date for the party. Even Saranne said she was going with Duane. She was welcome to the old nose-picker!

  “She probably asked him herself,” said Carrie as Saranne moved off to brag to another group.

  A girl ask a boy? Great idea!

  Later that afternoon, as Jeb and I rode our bikes to the Tote-Sum, I asked him, “You taking anybody to the Class Day party?”

  “Are you nuts? I’m not even going to that sorry old party.”

  “How come? Skipper and Andy and Tommy and even old Duane are going. With girls.”

  “Who wants to dance with girls?”

  “You don’t have to dance. We could go together. Goof around, do stuff.” I acted like we’d just be buddies, going to a dumb old party.

  “No way!”

  Drastic measures were needed. I needed a Plan.

  The next afternoon, I knocked on the Mateers’ back door, then let myself in, like always.

  I walked into the middle of World War Three.

  “I ain’t going, and you can’t make me,” said Jeb. He slouched on the den couch, Mrs. Mateer and Pammie looming over him.

  “Hey, Alice,” said Pammie. “You’re just in time to talk some sense into my dumb brother. He says he’s not going to the Class Day party.”

  “Well, I ain’t!” Jeb folded his arms and glared at all three of us. “I’ll have to wear a jacket and tie and dance and I ain’t going,” he said in one big breath.

  “You want to ride over with me?” I said, as if I had just thought of it.

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “You are such a social reject,” said Pammie, rolling her eyes.

  Mrs. Mateer nudged Pammie. “Let Alice and Jeb talk in private.” Jeb’s mother winked at me on her way out.

  Jeb gave me the fisheye. “Ain’t going.”

  “Everybody else is. Andy’s going. Skipper’s giving it. With Mary Martha, I mean.”

  “Yeah, and they’re bringing girls.”

  Time for the Plan.

  “Remember back last fall when you said you owed me one? Well, this is the one you owe me. You take me to the party.”

  Jeb turned white under his tan. “No way. I mean, really, no way!”

  “All right for you, Jeb Stuart Mateer,” I said in a huff. “I’ll tell everybody you’re a big, fat promise breaker.”

  Jeb thought for a minute. “How ’bout a contest? You win, I’ll take you. I win, I don’t.”

  I swallowed my grin. Things were going according to the Plan.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I get to pick the contest.”

  Jeb looked suspicious. “Like what?”

  “Wrestle you for it.”

  Jeb grinned. “Sure. When do you want to do it?”

  “Right now.” Before Jeb could move, I judo-flipped him to the floor and sat on his chest. “I win!” An FBI agent father sometimes came in handy. Especially one who taught you judo.

  “No fair!” Jeb hollered loud enough for Pammie and Mrs. Mateer to come running.

  “What’s wrong, son?” said Mrs. Mateer as I got off Jeb’s chest.

  Jeb and I told her, stepping on each other’s words. Somehow, she got the picture.

  “Did you really promise to take Alice if she won?”

  Jeb fiddled with a loose shirt button.

  “Did you? Jeb Stuart Mateer, you look at me when I speak to you.” Mrs. Mateer grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her.

  “Yes, ma’am, but…”

  “Either you did or you didn’t. Did you?” Mrs. Mateer let go of Jeb and reached for her cigarettes.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jeb studied the toes of his loafers.

  “Then you’re taking her.” Mrs. Mateer lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring, and that was that.

  I had a date! Everything was terrific.

  For about two hours.

  Daddy studied the invitation over supper. “Is your whole class invited to this party?”

  “I guess so.” Who cared? I was invited!

  “Even Valerie Taylor?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Negroes aren’t allowed in country clubs.”

  “Then I guess she wasn’t invited.”

  So what else is new?

  “Do you think it’s right that these kids invited everyone except Valerie?” Daddy looked me in the eye. I looked away.

  “Gee, Daddy, it’s their party. They can invite who they want.”

  “You ask if Valerie is invited,” said Daddy. “Then I want you to think seriously about this.”

  I snagged Mary Martha on the playground before school.

  “No,” she said, her eyes troubled. “Negroes aren’t allowed in the country club. Valerie would feel out of place. There won’t be anyone for
her to dance with.”

  Of course! In a way, Mary Martha was doing Valerie a favour. Valerie wouldn’t have a good time.

  Daddy didn’t see it that way at all.

  “I could tell you that you can’t go,” he said in a voice usually reserved for discussing my math grade. “But I’m leaving it up to you.”

  I didn’t think twice. “I want to go.”

  Daddy looked disappointed, but all he said was, “The choice is yours.”

  I felt crummy disappointing Daddy. But he just didn’t understand things, like first dates. And that a Negro would feel out of place at a white kids’ party.

  Chapter Sixteen

  JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Friday, May 7, 1965

  KKK MURDER TRIAL ENDS IN HUNG JURY

  April crawled by, hot and sticky. Teachers shouted over the roaring floor fans at the front of the room. The end of school seemed a million days away. At least I had the Class Day party to look forward to.

  The sixth grade talked of nothing else.

  “Finally,” said Saranne. “We’re almost teenagers.”

  “You’re only eleven,” Carrie pointed out.

  “I said almost.” Saranne gave her the evil eye. “I mean, this is our first girl-boy party. I’ve got shoes with heels. And hose.”

  “Huh?” Cheryl blinked.

  “Only a baby would wear socks to a party,” Saranne said in a superior voice.

  Great. Something else to argue about with Mama.

  “All the girls are wearing nylons and shaving their legs for Class Day,” I told her. “I’ll be the only one with hairy legs. Gross!”

  “You can wear nylons,” said Mama. “But I didn’t shave my legs until I was seventeen.”

  “That was back in the Dark Ages,” I wailed. “Things are different now.”

  “How are they different?” Mama could be so dense.

  “Well, for one thing, skirts are a lot shorter.”

  “Okay,” Mama agreed. “You can shave your legs next year in junior high.”

  “I’ll be the only girl at the party with hairy legs. Jeb will be so embarrassed.”

  “Jeb better not be looking at your legs. End of discussion,” said Mama.

  “Sure, I’ll show you how to shave your legs,” said Pammie when I asked her. “My house or yours?”