“Excellent! I’m all ears.”
“I want you to know that I went inside the shack.”
Her smile dwindles from her face as she stares into my eyes.
“Good for you, Laura.”
I unwrap my party-size sandwich. “There were no shackles, no cotton on the floor, no pictures of the Amistad, nothing.”
Mrs. Jacobs blows on her soup but keeps watching me. I’ve got her right where I want her.
“And my grandmother—your BFF—told me the shack’s getting old and worn down and she thinks it’s going to just fall apart. So I had this idea that maybe Grandma might allow me to bring the ledger to school and—”
She interrupts me. “Absolutely not. That book is priceless. It should never leave the shack.” Her head tilts to the side. “How much of the ledger have you read?”
I keep my head down as I eat a piece of melon. “Some of it.”
She fires another question. “And what do you know about the pictures on the wall and how they fit in to the whole reason why the shack is such a historical monument?”
I hold up a finger. “The shack’s not a historical monument.”
Mrs. Jacobs nods. “Not officially yet, but it should be. I keep trying to get your grandma to register that place, because it’s full of historical significance.”
I drink some tea. “What are you talking about, Mrs. Jacobs? I went into the shack, looked around, came out . . . nothing. No big deal. I wish I could get Grandma to see that.”
She goes silent again. I take a bite of my sandwich and realize I’m almost full. Mrs. Jacobs leans back in her chair. “Maybe you should try to see what your grandma sees! I see it, and I’m sure your classmates will see it, too!”
“What? You’re not going to cancel the field trip?” I’m fighting back tears. “But Mrs. Jacobs, I just told you there’s nothing in there! It’s just an old run-down dirty slave shack. They’re going to make fun of me! Please . . . just cancel it.”
Her expression turns to concern. “Are you going back into the shack?”
I grimace at the thought. “Doubt it.”
She puts the top on her thermos and slides it into her lunch bag. I’m thinking this conversation is a bust until she says something crazy.
“I’m going to offer you a deal, a trade. But you have to agree to honor your end of the deal if you’re wrong. I’ll agree to honor mine if you’re right. Interested?”
A yellow caution flag waves in my head. I lean back and brace myself.
“I’m listening.”
She continues. “First, let me be very clear to you. I don’t have to do this. I could ignore your request and carry on with my field trip plans. But because your grandma is my . . . BFF, I’m going to tell you that I’ve already been inside the shack. I’ve seen everything, several times.”
I don’t move. Then Mrs. Jacobs says something that loosens me.
“But this isn’t about what I think. It’s about what you think. So you go back inside that shack, and if you can’t find one amazing thing—just one—that lines up with what we’ve been studying over the past few weeks, then I’ll cancel the field trip.”
I nod. “Deal.”
She holds up her hand. “Wait, I’m not finished. But if you go inside the shack and find something that does line up with the history of slavery, and it’s so amazing that it makes you proud of the shack and your ancestors, you’ll be honest enough to admit it and never talk about canceling the field trip again. Deal?”
I’ve never negotiated with a teacher before, but I have to take this offer. She holds out her hand. I lean forward and shake it, because to me, this is a no-brainer. But before I let go, I want to make sure we have an understanding.
“So, basically, I have to find something amazing in the shack that relates to slavery and will make me proud of the Laura Line and the shack. If that doesn’t happen, you’ll ax the trip?”
She nods and leans in toward me. “I’ll ax the trip.”
“Fine.” I exhale, let go of her hand, and put all of my lunch leftovers, except for my drink, back in the grocery bag. Then I relax, sip on my quart of iced tea, and feel in control of the whole situation.
I even smile, because to me, that field trip is as good as canceled.
Chapter Eighteen
This gravel road is the only thing standing between me and my mission. I’ve got a military rhythm in my walk as I take the same route to the shack that I took on Wednesday, but this time, I’m not going in there for Troy. I’m excited and embarrassed and ashamed and curious, all at the same time. My emotional drama needs to step aside, because I’ve got a bet to win.
I’ve gotta shake these jitters. I know the bet is going to be won or lost in the ledger, so as soon as I walk inside, I place my backpack on the table and go get it. Once I open the book, I run my finger down the Laura Line family tree. I’ve read the ones for Mom, Laura Rachel; Grandma, Laura Lee; and Grandma’s mom, Laura Elaine. The next Laura is Laura Jean.
There she is.
LAURA JEAN
There’s a picture of a little girl sewing at a table. She’s awfully young to be sewing. Is that Laura Jean? She can’t be older than eight. I turn the next page. It’s a picture of a formal gown. I run my finger across the picture, imagining what the dress feels like. Did Laura Jean make this?
I sit up and clear my throat. Maybe she did make it. And even though it may be kind of cool, it’s not amazing. Kids do stuff like this all the time. And I don’t think sewing is that hard. I’ve sewn before. I made a handkerchief for Dad one year for Father’s Day. Sewing must run in the family, and the only thing Laura Jean’s story does is give me a clue to where it all began for us.
It still doesn’t have anything to do with slavery. Though I have to give her props for this bangin’ dress. It’s gorgeous.
I can’t believe the fancy lace and pearls around the hem and the neckline. Even though it’s old, I could wear that on my wedding day and I wouldn’t be mad. It doesn’t take long for the daydream to take me down the aisle with Dad beside me. Troy’s standing at the front with Shane and the minister. I’m wearing the dress Laura Jean made, and the pearls are all shiny and the lace is so . . .
I startle myself out of that special edition of Troy TV. What the what am I doing? I need to focus, because I’ve got to get this field trip canceled!
I turn the page and find a letter to Laura Jean, congratulating her on a successful production despite all the things that went wrong. Was Laura Jean a movie producer? Here’s another letter apologizing that the fabric she ordered was not going to be delivered in time for her production.
I’m almost through with Laura Jean’s pages when I turn to the last one and my eyes switch to high beam. I exhale without inhaling first as the words on the fashion show program seem to leap out at me. It reads FASHION EXTRAVAGANZA at the top. Is this the production the other letters were talking about? It has to be! In the center of the program is a woman, smiling, both hands raised in the air. In capital letters above her head it reads:
INTRODUCING LAURA JEAN UPSHAW,
MODEL AND FASHION DESIGNER
Uh-oh, maybe I just found amazing. I take a long look at the picture. Is that really her? It can’t be. I scoot away from the table and walk to the wall of pictures. I scan the one with the woman in a simple, church-ready dress. Her lips are shiny, so I bet she’s wearing lipstick. That’s got to be her, next to the sewing machine, showing off her work. I wonder if she made her own outfits for her shows, especially since she was a seamstress.
Wait a minute.
My eyes lower to the floor, next to the typewriter, then back at the picture. The sewing machine in the picture and the one on the floor are identical. The one on the floor has the word SINGER in white letters on the top of it. So does the one in the picture. I walk over to the one on the floor, lean over, and touch it.
Sweet Sister of Sewing Sensations! It’s Laura Jean’s, I just know it. I bet she used that sewing machine to ma
ke all the dresses she modeled. How cool is that! I can just imagine how awesome she must have felt modeling a dress she made herself. I start to sashay around the room, but then I stop. Laura Eboni Dyson, snap out of it! Get your mind on the reason you came in here!
But another thought causes me to flinch as if someone has stuck me with a sewing needle. I’m zoned in on her picture, push-pinned to the wall. The chills come back. Without taking my eyes off her picture, I slowly walk backward as my heart thumps a hard beat I’m not used to feeling. I’ve been so impressed with her sewing that I didn’t pay much attention to Laura Jean. And now she’s all I see because, as Mom would put it, Laura Jean is a full-figured woman.
And a model.
And a fashion designer.
I can’t believe how long her lashes are and how gorgeous they look on those wide round eyes. Her short hair is parted on the right side and combed over, but even in this black-and-white picture, I can see the perfect tiny wave patterns in her hairstyle. I should have had her picture taped to my English report on why I want to be a professional model. That would have shut everybody up!
I get my swerve on and sashay around the shack just like Laura Jean must have done back in the day. I pooch my lips and tilt my head just enough to look sophisticated but not snobby and prance around like I’m all that. Every once in a while, I check out her picture just to be sure I’m looking the part.
Suddenly, my swerve is stuck and the desire to pretend I’m a model disappears. As I inch closer to the picture of Laura Jean and her sewing machine, my excitement is replaced with dizziness and confusion. I was so caught up in her being thick like me that I didn’t notice all the stuff in the background.
Laura Jean’s picture shows a fireplace with a cooking kettle inside the hearth that looks identical to the one that’s behind me. Also in the photo, the ledger’s on the same stand, in the same spot it is right now. My goose bumps come back when I study the table and two chairs in that picture and glance over my shoulder at where I’ve been sitting. No way.
But where’s Grandma’s little chair? Oh, that’s right! Grandma’s dad, who made the little chair, wasn’t born yet! This picture rocks!
Laura Jean sewed in here. And I bet she sashayed around this room like I’m doing, maybe dreaming of the day she’d become a fashion designer and a model. All her attempts and failures went into the ledger. Maybe she used them to make her more determined. And then when she hit it big, she put that copy of her program in the ledger, too.
I sit back in the chair and run my fingers across the plastic holding Laura Jean’s program and realize I just learned two awesome things:
1. Laura Jean was not a slave, and what she did had nothing to do with slavery.
2. Modeling is in the Laura Line. And now I know where I got the desire.
Even though Laura Jean’s story is the closest I’ve come to amazing, it still has nothing to do with slavery or what we’ve studied in history class. It’s cool to learn about her, but it’s time to move on.
I look out the window and realize it’s still early. Maybe I’ll look at one more Laura and then leave. Before I move on, I take another look at Laura Jean’s program cover.
I’m kind of proud of her.
Okay, who’s next? I turn to the next cover page.
LAURA ANN
There’s a birth certificate dated 1924 on the first page. It belongs to Laura Jean, Laura Ann’s daughter. I guess Laura Ann was proud of her baby girl! I examine it closely and find out Laura Jean was born right here in Brooks County. Okay, that’s pretty cool. The next page holds Laura Ann’s marriage license from 1922. Wow, this stuff is ancient.
The rest of her section is thick—and the pages are heavy. I flip the cover sheet and find a piece of cardboard with three blue ribbons and a gold medal on it inside a plastic sheet. I take a closer look at the awards. They’re for track and field. One is for hurdles, one for a relay race, and one for a javelin throw. I can’t tell what she got the gold medal for.
I didn’t know there were athletes in the Laura Line. Mom runs like she’s on fire from any kind of ball thrown her way, and she flips past the ESPN channels as if they’re not in service. And I’ve never heard Grandma talk about any sports until she got this major crush on baseball. I turn the page, and there’s another piece of cardboard with more ribbons. Laura Ann must have been awesome!
I can’t believe we’ve got a track and field star in the family. Maybe she’s the beginning of the athletic genes in the line, just like Laura Jean is the beginning of the sewing part. I move back from the table and walk to the wall of pictures again. That’s got to be her in the shorts and white V-neck sweater, holding a ribbon and that javelin spear, standing near a young tree that’s barely taller than she is.
The way those trees are grouped together looks familiar.
Wait a minute.
I rush to the door and poke my head out to study the trees in my pitching area. I knew I recognized it. Laura Ann’s standing in my stadium!
My eyes dance back and forth from Laura Jean’s picture to Laura Ann’s. Laura Ann is thinner, but not by much. I wonder how she was able to run so fast with that extra weight. I wonder if other track runners made fun of her. I guess it doesn’t matter.
She did it. And she’s got the ribbons to prove it.
I turn the page and find a letter dated July 16, 1921. This is antique old. I bet if I take it out of the cover, it’ll just turn to dust and blow away. That’s double awesome.
The letter is signed by Laura Ann and it’s written to her mother. I go back to the family tree and see that Laura Ann’s mother was Laura Belle. All these Lauras are confusing me, but I keep them in order thanks to the family tree. I guess if Laura Ann is writing to her mother, then they didn’t live in the same city. This should be good.
July 16, 1921
My Dearest Mother,
Greetings from France. I am well and hope you are, too. Did you get my letter last month? Three weeks ago I tried to qualify to represent France in the very first International Track Meet for Women, taking place in Paris in the next year. Coach Pierre thought my best chance for qualifying would be in the one-hundred-yard dash and the baseball throw. Only the first and second place finishers go on to train and compete at the international games.
In the qualifying rounds, I finished fourth in the one-hundred-yard dash and second in the baseball throw. I qualified in the baseball throw, but Pierre claims my name was added to the roster in error. In private, Pierre apologized, explaining that I have been in France for so long that he forgot I was American, and if the officials found out, the entire French team would be disqualified. I feel like he tricked me.
As you know, keeping the fact that I am an American a secret was part of my deal with Pierre when he signed me to the French team. But now that women’s track and field is going international, I may not have a chance to compete with this team anymore. I’m so disappointed.
I really want to come home. It has been six years since I last saw you. I apologize for what happened in your restaurant before I left for France. Pierre’s outburst was wrong when he declared your food unfit for humans. He truly believed your food made me fat and that as soon as he changed the foods I was eating, I’d be much thinner, faster, prettier, and happier. Again, he was wrong.
I’ve quit the French team and I also quit Pierre. I’m coming home, Mother, and I will help rebuild your restaurant business. I don’t know how to fix what happened, but I promise I will try. Please forgive me. I love you.
Laura Ann
I can’t breathe. I scoot back from the table and stand to force air into my body. All her momma drama is one thing, but this baseball throw is a major news flash. Why am I just now finding out about Laura Ann and her baseball throws? I look back through the ledger and find a red ribbon for track and field with BASEBALL THROW embossed at the bottom. I leave the ledger open and walk to the backyard.
Laura Ann’s cross is in the center of the Laura Line. It’s the
same size as the others and her name is carved in the center of the wood just like everybody else’s.
LAURA ANN
First, I look around to be sure Grandma’s not in the area. Then I whisper at her cross.
“I just read the letter you wrote to your mom, and seriously, you had issues. First, you let some dude—and I don’t care that he was your man—disrespect your mother. That’s a category-one violation in the family code. And I’m going to ding you for that. But I don’t want to talk about your major mistake right now. I want to talk to you about something . . . private.”
I look around again to make sure Grandma’s not watching. Then I let it fly.
“Did Pierre ever call you names because you were big? Did he call you fat? Can you see me? Were you mad about being . . . big? Maybe you did what you did because you hated how you looked. Maybe you wanted to be skinny and beautiful for Pierre. Or maybe the other girls on your track team were skinny and you wanted to be thin like them. I don’t know. I’m just askin’.”
I walk from the first cross to the last one, thinking about how Laura Ann may have felt. But I still haven’t gotten to the reason why I’m really standing here.
“Don’t you just love how the ball feels in your hand? When I’m feeling down, I can throw baseballs until I feel better. Did you ever do that?
“I’m glad I read about you, Laura Ann. I think you’d be proud of my curveball and my heater. But seriously, you should have clunked Pierre in the head with a fastball.”
I go back inside the shack, check the family tree, and realize I’m more than halfway through the Line. I’ve only got three more Lauras to go. There may be plenty of soap opera drama, and I’ll admit that my family’s got talent, but there’s nothing about slavery in the ledger. I put the book back on the stand, grab my things, and close the door behind me.
When I walk into the house, there’s a package of hot dog buns on the table. There’s also a bag of tortilla chips, a jar of nacho cheese dip, mustard, catsup, relish, and a pitcher of iced tea.
The Laura Line Page 11