Even with the bracelet, it was hard to tell. This woman wore tight short-shorts with an equally tight short-sleeve sweater. The sweater was pulled up and you could see her belly button. Miss LeFleur’s belly button!
I read on. Miss Claudia LeFleur had been arrested with her boyfriend (Miss LeFleur had a boyfriend?) and a car full of dynamite. They had been caught wiring it to a Negro church. In her purse was a KKK membership card and a list of other places they’d planned to bomb. More churches, civil rights leaders. FBI agents. The police had found a map in their car. A map plotting the way to Tougaloo. Where Reverend Taylor was killed.
The paper drooped in my hand. I spied a plaid bathrobe at the end of the driveway next door. Jeb.
“Whaddya think of this?” he called, waving his paper. We walked towards each other, meeting by the Mateers’ pine tree.
“But Miss LeFleur was so nice,” I burst out.
“Yeah,” Jeb said. “She don’t seem the type to blow folks up.”
All year I had told myself that bad people were easy to spot. They were stupid like Leland, or mean like Karla. But Miss LeFleur was a grown woman. A teacher. Nice to everybody.
Everybody but Valerie. I remembered the Lysol in Miss LeFleur’s desk. She don’t mean anything by it, Jeb had said.
But she had.
The ground shifted beneath my feet, as if there had been an earthquake. I knew there hadn’t been. Only in my heart.
Jeb and I suddenly realized we were standing in the middle of the yard in our nightclothes and looked away from each other.
“Reckon I need to get ready for Sunday school.” Jeb refolded his paper.
“Yeah, me, too.” I looked at the paper again. There was another story under the first one, interviews of people who knew Miss LeFleur. Some went to Miss LeFleur’s church. They said she was a fine Christian. Sang in the choir. Never missed a Sunday.
She was missing this Sunday.
Chapter Twenty
JACKSON DAILY JOURNAL, Monday, May 31, 1965
TEACHER ARRAIGNED IN TAYLOR DEATH
I pasted the headline in my scrapbook on the next-to-last page. One more page to fill, and the book would be finished.
I looked at the red fake-leather book with the word MEMORIES in curly gold letters on the front. I looked again at the picture of Miss LeFleur being arrested.
Keeping a current-events scrapbook was such a kid thing to do.
When this one was full, I wouldn’t start another.
“All your fault, Yankee Girl.” Karla’s nails dug into my wrist. “If your FBI daddy stayed up North where he belonged, ain’t none of this woulda happened. Miss LeFleur was framed by them nigger-loving Commies.”
Jeb galloped over to the rescue. “Hey, Karla. Go pick on somebody as ugly as you are.”
Karla let go of my wrist. “Take your old nigger-loving girlfriend, Jeb Mateer.”
I rubbed the half-moon nail marks.
“Oh shut up, Karla,” said Jeb.
Karla shot him the bird finger and stomped off.
“Stay away from her, y’hear?” Jeb gave me a warning look. “I ain’t gonna bail you out all the time, y’know.”
Monday, Tuesday.
I waited for Valerie to come back to school.
I’ll make it up to you, Valerie. I’ll be your friend.
Wednesday, Thursday. Still no Valerie. At least I had Orientation Day to take my mind off stuff.
“Orientation is a big deal. You want to look good, but like you could care less,” Pammie told me. “Get it?”
I didn’t, so Pammie went through her closet, looking for just the right outfit.
“Not bad at all.” She studied me in her white hip-hugger skirt and turquoise-striped shirt with matching polka-dot necktie. “Now, if we could just do something with your hair.”
I flipped through a 16 Magazine. “Why can’t my hair look like this?” I showed her a picture of Jane Asher.
“Because you don’t iron your hair,” said Pammie.
“You mean like with an iron and an ironing board? Should I?” I couldn’t imagine Jane Asher running a steam iron over her long red hair.
“Nah, your hair’s too short. You’d just wind up ironing your ears.” Pammie squinted at me again. “You need hair straightener. They have do-it-yourself kits down at the Tote-Sum.”
So that’s what I did. I blew two weeks’ allowance on a box of Straight and Swingy that Pammie put on for me. She left it on too long and cooked my head, but it didn’t turn out half bad. I didn’t look like Jane Asher, but I didn’t look gross, either.
Friday and Orientation Day arrived. Decked out in Pammie’s outfit and my straight if not swingy hair, I marched into 6B for the last time. The bulletin boards were bare, chalkboards washed, our New Directions in Math workbooks dumped in the giant trash barrel behind the cafeteria. Miss Gruen had packed away the odds and ends from her desk. This was her last day at Parnell, too.
Last day or not, Miss Gruen looked the same as ever. Old-lady lace-up shoes, brown dress, and a necklace that looked like watermelon seeds.
I knew I should say something to her, but what? I couldn’t say “It’s been fun,” because it hadn’t. I couldn’t say “I really liked having you for a teacher,” because I hadn’t. I guessed I’d just say “Thank you, ma’am.” And really mean it. She’d like that. Especially the “ma’am” part.
I looked around the room. So many empty desks of kids who wouldn’t be going with us.
Tommy, whose daddy had a new church in Tupelo. Leland, who was going to Council with Debbie. Andy, who to Jeb’s disgust decided to follow Debbie.
“Council don’t even have a football team,” Jeb argued.
Skipper came flying through the door just as the tardy bell rang.
“Thought you were going to that military school,” said Saranne.
“Talked Daddy out of it,” he panted as he landed in his seat. “Told him Belson had a better football team.”
For the last time 6B said the Pledge and the Lord’s Prayer.
Miss Gruen cleared her throat.
Uh-oh. Lecture time.
“It has been quite a year,” she began. “I hope we are all better citizens than we were in September.”
From across the room I caught Mary Martha’s uncomfortable look.
Come back, Valerie. I’ll be a better citizen. Promise.
Miss Gruen was still talking. “I know you’re all concerned about Valerie.”
“Yeah, right,” muttered Saranne.
Miss Gruen didn’t hear her. “Valerie will not be returning. The Taylors have moved to New York City to be near relatives.”
New York City!
Valerie was gone for good.
But I never got to say I’m sorry. Never got to be her friend.
I hardly noticed when the bus arrived and we all trooped on. I stared out the bus window. I had messed up so many things in the sixth grade. I’d probably mess up seventh grade, too.
“Scoot over.” Mary Martha plopped down next to me. “Maybe they’ll change their minds and move back,” she said, reading my thoughts.
“Yeah, right.” Now I sounded like Saranne.
“Well, they might,” said Mary Martha, but not like she really meant it. We sat in silence, unable to think of anything cheerful to say. Finally, Mary Martha reached into her wicker purse and pulled out a transistor. “Now that Debbie’s gone, I guess I’ll have to bring the music.” She clicked it on.
The Supremes, singing “Come See about Me”.
“What station do you have on?” I asked.
“Rebel Radio, what do you think?” said Mary Martha. We listened, smiling. If Rebel Radio could play the Supremes, maybe things could change. Just maybe.
Carrie sat alone across the aisle, staring into a compact mirror, fluffing her face with a blusher brush. Alone? I leaned across Mary Martha and jogged Carrie’s elbow.
“Hey, Carrie, what gives? How come you aren’t sitting with the Cheerleaders?”
I glanced at Saranne in the rear seat. She looked lost with only Cheryl for company.
Mary Martha followed my gaze. “I’ve known Saranne since kindergarten. I never thought she’d turn out so downright mean. People sure aren’t what they seem sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Like Miss LeFleur.” Thinking hard made me want to chew on something. “Got any toothpicks?” I asked.
“You kidding?” said Mary Martha. “Toothpicks are out. Binaca is in.”
She fished in her purse again, pulled out what looked like a lipstick tube, and uncapped it. “Open wide,” she ordered. I did. She squirted something peppermint into my mouth.
“What is that?” I asked, once I got the feeling back in my tongue.
“Spray mouthwash,” she said, helping herself to a few squirts. “Much cooler than toothpicks. Besides,” she lowered her voice, “you never know when a boy is going to kiss you. In junior high, you always have to be prepared.”
Kissing? And all I had been worried about was being late to class.
The bus pulled up to Belson. I had seen it a zillion times, but it had never seemed so huge before.
“I hear they make seventh-grade girls use the rest rooms on the third floor,” announced Saranne. “If an eighth or a ninth grader catches you in the other rest rooms, they flush your head.”
“Gross!” said Cheryl.
“Oh hush, Saranne,” said Mary Martha without turning around. “That’s a rumour the ninth graders start every year. They just want to see if the stupid little seventh graders will believe it.”
Saranne opened her mouth, then closed it. And sat back. And hushed.
Belson’s principal stood on the front steps, speaking into a bullhorn. “You are divided by last name. Look for your letter group. Pick up your schedule,” he bellowed over and over.
Long folding tables were set up on the lawn. Signs taped to the tables said A–G, H–M, and so on.
“Guess we split up for a while,” said Mary Martha. “See you at lunch, okay?”
“C’mon, Alice,” said Jeb. “Let’s see if we can find our way around.” He socked me on the shoulder as we got in line. I wondered if seventh-grade boys were more mature than sixth-grade ones.
So our first official act of junior high was lining up. I thought I’d left lines behind at Parnell. I kind of expected to hear the “King Cotton March”.
There must have been three hundred kids milling around, all white except for a handful of Negro kids. A Negro girl in a green-flowered shift and pointy-toed flats wandered past our line. She looked familiar.
“Stay away from that girl,” I could hear Saranne mutter from the N–S line. “They wear them pointy shoes so they can kick you in a fight.”
The girl didn’t look like she wanted to fight. She looked lost and a little scared. Now, where had I seen her before…
“Name,” said a disgustingly cheerful teacher at the head of the H–M line. His name tag said “Mr. Henderson”.
“Alice Ann Moxley.”
“Moxley. Is that with an ‘x’?” Not only was he way too happy first thing in the morning, but he had gooby glasses and a greasy flattop. He shuffled through a pile of papers.
“Yessir.” More paper shuffling before Mr. Henderson handed me a schedule and a name tag. “I’ll be your guidance counsellor for the next three years. Any problems, just come to me. My office is room 101. I hope we’ll be friends. Everybody calls me Uncle Jerry.”
Uncle Jerry! Yeesh! I hated adults who tried to be your buddy. I wouldn’t set foot in room 101 even if the entire ninth grade tried to flush me.
“Put on your name tag, Alice Ann Moxley,” said Uncle Jerry. “We’re all one big happy family here at Belson.”
Oh yeah? I could already see cliques forming out on the lawn. Some new, some left over from their old schools. Skipper and Jeb stood with what looked like the football team. Saranne and Cheryl huddled alone by the empty bike racks. I didn’t see Mary Martha at all.
The rest of the morning was as blurry as the carbon-copy schedule Uncle Jerry gave me. My classes must have been put together by a distance runner. English on the first floor, math on third, then PE on first, then back up to third for science.
At noon we were herded to the basement cafeteria for lunch. I took my pinkish hot dog and bun and found Mary Martha. She was sitting with Skipper.
“Siddown,” said Skipper. “Pretty cool not having assigned seats, huh? Same old slop, though.”
“Shove over,” said Jeb, plunking his tray down. “This is so boss. We can talk without teachers getting on our case.”
“Where are the teachers?” I asked. “I don’t see any.”
“Pammie says they eat in the teachers’ lounge,” said Jeb. “They take turns watching us. There’s our warden for the day.” He pointed to Uncle Jerry, grinning like an idiot, oblivious to kids fork-flinging peas at him.
The four of us poked at our plates, trying to find something edible.
“I met this guy in PE who’s going out for football,” said Jeb, forking up Tater Tots. “Man, can he run. Pass, too. Name’s Eddie Thigpen.”
“You mean that coloured kid you were horsing around with?” Skipper sounded surprised.
Jeb swallowed his mouthful. “Yeah. I mean, we got to talking football and…”
Suddenly, the room got quiet. Coming out of the lunch line was the Negro girl in the green dress. Then it hit me. She was Valerie’s cousin Demetria.
I stood up.
“You going over?” whispered Mary Martha.
I nodded.
“You ain’t gonna ask her to sit with us?” said Skipper, not whispering.
“You wanna make something out of it?” I said.
This is for you, Valerie.
Skipper swallowed the rest of his hot dog and grinned. “Nope. ’Cause I’m finished.” He still had a nearly full tray. “Anybody else finished?”
Mary Martha gave him a dirty look but went on eating.
“How ’bout you, old buddy?” He flicked a pea at Jeb. Jeb glanced up from his Tater Tots.
I didn’t wait to see what Jeb did. Or Skipper or Mary Martha.
I walked up to the girl in green. She stood in the middle of the room, gripping her tray. It was so quiet it was like being underwater.
Suddenly it was last September all over again.
Only this time, I’m getting it right.
“Hi. You’re Valerie’s cousin, aren’t you?”
The girl flinched, as if I might hit her. Then she glanced at my name tag, and her face cleared. “Alice Ann Moxley. Ain’t you the one they call Yankee Girl?”
“Yankee Girl, yeah, that’s me,” I said with a big fake smile. All around me kids muttered “Nigger lover, nigger lover” like a bunch of locusts.
Don’t you be a chicken, Alice Moxley. Remember the Alice Rules.
“Valerie told me to watch for you,” said Demetria.
I smiled for real. “Yeah?” What else was there to say? “C’mon, let’s eat,” I said as we walked back to our table.
Mary Martha and Jeb were still there.
Author’s Note
When I was ten years old, I knew three things were true:
Paul McCartney was the cutest Beatle, and the Beatles were the fabbest band in the whole world.
No matter how much Dippity-Do I used, my hair wasn’t ever going to look like Jane Asher’s, Paul McCartney’s girlfriend.
And I would never live to see eleven. The Ku Klux Klan would shoot me, or burn our house, or blow up our car. I just knew it.
Like Alice, I was the daughter of an FBI agent. In the summer of 1964, my family moved from Chicago to Jackson, Mississippi. My father was one of 150 special agents ordered to Mississippi by President Lyndon Johnson.
/> Earlier that summer, three young civil rights workers disappeared near Philadelphia, Mississippi, where they were involved in registering African Americans to vote. At that time, white Southerners made it extremely difficult for black people to vote. College students and other concerned citizens from all over the country flocked South to help correct this situation. Southerners resented these “outsiders”. The Ku Klux Klan did everything they could to intimidate the civil rights workers, including murder. The local law enforcement turned a blind eye to the Klan’s activities. In some cases, law enforcement officers were members of the Klan themselves.
It was the disappearance of the three civil rights workers that moved President Johnson to order the FBI to Mississippi. Two months after they vanished, the FBI found the bodies of the three missing men, buried in an earthen dam. This was only the first of many cases to come of civil rights workers beaten or killed as they helped others become voting citizens.
These incidents took place forty years ago. When I tell people, particularly young people, about events that happened during my childhood, they find them hard to believe. “These things didn’t really happen, did they?” they ask.
Oh, but they did. I knew I had to write about Mississippi in 1964. I didn’t want people to forget that once there was a time, not so long ago, when African Americans could be treated so cruelly. Could be called horrible names like “nigger” and “coon”. Could be killed for trying to vote. Or simply for looking a white person in the eye.
So while this is Alice’s story, a lot of the things that happened to Alice also happened to me. My mother once said, “You know, someday you’ll be glad you lived in this time and this place. You are seeing history in the making. You can tell your children and grandchildren about it.”
She was right.
About the Author
Mary Ann Rodman wanted to be a writer since the age of three, but was only inspired to write Yankee Girl, her first novel, after leaving her job as a librarian and moving to Thailand. The experience of dealing with a completely different culture reminded her of her childhood years spent in Jackson, Mississippi, in the 1960s.
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