I close the book and place it back on the stand. I’m done with the ledger for today. Here’s the very first Laura that I never met, and not only is she dead, but nobody has a clue about what actually happened. Did she do a report on something that got her in trouble with some bad guys? Did she get murdered? What about an autopsy? Was there an investigation?
This is the kind of stuff I need to keep away from my classmates. They’ll ask questions about her, and I don’t have the answers. I’ll look like an idiot. And that’s all I need right now: another nickname. Fat Larda the Idiot.
My stomach knots, and I put my elbow on the table just to hold my head in my hand. I can’t let them make fun of her like they make fun of me.
And why would Troy like this story? My nostrils flare with every breath. My body tightens as I reach for the ledger, reopen it, and read the eulogy again. And again. Laura Elaine. Dead at twenty-five and nobody knows what happened.
As I turn to leave, I see the pictures on the wall. One is of a woman sitting at a table, working away on a typewriter.
My eyes slide downward to the floor where the typewriter sits. I look back to the picture. Could it be hers? It has to be. I back away from it and bump into the table. Maybe I better sit back down.
I inhale a big breath of air, remembering something that has not crossed my mind until this very moment.
Laura Elaine’s been in here.
And I may be sitting in the exact seat she sat in when she typed on that busted typewriter.
I dash out of the shack toward my pitching area. Maybe I should throw. But I don’t feel like it. I stop and turn toward the house. Wait. I’m not ready to face Grandma and talk about about what I’ve read or what I’ve seen. I turn again, and now I’m facing the crosses, the actual Laura Line.
It’s still daylight so I’m not afraid. The crosses seem taller and straighter as I look at them from an angle. I’ve walked by them with Mom before, but I didn’t pay attention to any of them.
Now I’m looking for a specific one.
It’s a slow walk, like a funeral processional. I’m not sure what’s making me move, but I’m moving toward the Line. I’m thinking she’s going to be at the far end, but she’s not. She’s the first cross on this end, closest to the house. I examine everything, from the dirt and big rocks at the base of the cross to the very top. In the center, someone has carved into the wood:
LAURA ELAINE
Why didn’t they carve in her last name? As I look down the Line, I notice that none of the Lauras have their last names carved into their crosses, only first and middle. What about their husbands? Weren’t they married? What if none of them were married except Grandma and Mom? I rush to the house, and Grandma’s in the kitchen, smiling.
“Hey, Baby Girl! I saw you go inside the shack! I’ve got a chocolate cake in the oven, because this is a day to celebrate!”
I interrupt her. “Why aren’t the last names on the crosses? Did Laura Elaine do all her typing in the shack? What happened to her? No, Grandma, I don’t want any cake. I read the story about your mom and it was the saddest story ever. Whatever happened to her is no reason to celebrate.”
Grandma wipes her hands on her apron. “Neither the ledger nor the shack is about death. They’re about a line of very strong and powerful women. The Laura Line. Laura is really the only name needed on those crosses, but the middle names were added so we could tell them apart. The Line is a beautiful thing, Baby Girl.”
All my sadness stops in the pit of my gut. “My stomach hurts. I just want to cry for Laura Elaine, Grandma. I don’t know why you’ve never told me that story. Why did you wait for me to read it in the ledger?”
I plop down in my chair near the refrigerator as Grandma takes her time putting dinner on the table. She sits, says a prayer, passes me a bowl of steamed carrots, and answers my question.
“Some things were meant to be written. Other things are told from one Laura to another.”
I take the carrots. “Like what?”
Grandma stops eating and stares at the ceiling, blinking a lot but smiling, too.
“Like how I’d sneak into the shack at night, dressed in my pajamas. I should’ve been in bed, but I’d sit in that little uneven chair while Momma worked on her newspaper articles. I’d sing to her, and she kept a coloring book and crayons out there for me. I’ve got great memories of life with Momma in the shack. That’s all I have left of our time together.”
I think about that. I’ve got lots of memories of me and my mom doing tons of stuff at a bunch of different places. Hearing Grandma talk about her one-place memory makes me even sadder. Even though I want to ask if she ever found out what happened to Laura Elaine, this doesn’t feel like the right time. I’ve had enough shack sadness for one day.
I shrug. “Okay. What else makes the shack so special to you?”
I’m thinking I’ve made my point until Grandma gets up and walks to the kitchen window. I’m sure she’s looking at the shack, but then she shocks me.
“I was born in there.”
I drop my fork. Grandma’s shaking her head.
“Can you believe it? Right in front of the fireplace, the same spot where our first Laura died. And here’s another Laura Line connection: The year I was born is the year Laura Ann died of pneumonia. That’s what my grandmother, Laura Jean, told me. I guess that’s why when I’m in there: I feel special, energized and surrounded by the Laura Line. Did you feel that too?”
“Feel what?” I’m still stunned and overloaded by the info she just gave me.
After a moment, I fire a question at her. “Why isn’t your birth certificate in the ledger?”
She turns from the window and takes my hands. “My birth certificate says I was born at home. It doesn’t say inside the shack. Some things are better heard than read. There’s so much I have to tell you. Your mother knows most of the stories, but I still have so many more to tell and I’m going to tell them. As the oldest living Laura, it’s my responsibility, and I won’t let the history of the Laura Line die.”
Grandma raises her chin. Mine elevates, too, and I don’t even know why I lifted it. I’m not sure what’s happening, but it’s happening inside me. Maybe my knower just connected with Grandma’s. Right now, I feel closer to her than I ever have.
“I’ll try to remember the stuff you tell me. And your mom sounds awesome.”
Grandma shakes her head. “She was. But the shack’s getting old and tired. It’s wearing down. Things are falling apart inside.”
She comes back to the table and picks up her fork, and I watch her eat for a moment. She just dropped some big-time history on me about the shack. I have to admit that some of that stuff was meganews, especially the part about her being born in there.
But just because it’s Grandma’s birthplace, that doesn’t erase all the bad stuff that happened there before she was born. Grandma’s story is just one good one against a hundred bad ones. The shack was built for slaves, not newborns.
I wipe my nose as I think about how that place reeks with shame. And if I can smell slavery in there, I’m sure my classmates will, too. Then they’ll wonder, just like I do, why we would keep such a horrible thing on our farm. And I can already hear them whispering:
Fat Larda’s family can’t tell the difference between an heirloom and a slave’s room.
My shoulders tighten and my neck hurts. That field trip’s got to get canceled.
I push the carrots around the plate as I think about the ledger. I have to admit that book wasn’t boring. I don’t even know why it’s in the shack. So far, none of the Lauras were slaves. I mean, I wouldn’t mind putting that book in my backpack and taking it to history class.
Wait . . . there’s an idea! Maybe that’s the perfect compromise.
I swing my legs under the table and remember something I saw in the ledger that confused me. And only Grandma’s going to have the answer.
“Why did you put the baseball ticket stub in the ledger?”
I give her a big smile. “I’m glad you like baseball, Grandma.”
She holds her glass of iced tea toward me. “Here’s to learning how to see things differently.”
I lift mine to touch hers.
Clink.
We take a sip of our tea and giggle. After dinner, I excuse myself and head to my room. I’ve got a totally different focus right now, and that’s letting Mrs. Jacobs know I’ve come up with a good replacement for the field trip.
So I turn on my computer and look up the faculty email addresses for Royal Middle School. There she is: Edna Jacobs, History Teacher. I shoot her an email asking her if we can discuss the field trip tomorrow. Moments later I get a reply:
Looking forward to it! I’ll bring my lunch. Let’s plan to talk in my classroom. It should be empty during your lunchtime.
Mrs. Jacobs
There’s a knock. “Laura Eboni, I’ve got something for you.”
I get up, open the door, and grin. Mmm. Chocolate cake.
Then I get a better idea. “Hey Grandma, will you make me a lunch for tomorrow? It’s kind of a special day.”
Her whole face smiles. “I’ll make you the best lunch ever!”
Chapter Seventeen
Grandma must have thought I said I was going to feed the hungry. This isn’t a sack lunch, it’s a meal plan for an entire week. I’m trying to stuff my grocery-sack lunch in the locker when Sage walks up with Sunny and the other Pink Chips. I stare at them.
“What?”
Sage speaks up. “Laura, you’re my best friend, right?”
I move from low-key to red alert. “Is that some sort of trick question?”
Sunny moves in front of Sage and takes over the conversation.
“We’ve invited your best friend to be a member of the Pink Chips.”
I shrug. “And?”
Sunny continues. “It’s time for her initiation.”
I shrug again. “So?”
Sunny gives a sly grin. “We’ve decided to do the initiation in your slave shack.”
I show them my hand. “Psh! You must’ve hit your head this morning, ’cause you’re talking crazy.”
I scan the area to see if anyone else heard Sunny’s ridiculous statement, then turn to face them. Sage has a quirky smile, but it’s nothing compared to the smirk on Sunny’s face. The other Pink Chips stand behind her and appear carefree and bored. I make myself clear.
“First, it’s not my slave shack! But it definitely isn’t yours for the using, either.”
Sage puts her arm around me. “Please, Laura. It won’t take a long time.”
I squint at Sunny. “That was weak and under-handed.”
Sage removes her arm from my shoulder. “Laura, listen to me.”
“Back up, Sage. Honestly, this isn’t even about you. It’s between me and Sunny.”
Sunny pouts at Sage. “Awww. What a terrible best friend you have, Sage. Everything’s about her. Oh, well. That was your chance. It’s either the shack or nothing. Leaving.”
They walk off. Sage’s face is red, and I can tell she’s going to blow. So I try to calm her.
“Sage, you don’t need the Pink Chips!”
She roars back. “But you do! Think about it, Laura. We’re C-listers. But the Pink Chips are A-list girls. I know you’re trying to get the field trip squashed, right?”
I nod.
Sage quiets down. “This is your plan B. You gotta have one. Look, you and I both know that if Sunny Rasmussen says the sky is pink, it’s pink.”
I grab my English and math books from my locker. “For some.”
Sage keeps going. “So if she steps inside that shack and likes it, your reputation climbs over the clouds. And the field trip becomes the hottest ticket in town.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “But I hate Sunny!”
“And you hate the shack.”
My brain, eyes, and lips freeze. Sage keeps talking.
“It’s just a backup plan. Plus what is the absolute worst thing that can happen? Your history class boos you? You get laughed at? Come on, Laura. It’s a great plan B.”
I chew my bottom lip. “I don’t know. I need a minute to think about this.”
Sage folds her arms across her chest. “Sunny’s right! It’s not about what I want; it’s about what you think. Is that what you’re saying?”
I slam my locker closed. “No! Sage, no, that’s not what I’m saying.”
She faces me. “Then prove it.” Her hand rests on my shoulder.
“I will always . . .”
The warmth of her hand is working its way down my shoulder. My arm feels like it weighs five hundred pounds and I can’t lift it. Sage sighs and says it again.
“I will always . . .”
I push her hand off my shoulder. “I can’t! It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Yes it does, Laura! And if you cared, you’d help me. I’m always there for you, aren’t I? I’ve always got your back, don’t I?”
“Yeah, you do, but . . .”
“And it’s not like you care about the shack.”
Mist forms on my face, and sitting on the tip of my tongue is a confession that maybe I was wrong about the shack. But I’m not ready to confess anything. So I agree with Sage.
“You’re right. I don’t care about it at all.”
She begins to cry. “Then why won’t you help me? It’s not like we’re going to be in there overnight. Probably an hour, tops. And then I’ll be a Pink Chip. That’s all I want, Laura.”
I’m breaking down. My voice gets whiny. “Sunny’s trying to force me to let her see the shack before the field trip on Friday. And she’s using you. Again.”
Sage wipes tears from her face. “Please, Laura. Just this one thing.”
I’m about to say no when Sage hits me where she knows it will hurt.
“It’s always just been us, Laura. We’ve been each other’s only friend because of . . . you know. If it were you, I’d never make you beg me for help.”
In my mind, I watch the arrow on my Sage’s-best-friend meter slip to SELFISH. She’s always got my back, no matter what. As if she knows what I’m thinking, she places her hand back on my shoulder.
“I will always . . .”
I lift my arm and place my hand on her shoulder. “. . . have your back.”
We flick imaginary dust off, but before Sage gets too excited, I lay down the law.
“Thirty minutes. You tell Sunny she’s got half an hour in the shack on . . . Monday?”
Sage hugs me in the hall. “Thank you, Laura! Oh, my gosh! It’s going to happen! I need a new outfit and maybe new shoes for my big day. Something to not make me look so . . . you know. You said Monday, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, Monday. I know you don’t think I’ve got your back, but I do.”
Sage sniffles. “I knew you’d come through for me. And I’ve got a feeling this is going to be great for the field trip, too. See you at lunch.”
“Oh, right, about lunch. I won’t be in the cafeteria today. I’ve got some important business to take care of, and I’m doing it during my lunch period.”
Concern covers her face. “You need my help? Is everything okay?”
I put up a hand. “No, I got this. And once I’m finished with my, uh . . . business meeting, everything should be better than okay.”
Sage grins again. “Wow. You sound so grown-up. A business meeting. Cool.”
“Whatever, Sage. You’re selling newspapers after school, right?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“I’ll make sure the bus driver waits on you. See you later.”
I’m trying to walk away, but Sage stops me.
“Laura Eboni Dyson, thanks to you, this
is going to be the best day ever.”
She’s laughing, walking on the tips of her Sketchers, bouncing down the hall more than anyone her size should ever bounce. But I know at this moment, Sage doesn’t care that kids are pointing at her. She hasn’t had many bounce-worthy moments, and I’m probably the only person in the hall right now who can relate.
At 11:30, I walk into an empty history classroom. It feels weird being in here so early, but it looks and smells the same. I’m not sure what to do, so I stand near Mrs. Jacobs’s desk. The talk with Sage pops into my head. Never in a million years would I have considered Sunny Rasmussen as my plan B. Sage is right about one thing: Whatever Sunny says at Royal is golden.
Soon, the door opens, and Mrs. Jacobs walks in.
“Sorry I’m late, Laura. Had to warm up my lunch. Come sit at my desk. I see you brought your lunch, too. Wow, it looks like you’ve got a lot to eat! Good!”
I reach into the bag and pull out a note:
I hope you enjoy eating your lunch as much as I enjoyed making it. Love you.
Mrs. Jacobs looks away, but I can tell she read it. I reach back into the bag and pull out a ham and cheese sandwich big enough for a family of six. Mrs. Jacobs’s eyes bug out, but then she smiles and opens her thermos. I feel inside the bag again, grab a bowl, and pull it out. It’s got a see-through top on it with a plastic fork taped to the top. The bowl’s full of fruit. I’ll eat that first.
There’s more, so I reach inside and pull out two pieces of the chocolate cake from last night. I cut my eyes to Mrs. Jacobs, and again she looks away. My face is warm and I bet she thinks I eat like an oinker. The last thing I find in the bag is long, cold, and wrapped in foil. Mrs. Jacobs giggles.
“That’s iced tea. I can tell.”
I’ve actually taken over Mrs. Jacobs’s desk with my megalunch. “Sorry about all this food, Mrs. Jacobs. I didn’t know—”
She interrupts me. “It’s just how Laura Lee shows love. I’m used to it. So, anyway, let’s get started on our meeting.”
I take the top off the fruit bowl. “Ms. Jacobs, let’s talk about the field trip a little more.”
The Laura Line Page 10