Grandma’s crying slows to sniffles as she picks up that piece of wood again.
“This table and chairs came from Laura Belle. And this ledger came from Laura Mae. Laura Belle and Laura Ann rode in a horse-drawn carriage all the way from Harlem, New York, just to put this dining room table and chairs in here. It was in Laura Belle’s restaurant.”
My belly rumbles. Things are crashing around internally. This isn’t some little stomach storm brewing. I’m shattering into pieces much smaller than Grandma’s broken chair.
Another apology would be weak as water, and I’m too embarrassed to even say it again.
There’s nobody to blame but me. I get off the floor and make a promise.
“I’m going to fix it, Grandma. You’ll see. I’ll fix everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sage comes back inside the shack. Her face is streaky red as she walks by me and speaks directly to Grandma.
“Mrs. Anderson, please don’t blame Laura. I broke the chair. Laura was just trying to help me with something I wanted more than anything. I’ll bring all my savings to you tomorrow. Maybe we can find another chair.”
Grandma gets up. “I don’t want your money, sweetheart. This isn’t about money. I need to lie down. Baby Girl, wake me in an hour and I’ll make dinner.”
I nod because the lump in my throat won’t let me talk. I swallow hard, reach out, and touch Grandma. She stops, and I look at the chair piece she’s got cradled in her hand.
“Grandma, I need to keep all the wood together.”
She hands it to me on her way out as Sage picks up more stray pieces from the floor.
“She hates me, doesn’t she?”
I shake my head. “If she’s going to hate anybody, it’s going to be me.”
Now Sage is crying again, and I can’t take it. I’m barely holding on myself as I lean against the wall of pictures, wishing Sage would just go home. It’s not that I don’t want help, it’s just . . . I can’t. I’m on overload. So I close my eyes and hope she disappears.
But she keeps talking.
“All I’ve thought about for the last week is finally being somebody other than Sage the Submarine or Sumo Sage. I wanted this so badly, Laura. And now I’m back to being just . . . you know.”
Yeah . . . I know. Fat Larda is the name I’ve been strapped with, and I hate it. But I’ve never felt desperate to change the way Sage does. And I never knew why until I read the ledger. Not one of the Lauras let her weight keep her from doing anything she wanted to do. Not even Laura Ann. I open my eyes and stare at the pictures of the Laura Line. I keep my eyes on them and signal to Sage.
“Come here. I want to show you something.”
She comes over to the wall. “I’ve already seen these, Laura.”
I keep staring at them. “Really? Then I’m going to ding you for not paying attention. Look at them closely, Sage. They all have something in common.”
Sage lets out a big sigh. “Okay, let’s see . . . they’re all women. They’re all African American. They’re all fat. Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m trying to make a point. You see fat. Look at their faces. They’re all smiling. They’re all happy. And they’re showing off something they’re good at.”
Sage is really studying them, so I keep talking.
“Are you a Pink Chip? Did you pass their initiation? Those pictures you gave them were amazing. To me, there’s no reason why they wouldn’t take you.”
Sage stares at the floor. “They told me they were going to think about it and let me know. Sunny said I might have to do another initiation, so maybe I should start taking more pictures of them to put together another gift for that.”
I point to a picture of Laura Elaine. Then I pull Sage to the table, open up the soggy ledger cover, and show her one of Laura Elaine’s news articles.
“She was a news reporter back in the day when they didn’t want women, and I bet there weren’t many full-figured African American women in the newsroom either. But she made them want her. Laura Elaine made her boss see past all the other stuff. He saw her talent.”
Sage stares at the article as if it’s a piece of gold. She runs her fingers over the plastic, just like I did. Watching her is like watching myself try to get my head around what I was really seeing. But I’m not finished. I pull Sage away from the table.
“And that typewriter on the floor, that’s what she used to type that article. And it even had a broken key. The letter G doesn’t work.”
Sage stares at the typewriter. “What?”
“And that’s what you did to the Pink Chips. Don’t you see? Even though they may have been trying to use you to get free pictures, you got the best deal out of the whole thing. Now you know people can see your talent, which means they’re not looking at your weight.”
“You think so?”
“Heck to the double yes.”
From the window, I see Sage’s brother’s truck. She heads for the door.
“You’re my best friend, Laura.”
“Yes, I am.”
She looks around. “And we were wrong about this place. It’s . . . beyond amazing.”
I smile sadly. “Yeah, it is. See you tomorrow.”
I grab her sleeve. “Wait.” Then I put my hand on her shoulder. She puts her hand on mine and says what we both need to hear.
“I will always . . .”
I nod. “. . . have your back.”
As I walk Sage to her brother’s truck, I notice Grandma inching toward her car. Each step she takes seems painful. I wave good-bye to Sage and rush to her.
“Grandma, where are you going?”
Her face is swollen. “I called Edna. She wants me to come over.”
I’ve never been to a teacher’s house before, and I know it’s got to be a punishable crime in the unwritten handbook for students.
I don’t care. I open up the passenger door and slide onto the seat. I refuse to look at Grandma. I feel her staring at me, waiting for me to say something else, but I don’t. Finally, she starts the car and we’re on our way.
There’s no conversation between us, and I’m okay with that. I’ve got enough things on my mind to have a thousand conversations with myself. As I stare out of the window, I realize that I’ve only been on the farm for nine measly days. In that time, I’ve been through a lot, but a few things stand out more than others.
1. My history teacher is my grandma’s BFF.
2. Troy lives down the road from my grandma, cuts her grass, and knew about the shack and the Laura Line.
3. My grandma loves me enough to learn something new, just because it’s something I like to do.
4. The slave shack needs a name change. It’s so much more than that.
5. The Laura Line isn’t just a line of crosses.
Even though those are big-time things to learn in just a short amount of time, my mind can’t shake what happened today. Grandma’s hurting, and it’s my fault for being careless. I’ve got to figure out how to make this right. I sure hope Mrs. Jacobs has some ideas. And I hope she doesn’t try to go all crazy on me in front of Grandma. I feel bad enough.
Mrs. Jacobs doesn’t live far from Royal Middle School. It’s an old neighborhood with one-story houses, small front yards, and cars parked on the street. Even though I knew this subdivision existed, I’d never been in it until now.
Grandma pulls up behind Mrs. Jacobs’s black Jeep Cherokee and I’m suddenly terrified. My legs feel like concrete, and I’m thinking maybe this wasn’t a good move on my part. I could sit in the car and wait for Grandma to finish talking. How long could that take?
Then Grandma taps my shoulder. “Baby Girl, I know you didn’t do anything on purpose. I’m hurt more that you didn’t tell me the truth about what was really going on in the shack. But I’m proud of you for wanting to take responsibility. That’s what a Laura would do.”
I’m ready to cry again. Even though I’ve done absolutely
nothing to fix what happened, just knowing Grandma doesn’t hate me energizes me even more to make things right.
We open our doors, get out of the car, and walk hand in hand to Mrs. Jacobs’s house. She opens her door and hugs Grandma for a long time. Finally she lets go and moves aside. “Come on in. I’ve made some dinner. Have you eaten yet?”
I answer for both of us. “We haven’t.”
It smells like fresh-baked bread and muscle ointment inside. Even though it’s a warm April evening, her house feels like it’s July. Then I notice her furniture has plastic covers on it.
“Is this new furniture?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no, I’ve had that set for over ten years.”
It’s a matching sofa and chair set with tigers, lions, and leopards in a safari scene. I feel sorry for them with all that plastic covering across their faces. They must feel like they got sentenced to the worst zoo ever.
The wooden coffee and end tables have carved faces of African warriors with spears and tribal headdresses. By the way her house is set up, I’m expecting Tarzan and Cheeta to swing through at any moment.
“Come on in and have a seat,” she says.
I don’t know why I’m stunned that her kitchen is decorated in red and white. I was expecting something more . . . historical. Instead it seems Mrs. Jacobs has a thing for roosters.
Her coffee pot is a rooster. When it’s tilted, coffee pours from its beak.
Ew.
Her oven mitts and dish towels are white with big red rooster faces in the middle.
What the what?
Even her cookie jar is a rooster. The head comes off and you have to reach down its neck to grab a cookie.
That’s just nasty.
“Laura, would you like a glass of milk or iced tea?”
“Tea, please.”
After pouring me a glass, Mrs. Jacobs opens her refrigerator and pulls out a beautiful fruit salad. Once it’s on the table, she rubs her hands together.
“I’ve got all kinds of delicious things for us to eat.”
Grandma moves her fruit around the plate with her fork. I’m stabbing a piece of green melon when a smell I’m not used to trespasses up my nose.
I have to ask. “What’s that smell?”
“Black-eyed peas with sage sausage. I made some rice to go under it. And biscuits.”
I get more fruit. That’s where I’ll live today, because I don’t eat anything with the word eyes in it, and sage sausage reminds me of Sage and all the drama I’ve got right now.
But Grandma grabs an ice-cream scooper and scoops rice into a bowl. Then she tops it with a massive helping of those black-eyed peas. I don’t have a problem with it until she shoves the bowl next to me with a biscuit on the side.
“It’s important that you try this, Baby Girl. I think you’ll like it a lot.”
Then she touches my arm. “Taste them. For me, okay?”
After all the drama I caused her, tasting a bowl of black-eyed peas is the least I can do. I shovel up half a spoonful of them. Even though I’m not looking, I can feel the eyes in those peas staring at me. Okay, here goes.
This . . . wait . . . Mmmm.
Grandma and Mrs. Jacobs make small talk, but soon Mrs. Jacobs turns to me.
“So what happened today?”
Grandma shifts her eyes my way. This is it. The polite time is over. But no matter how Mrs. Jacobs responds, it can’t hurt any more than I’m already hurting.
I tell her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grandma’s quiet while I empty my most shameful moments on the table for Mrs. Jacobs to hear. I tell her how embarrassed I’ve been in history class because I don’t understand how African Americans allowed a whole other race to make them slaves and do all of their chores.
I told her the last thing I ever wanted to do was come live on the farm because I absolutely hated the shack. I didn’t know why my family still had something so cruel, and to me, there’s no excuse for an African American family to have a slave shack on their property.
And then she scheduled the field trip, and I had to do something to get it canceled for good.
Mrs. Jacobs’s forehead wrinkles. “Well, you may have succeeded. I don’t know if your grandmother will ever feel comfortable letting people inside the shack again.”
I shake my head. “Please let me finish. After I went in the shack for the first time, I felt strange but I shook it off. I fought liking it. I even told myself that it was just an ugly, useless slave shack. But I knew inside that it was more than that. And the ledger proved it.”
Mrs. Jacobs leans forward. “So you did read all of the ledger?”
My head droops and I stare at my lap. “You win, Mrs. Jacobs. I found that ‘one amazing’ thing you knew was there all along. I got to know them. I even walked inside the shack like I think Laura Jean would have walked in one of her dresses. It wasn’t until the chair broke and the ledger got wet that I realized what I’d done. By then, it was too late.”
Mrs. Jacobs scoots back from the table. “Oh, my heavens! The ledger’s damaged too?”
A tear rolls down Grandma’s face. I want to explain better, but I can’t find the words. Then, without realizing it, Mrs. Jacobs throws me a lifeline.
“Laura, you’re telling me that you didn’t want your classmates inside the shack, yet you allowed an initiation to take place in it? I don’t understand.”
It’s time to stretch my legs and walk this one out. So I get up from the table and walk around the kitchen as I talk.
“I made a promise, Mrs. Jacobs. First, I was doing my best friend a favor by allowing the initiation to take place. After I started hanging out with the Lauras, I wanted to cancel the whole initiation thing, but I couldn’t because I had made a promise to Sage. As a member of the Laura Line, I wasn’t about to go back on my word.”
I lean against the refrigerator and look out the kitchen window at Mrs. Jacobs’s backyard. There’s no cemetery. It doesn’t look like there’s anything super-special back there. I wonder if she even understands how I feel. I turn to look directly at her.
“Then the little chair broke, and I knew those girls would never understand what they had done. I wanted them out. At that moment, I felt they were trespassing, disrespecting the Lauras . . . and the shack.”
I’m walking again, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say.
“I mean, I know each one of the Lauras’ histories, and I feel as if they know me. That doesn’t make sense because they’re dead, but there’s a connector or something.”
Grandma lifts her coffee toward me. “It makes perfect sense to me.”
I keep talking. “I realized I’d made a major mistake. I ran inside the shack and told the girls to leave. And now, I’m the worst Laura ever. Even worse than Laura Ann.”
Coffee shoots from Grandma’s lips. She wipes her mouth and laughs.
“Baby Girl, that just made me think of something. Did you know Laura Ann . . .”
I grin. “. . . threw a baseball? Is that the coolest thing or what? But Laura Ann and Pierre? Don’t even go there, Grandma.”
Now Mrs. Jacobs giggles. “We talk about Laura Ann all the time. She was a piece of work, wasn’t she?”
Now we’re laughing, talking about Laura Ann and widening our conversation to include some of the other Lauras. Eventually, I ease my way out of the conversation, tiptoe over to the stove, and get some more of those black-eyed peas. But Grandma busts me.
“So you like those peas, huh?”
I nod and sit back in my chair. “Mrs. Jacobs, where’d you learn how to make this dish?”
“It’s Laura Belle’s. Your grandma was kind enough to share this one with me.”
My mind drifts back to the newspaper article about Laura Belle’s restaurant. How people came from everywhere to eat her good cooking. It’s easy to believe these peas and sausage were a big hit. And she left the recipe for us. I have to speak up.
“Mrs. Jacobs, yo
u may not believe me, but I’m more proud of that shack and the Laura Line than I ever thought I could be. But I’m so scared that one of my classmates may break something else. I want them to see it, but they don’t care like I do.”
Grandma reaches for my hand. “How can you make them care, Laura Eboni?”
Her eyes are locked on mine, almost staring through them, as if speaking to something deeper than what she sees. I can’t unlock that eye grip she’s got on me as she speaks again.
“We must always do what’s best for the Line. It doesn’t matter about what we want, only what’s best for the Lauras.”
And with that, I know what I need to do. “Okay. The field trip’s on. But instead of Grandma giving the tour, I’m going to give it.”
Mrs. Jacobs chimes in. “Splendid! I knew you’d find something in the ledger that you’d consider amazing. What did you find?
I look from Mrs. Jacobs to Grandma and then back to Mrs. Jacobs again.
“I found me.”
Mrs. Jacobs grins. “Magnifica, Señorita.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tuesday at school, I try to lie low, but it seems as if every person in the hall stops me.
“Is there really a slave shack on your grandmother’s farm?”
“Uh-huh.”
That’s all they get. I don’t offer any more 4-1-1 than that. I know it’s Sunny spreading the word. But the weirdest thing happens on my way to lunch. I spot Troy coming down the hall. I usually stare at him until he’s completely out of sight, and today is no different except for one thing. As he passes by, he nods.
“What’s up, Dyson?”
What the what?
And I can’t think of what to say back. It’s pitiful. Just a few days ago, if Troy had spoken to me in the hall at school, I would have fixed my hair, redone my lip gloss, and popped a breath mint before saying, “Oh, nothing.”
But now, my love for Troy is on hold. I’ve got big-time heavy-hitter-type stuff to handle, and I only have a few days to get it done.
In history class, I take my seat and bury my face in my book. When the bell rings, Mrs. Jacobs closes the door.
The Laura Line Page 16