She hands out another stack of papers and has each student in the front row pass them back. It’s permission slips for a slavery and freedom research expedition. I hope she didn’t find the Amistad schooner. Or worse . . . a survivor.
“Okay, class, listen up. I have wonderful news! We’ve been studying the Amistad case for two weeks now, and I thought we’d end this topic of slavery and freedom with a field trip.”
My classmates energize, and guesses of where we’re going come from every corner of the room. Even though I’d bet one of my Almond Joys that we’re going to a museum, I’ll still give Mrs. Jacobs props for ending this slave fest by getting us out of school. Maybe it’ll be an all-day thing!
There’s coconut from my candy stuck to the roof of my mouth because I’ve sucked all the sweet juices out of those tiny little pieces. They’re all dry and I need something to drink, but that’s impossible right now because I can’t leave class again. Mrs. Jacobs puts a hand in the air.
“Okay, quiet down. I’ve still got lots of important information to give you.”
She’s pumped about this field trip, but I wish she’d just tell us and cut the suspense. Finally she lets it fly.
“Since we’ve been studying slavery, I thought it would be a great idea to see some of the early life of slaves during that time. So not this Friday, but the next one, we’re going to the Anderson Farm for a tour of the Double L Slave Shack, guided by none other than our very own Laura Dyson’s grandmother, Mrs. Anderson.”
I gasp and a cluster of coconut from the roof of my mouth drops on my tonsils and tickles them. A gag forces its way through, and I’m coughing like a cat choking on a hairball.
CACK!
Now, I’ve got a mouthful of coconut clinging to my tonsils tighter than lint on Velcro.
CACK! CACK!
I try to force the coconut loose with a hard throat clearing. But instead, my throat revs engine sounds similar to jacked-up racecars.
UHUUM-UHUUM!
My watery eyes are full moon wide as Mrs. Jacobs pats my back.
“Are you okay? Were you eating in my class?”
I’ve got dried, chewed-up coconut pieces scattered across my desk and on the floor. There’s some on my blouse. The girl in front of me stares at my cheeks, then wipes at her own. I take the hint and knock three more pieces that were stuck to my face off my cheeks.
A hard pulse thumps in my eyes as I realize the entire class is staring at me. I bet they think I’m going to croak. Just as I catch my breath, Sunny takes it away again by asking a question.
“Is it real? I mean, it’s a real slave shack? I wanna see it!”
London blurts out, “Will we get to go inside? Is there still slave stuff in it?”
My blouse is soaked in the back from mist. Is the air conditioning on? Is anybody else misting?
Then Mrs. Jacobs adds, “I’m happy to hear the enthusiasm, because there will be a quiz on what we learn.”
That’s not enthusiasm she hears; that’s joke material they’re gathering.
Sunny exaggerates a sigh. “Really, Mrs. Jacobs? A quiz?”
Here come the moans and groans, because now it’s not just my worst nightmare field trip, it’s my worst nightmare field trip with a graded quiz attached! I can’t believe that woman fixed her lips to invite everybody to see my shame. She just handed out permission slips like they were movie tickets for admission to Laura Dyson’s Lowdown, Dirty, Backwoods Family Secret!
Then I remember the most important person ever. Oh, no.
I shift my attention to the right. Troy’s glaring at me, and I notice his baseball cards have fallen from his lap onto the floor. Maybe he’s as shocked as I am, but I’ve got to get this situation under control before it gets out of hand. So I just blurt out what I’m thinking.
“It’s not really a slave shack. It’s just . . . a . . . really old . . . little house. Come on! You guys are going to make me ding you!”
The bell rings and I pop out of that tight desk like a muffin in a toaster. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’ve got to get out of here. My pants are making that weeshy-sweeshy noise as I rush down the hall, but right now I don’t care. The way I see it, I’ve only got two choices. Either figure out a way to get rid of that shack or make sure the field trip never happens. Because even though I hate coming to school right now, my life is cake and ice cream compared to the torment I’ll take from my classmates if they set their eyes on that shack.
Chapter Ten
I make my way to bus 189 for my first trip back to the farm. My ankles just stopped throbbing from that long morning walk, and now I’ve got a matching pain in my head.
I climb the steps and take a seat toward the back of the bus. Soon, Sage makes her way down the aisle to join me. It’s not until Sage bends to sit that I see Sunny behind her. She takes a seat on the other side and picks at me right away.
“So, Laura, I’m kind of floored by what I learned in history class today. That’s a pretty big secret you’ve been keeping.”
I don’t respond. I refuse to look at her. Troy and Shane come down the aisle and take the seat in front of us as Sunny keeps talking.
“I can’t believe your family still has a slave shack on their property.”
Neither can I. Sage’s shoulders rise toward her ears. Her face is still but her eyes are ping-ponging back and forth from Sunny to me as Sunny keeps talking.
“I mean, it seems creepy that an African American family would have a slave shack in their yard. I’m just trying to get my head around that.”
Me, too, but I wish she’d put a cork in her mouth and shut up. Then she talks crazy. “So does this mean your family owned slaves?”
I yell at her. “Heck to the tenth power of no way!”
Sage turns to me. “I didn’t tell, Laura. I swear.”
I’m fighting mad. “I know. Don’t worry, Sage. I got this.”
My brain blanks and leaves me scrambling for a response. Suddenly I get an idea about how to downgrade the situation.
“There’s no slave shack, Sunny. Mrs. Jacobs has us confused with somebody else. You know how old people get things mixed up.”
Troy turns and stares at me. “Really?”
But Sunny won’t let it go. “Mrs. Jacobs has never been wrong about stuff like this before. I mean, why would she lie? And anyway, I’d believe a teacher before I’d believe you.”
She stands and smiles at Sage. “Leaving.”
Sage brightens up. “Yeah, okay!”
After Sunny leaves, Sage whispers, “That was weird.”
I’m focused on Sunny’s back as she walks toward the front. Maybe if I focus hard enough, she’ll trip and smash her face on the floor. Sage takes a pad of paper and a pencil from her backpack, shows them to me, and pretends to write. I understand and nod. So she writes:
How did Sunny find out about the shack?
I write back.
Mrs. Jacobs told the whole class. She set up a field trip. I’m so mad.
OMG! What are you going to do?
IDK. Maybe get it canceled. I think my grandma’s in on this, too. I’m just so overdone about the whole thing.
Can’t believe this is happening. I know you hate the shack, so I hate it, too.
xoxo Thanks, Sage.
I stare out the window, wishing I could magically lift that shack and throw it back into the 1800s where it came from. It’s ridiculous to have something so cruel and ugly still standing in the 2000s. I’m deep in my hate fest when Sage nudges me.
“Anyway, I’m covering the baseball game tomorrow. Are you coming?”
I’ve had that opening-day game marked on my calendar since I found out Troy made the team. Other than Major League Baseball opening day, this was the one game I refused to miss. But I don’t want to ruin it for him either. What if I become a distraction with a bunch of lamebrain people like Sunny asking questions about the shack? She’ll get loud, and it could mess him up on the mound.
And I’d ne
ver forgive myself for that.
I shrug. “I totally planned on going before my parents dropped me off to stay with Grandma. But now I can’t.”
“That’s too bad, Laura.”
Sage is still going on and on about the game, so I reach inside my backpack and find my lip gloss and compact. As I’m redoing my lips, Troy throws an imaginary pitch and I forget about Sage.
He gives Shane a high-five, then pounds his fist into his palm.
“Tomorrow’s game day! First game of the season, and I’m on the bump. I’m going to rock and fire, bro. Hey, check it out! We may go undefeated!”
Shane wipes his hand across his messy blond hair, twists the cap off of his drink, raises the plastic bottle to his mouth, then steps on Troy’s dream before taking a chug.
“You can forget that. We won’t win half. Face it, Troy. You and me are the best they’ve got, and even with us, our team’s not that good. Anyway, let’s talk pitches. I think your first three pitches should be fastball, changeup, changeup.”
I’m still hot with Sunny for putting me on blast about the shack, but I can’t help but hear Troy and Shane’s baseball conversation. And without thinking, I slam Shane for his pitch-order suggestions.
“Are you pitching the ball or serving it up for dinner? Why in the world would you throw back-to-back changeups? You throw that to a good batter and he’s going yard off you. Who taught you pitching strategies, the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz? Seriously, Shane, if you only had a brain.”
Sage giggles. I dig in my backpack for some gum. As I unwrap it, I look up and notice Troy and Shane are in my face.
I pop the gum into my mouth and chew. “What?”
They keep staring, like I’m speaking some kind of mixed-up language like Germ-lish or Span-talian. Troy finally grins.
“You know baseball?”
I feel Sage glaring at me, but Troy’s talking to me in front of the whole bus! And then I realize it might be the worst thing ever if he thinks I’m a freak because I know baseball. Even though I’d love to share with him everything I know about pitching, maybe I shouldn’t. He may not like girls who play baseball. So I shake my head and look away.
“No. I just . . . I don’t know.”
Shane interrupts. “Exactly, Larda. Of course you don’t know. Girls don’t play baseball, so why are you all in our conversation?”
I’m ready to snatch his plastic bottle and shove it up his nose when Troy grabs the bar on the back of his seat and punches Shane in the arm. “Chillax, bro. A ball player’s a ball player. You’re right, Larda. Fastball, changeup, changeup isn’t a good idea. But how did you know?”
I straighten him out. “My name is Laura, not Larda. Anyway, my dad was a patcher in college, so he knows kitches . . . wait, I meant . . .”
Troy frowns. “A what?”
If I could get the window down on this bus, I’d jump.
“I meant to say my dad was a catcher in college, so he knows pitches.”
Shane’s sticking his finger down his throat and pretending to barf. But Troy just shrugs.
“Your dad played college ball? Sweet!”
Shane sighs. “Just because your dad wore catcher’s gear in college doesn’t mean he was any good. And it doesn’t make you an expert.”
I roll my neck and lift my palm toward him. “Maybe not, unless you consider First Team All-American, All-Conference, Defensive Player of the Year and two years in the Phillies minor league system good. So talk to the hand because my brain won’t understand.”
Troy chuckles until he sees Shane’s frowning face. That’s when I hear Shane whisper, “Now she’s double creepy. I can’t even believe you’re talking to her.”
Silence.
Shane flicks Troy on his ear. “Hey, why don’t you come over later? We can get an extra practice in before the game tomorrow.”
Troy flicks him back. “Can’t. I gotta help Dad with his lawn and garden stuff today. We’ve got a few customers needing service.”
I know Troy’s dad owns the Home and Garden Store at the corner of Main and Jensen Avenue. It’s cool that Troy helps him. But it’s even cooler that he talked to me! About baseball!
Sage nudges and I nudge her back. She shows me the pen and paper again, but this time I shake my head. For the first time in months, even if I had an Almond Joy, I couldn’t eat it. My stomach’s goinking about something else now, and I bet there’s little Troy-faced butterflies tickling my insides as I try to control my excitement.
Sage keeps nudging me, but I just want her to leave me alone until the butterflies stop swarming.
When the bus stops near her house, she gets up and plasters a megagrin across her face.
“Bye, Laura. See you tomorrow. You can call me if you want to talk about . . .” Sage cuts her eyes to the back of Troy’s head, then back to me. “. . . you know.”
I’m sure my grin looks like hers. “Bye, Sage.”
Once the bus is empty, I’m left alone to relive the conversation over and over again, but the good feelings don’t last long. Shack drama is making itself top priority in my mind. I’ve got to put an end to this field trip thing. I don’t have any choice, because I can’t take a chance on Troy, Sunny, or any of my classmates seeing the shack.
Heck to the hundredth power of no way.
Chapter Eleven
I open the screen door. “Grandma? Where are you?”
“In the living room!”
I rush in and find her with a book in her hand and a baseball game on the television. I walk slowly to her chair and look at her face.
“Were you asleep?”
She’s flipping pages with a frown. “I don’t understand why the right-handed batters are so happy that the new pitcher is left-handed. I can’t find an answer in my book.”
Finally she looks up at me and smiles. “But I did learn that a steal is just a runner going from one base to another while a batter is at the plate. Not the kind of thief I was thinking of.”
My jaw drops as I read the cover. Learn Everything You Need to Know About Baseball in Two Hours or Less. What the what?
“How was your day, Baby Girl?”
That question brings me back to the shack drama. Even though the Chicago Cubs are playing the Milwaukee Brewers, I can’t get into that right now.
“Grandma, you got a minute? We need to talk.”
She presses the mute button on the remote and closes her book.
“What’s wrong?”
I’m pacing. “Everything. Mrs. Jacobs gave out permission slips for my class to visit the shack. Did you set that up, Grandma?”
She grins. “Surprise!” But as she looks at me, her smile fades. “You don’t have to go into the shack if you’re not ready. It’s different for you than it is for the other children. I understand.”
I take deep breaths and let them out slowly. I even count to ten in my mind before saying anything.
“No, Grandma. That’s not it. See, I don’t want my classmates in there, either. I’m not proud of the shack. It’s a terrible, terrible place. I’m sure awful things happened in there to our ancestors. Besides that, this stuff is so yesterday’s news. And yesterday’s history.”
She points at me. “Exactly. Yesterday is history, and if you don’t learn from what happened yesterday, you’ll never get things right today or even have a chance to get them right tomorrow. Understand?”
“Yes, I get it, but . . .”
Grandma cuts me off. “No buts, Laura Eboni. There’s lots of history in the shack, history that will have a direct impact on your life. It’s yours to use or not use. But you don’t have the right to stop others from using it.”
“So you’re saying you’ll let me be the laughingstock of my entire school? I mean, my classmates know what kind of brutal things happened during slavery. They also know cruel stuff happened inside slave shacks. And they’ll look at me like I’m crazy for keeping one. It’s as if we don’t care about how our ancestors were treated.”
/> Grandma stands. “You don’t know the whole story, Baby Girl. It’s time to be proud of who you are.”
I plop down on the couch. “I can’t be proud of something my ancestors were forced to live through. Disgusting things went on in there! I don’t understand why you can’t see how terrible that makes us look! We might as well have the whips and shackles on display! Are those inside the shack, too? It was an unbelievably bad time in the lives of African Americans, Grandma! We need to move on.”
Grandma sits down and holds up her book. “You heard all the stuff I said at the ballpark last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s because I didn’t get it. I just considered baseball a dumb sport that grown people played when they should be out looking for a real job. But after seeing how much you love the game, I’m doing my best to understand it.”
I look back at the television as the pitcher throws a strike, and Grandma starts up again.
“And I’m not doing this just because you’re my granddaughter. I’m learning about baseball because that’s what the women in the Laura Line would do. We’re connected through blood but united by choice. Whether you like it or not, Baby Girl, you’re part of the Line.”
I’ve heard enough. “Grandma, I’m going outside for a while, okay?”
“I hope you’re not mad at me.”
I shake my head because I don’t feel like talking anymore. Instead, I go to my room and put on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt Dad gave me that was too small for him. I lace up my black Converse high-tops, slap a ball cap on my head, step outside, and tromp across the grass.
All this talk about trying and promises and doing my best is too hard. My parents want me to live in a place I totally hate but they act like it’s better than Disney World. I know there’s not this much drama in the Magic Kingdom.
First, I can’t believe Grandma just set up the worst field trip ever for my history class without talking to me about it, and now, even though she knows how I feel about the field trip, she refuses to cancel it.
The Laura Line Page 6