by Ann Martin
On the playground that day, after Clarice has tried to explain The Edge of Night to Darryl, the three of us decide to make up our own drama. It is about three people in New York City, where none of us has ever been. Darryl wants to play a fireman in the drama, Clarice decides to be a movie star, and I am a struggling writer. Our characters all happen to live in the same apartment building. We call our drama City Lights, since we live in one of those lit-up skyscrapers like the Empire State Building, and I think our show is very good. We will make up our lines, which I will write down and then we will act them out.
Once or twice Darryl, he looks over at Terrence and Winnie, but they are playing Four Square again, this time with Jeremy and his friend Will. Four Square doesn’t hold much appeal for us writers.
“Let’s work on our drama every day,” says Clarice, and Darryl and me agree that this is a very good idea.
When school ends that day, Clarice and me and Darryl walk outside together. Darryl meets up with Winnie and Terrence, and we say good-bye to him.
“Hey, Belle Teal! Clarice!” calls someone from behind us.
We turn around and there is Little Boss with Vernon and Chas.
Right away, I sense trouble. “What,” I say, flat-like.
“Well, we were just wondering,” Little Boss starts to say. “What is in that colored boy’s lunch box every day? Fried chicken and watermelon?”
“That boy has a name,” I reply, “and it is Darryl.”
Little Boss ignores this. “So are you eating colored food for lunch now?”
I draw in a great big breath. I have to stop and think of Gran and her gentle ways and her belief in the Lord. Also, I look at the fresh bruise under Little Boss’s left eye.
Finally I just say, “No.” Then I take Clarice by the elbow and lead her to our bus, where I choose one of the seats in the very first row. This means we will have to sit across the aisle from HRH Vanessa Mathers. But I would rather do that than sit within ten feet of Chas and Vernon.
The month of October is rushing by like the yellow leaves outside my bedroom window. Miss Casey has increased our homework little by little, but she makes up for it by reading aloud to us for twenty minutes every day after recess. Last week she started The Big Wave, by Pearl S. Buck, and when I listen to it I feel almost as breathless as when Sarah Lane Karr died on The Edge of Night. Miss Casey, she is a pure wonder.
One morning, about two weeks before Halloween, Miss Casey stands in front of our room holding a piece of chalk in one hand and The Big Wave in the other. She asks us to think about the stories she has been reading to us, and also about the little compositions we have written ourselves. I sit very still in my chair. I frown up my eyebrows. What, exactly, does Miss Casey want us to think when we think about our compositions? I try to remember the names of mine: “The Last Firefly,” “Autumn in Our Hills,” “The Lonesome Hound.”
Then, to my great surprise, Miss Casey, she says, “I believe it is time for you to write your own books.”
Our own books? Lord above, I am not ready for that.
“There are some fine writers in our class,” Miss Casey continues. “And some fine artists. I am going to assign you to work in pairs. Each pair will make a storybook, complete with illustrations and a cover, to share with your classmates.”
I am overjoyed except for that part about being assigned to work in pairs. I know teachers and they are famous for matching up two people who don’t get along in order to make them get along. I am certain to be paired with HRH Vanessa.
Miss Casey puts down the book and the chalk and picks up a piece of paper from her desk. When she moves, her perfume from France wafts all the way over to my desk, and I breathe it in and hold on to it for good luck.
Miss Casey starts reading off pairs of names. Vernon is paired with poor Stephen. Clarice is paired with Mae. Now I am certain I am to be paired with HRH. I am trying to figure out how we could write our story without ever having to talk to each other, when I hear Miss Casey, say, “Belle Teal.” Inside my desk, I cross my fingers.
Then Miss Casey, she says, “Darryl.”
I let out my breath. I can’t believe it! I turn my head to grin at Darryl. He is grinning back at me.
I love Miss Casey. I really do.
When she tells us to break into our pairs and start talking about our books, me and Darryl huddle up in the back of the room.
“You can draw all the pictures!” I say.
“And you can write out the story,” says Darryl. “But we’ll make it up together.”
We are experts at making up stories by now, what with our work on City Lights, which we get to whenever we can. So far, we have written and acted out eight episodes. But our book, we decide, will not be another daytime drama. It will be a Halloween tale of some type.
When I get home from school that afternoon I make a beeline for my journal. I have to write in it immediately. Because of what happened on the bus.
It was Vernon who said it. As me and Clarice slid into our regular seat, Vernon leaned forward and hissed into my ear. “Nigger-lovers,” he said. Then he leaned back with his arms folded and glared at me.
I faced forward and just stared straight ahead. I could not answer him.
I don’t like what he said, and I sure don’t like how he said it.
I write this in my journal. What I really want to do is talk to Mama or Gran about it. But Mama is at work cleaning rooms at the R U Sleep Inn, and Gran, well, it does feel like I’m the one looking after her now, instead of the other way around. One thing, she hardly ever seems to know how to dress to go outside anymore. And not just because of the stuck thermometer. She appears to have forgotten about her special way of reading the weather. Sometimes she goes outside with three sweaters on when the temperature is creeping up on seventy. Sometimes the opposite. No jacket and it’s not even forty. And Gran is so forgetful. Still, our meals are always cooked and the house seems about as clean as ever. Not as sparkly as on some TV commercials, but tidy enough. The yard looks a little scraggly, but then there’s not much to do at this time of year. Still . . . Gran is not one for conversations lately. Mostly she putters around and sings little songs under her breath.
I look down at what I have written in my journal. I see “I HATE VERNON.” I pick up my pencil and erase that. “Hate just creates more hate,” Mama said. And she is right.
On the morning of October 17, I wake up as a thought springs into my head: Just two weeks to Halloween, and I don’t have any idea about my costume. Every year I make my own. A lot of kids buy theirs. I have seen the stacks of costume boxes on the shelf near the cash register at Sherman’s in Coker Creek. On each box is a picture of the costume — Frankenstein, a gypsy, a devil, a cat, a princess, a skeleton — and inside is a plastic mask or a cloth hood and a little suit you can slip into. Gran says we can’t be paying for foolishness like that, and I am glad. The fun of Halloween is dreaming up a costume and then figuring out how to make it. Last year I was a caboose and I turned a cardboard box into a train car and wore it around my middle. Gran said, “My land, Belle Teal. I have never seen anything like it before.”
At lunch I ask Clarice and Darryl if they know what they are going to wear to our school Halloween party. Clarice says, “I have no idea. Maybe I’ll be a fox.”
“How are you going to be a fox?” I ask her.
Clarice shrugs. Our fourth-grade teacher wrote on Clarice’s report card that Clarice needs to work on carrying out her ideas.
Darryl, he looks uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I’m going to come to the party.”
“But Darryl, you have to come. It’s the best school party of the year,” I tell him. “Except for the Christmas program.”
Darryl is fiddling with his straw paper. “It’s at night, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Clarice replies. “You can’t have a Halloween party in the daylight.”
“No . . .”
We finish our lunches and go out to the playground. Instead
of working on City Lights, Clarice and me spend all of recess telling Darryl how wonderful the Halloween party is. The three of us just huddle up and talk. By the time the bell rings and we are standing on line, I think we have pretty much convinced Darryl to go. “I could be a fireman,” he says. “I even have a red fireman’s hat.”
So that is the good thing. The bad thing is that as Clarice and me are about to get on our bus that afternoon, Vernon calls us that name again.
The way he hisses the words makes them sound even dirtier than they already are.
A funny look travels across Clarice’s face. Then she marches up the steps of the bus and says to Bernette as we walk by, “Belle Teal is coming home with me this afternoon, so you can skip driving up the hill.”
Bernette looks awful relieved, not to mention HRH, who has overheard Clarice. But I grab the back of Clarice’s jacket and say, “What are you doing?”
When Clarice doesn’t answer me right away, I can tell this is one of those things that she is not sure how she’s going to carry it out.
“You’ll see,” she says as she flumps down in a seat. Bernette drives straight into Coker Creek, and at the second stop, Clarice, me, Chas, Vernon, and two other kids get off. The door of the bus has barely closed when Clarice plants herself in front of Vernon and just stands there.
“What,” says Vernon.
“Say it again,” says Clarice. “Call me and Belle Teal what you’ve been calling us.”
I am shocked. I have never seen Clarice do something like this.
Vernon allows a small smile to twitch his mouth up. “Why? Are you going to fight me?” he asks. He raises his fists to Clarice’s face.
Clarice looks uncertain. So I step in. “Only if you want to fight a girl,” I tell him.
Now Vernon looks uncertain. He drops his fists, but he says, “Okay. Niggerloversniggerloversniggerlovers.”
“My father —” Clarice starts to say, but her face just crumples.
I am feeling all cool and calm. “Vernon,” I say. And then I add, “Chas,” since Chas is hovering behind him. “Clarice and me are friends with Darryl and you better get used to it.”
“Your friend,” replies Vernon, “doesn’t belong in our school.”
Chas steps around Vernon, feeling braver. “And we shouldn’t have to associate with his kind,” he says.
“But it’s okay for them to serve you meals?” I ask, knowing that Chas sometimes eats at the counter in Sherman’s. The heat is rising to my face and I have to take in deep breaths and remember again about Gran and her Lord, and Mama and what she believes in.
“That’s all they’re good for,” says Chas. “That and cleaning up.”
My head begins to pound and I am about to forget everything I just tried to remember. I pull back my arm and I really think I am going to sock one of the boys, but then I drop my hand to my side and turn my back on all of them. I just march down the road toward Route 518, even though I can hear Clarice calling after me. When she calls louder, I start to run, and I keep running until I don’t hear anything. Then I slow down.
Tears have come to my eyes and I blink, blink, blink all furious-like as I stomp along. I don’t bother to wave in at Miss Wanda as I stomp by her beauty salon. I am breathing hard and my chest hurts. I swipe at my tears with my hand, which is none too clean. Chas and Vernon are pigs, I think. And Clarice, I could just wring her neck. How is it that Darryl doesn’t go home from school in this state every single day? I wonder. Or maybe he does, and I just don’t know about it.
I reach 518, blast across the highway, and hit our dirt road, which is muddy from a rainfall we had yesterday. I look up and see the trees against the sky. The leaves are starting to blow off. And that sky, it is a deep dark blue. The days are so much shorter now. By Halloween, we will have turned our clocks backward and it will be full-on dark by the time we get to school for the party.
I clomp along in my old boots, which Gran has said I will have to make do with this year if my toes can possibly take it. I hate trudging up our hill in the dark. I’m not even making good use of my thinking time. I have to concentrate so as not to trip over rocks or roots. Even so, I fall twice. The second time I go down on my knee and muddy up the flannel dress Gran just made.
By the time I fling open our front door I am a mess. I’m all muddy, my knee is bleeding, and I know I look like I’ve been crying.
“My stars,” murmurs Gran when she sees me. “What on earth?”
I can’t help myself. I start to sob.
Gran, she folds me into her arms, hums a tuneless tune.
Finally I pull away from her, look into her eyes, and say, “I think I put a hole in my dress.”
“Well, never you mind. Tell me what happened, Lyman. Not fighting again, I hope.” Gran has turned away and is sorting through a kitchen cupboard for Band-Aids and the Mercurochrome.
I can’t answer her. The color glides out of my face, and I begin to shake.
Gran returns, takes my hand, feels the trembling, and sits me on a kitchen chair to take care of my knee.
I lean into Gran’s soft, creased face and whisper, “Vernon called me a nigger-lover.”
But Gran is singing softly about bluebirds and the White Cliffs of Dover and Jimmy sleeping in his own little room again, and I don’t know as she has heard me. When she is satisfied with the state of my knee, she holds my hand for a moment, brushes the hair from my face, then turns to the pots on the stove.
Mama comes home late that night, long after I have turned out my light. Sometimes she goes to a study room at the secretarial school to do her homework so’s to be sure she is ready for her next class. I call to her when I hear her pass by my bedroom door.
“Precious?” Mama replies. “You all right? Not sick, are you?” Mama sits on the edge of my bed and feels my forehead.
“I’m okay.” The entire time I was trudging up our hill this afternoon, crying and bleeding and mad as a hornet, all I wanted to do was talk to Mama about Little Boss spitting, and those dirty words spewing out of Vernon’s lips. But now, with Mama at my side, stroking my hair, what I say is, “Tell me what is really wrong with Gran. I know it’s something more than just getting old. It’s like she’s gotten lost.”
“Did something happen today?” Mama wants to know.
I tell her what Vernon said, and how Gran thought I was Lyman coming home after a fight. “Mama, Gran calls me Lyman half the time and Adele the rest of the time. Yesterday she was wearing a sweater underneath her dress. And she forgot Halloween is coming. I showed her the black cat and the pumpkin I made in art and she said something like it was a funny time of year for that.”
The light from the kitchen creeps through the open door to my room and falls on Mama’s tired face. The corners of her mouth twitch, but not like Vernon’s did in the afternoon. Mama purses her lips. She blinks her eyes. At last she says, “Precious, sometimes when people are old their minds go funny. I think maybe Gran is getting senile.”
“But she’s still cooking and all,” I point out. “And she talked about the fruitcakes this morning. Even though she forgot Halloween.”
Mama nods. “We’ll just have to be patient with her. She can’t help it when she forgets things. Doesn’t even know she’s doing it.”
I lie back on my pillow. When Mama leaves the room I make my mind run away from thoughts of Gran and Vernon and Chas. I focus in on Halloween. My costume. Maybe this year I will be something beautiful. A genie, the sort who would wisp out of a bottle. I could wear some of Mama’s makeup and wind my hair up on top of my head. I could look magical and mysterious and very, very wise.
After our fight with Chas and Vernon I am mad at Clarice almost until recess the next day. On the bus in the morning, the boys make crying noises at me and pretend to wipe away tears, even though I know I did not actually cry in front of them. I don’t sit near them, and I don’t sit near Clarice either. I sit across the aisle from HRH and ignore all of them by reading another Nancy Drew mys
tery.
At lunch I sit with Clarice and Darryl as usual, but I do not speak to Clarice or trade anything with her. When she tries to talk to me, I answer like, “Darryl, please tell Clarice I do not care for her pear.”
After I have done this three or four times, Darryl, he says, “Belle Teal, tell me, how long is this going to go on? I am not going to carry your messages forever.”
I think for a moment. Finally I say, “It is going to stop now. But Clarice, please do not do things like that without telling me first. I have to be prepared.”
“What did Clarice do?” asks Darryl.
Clarice and me look at each other. Since I am still a little mad at her I say, “Do you want to tell Darryl?”
“No,” she says, annoyed-like. But then she turns to Darryl and her eyes look kind. “We had a misunderstanding, is all.” She turns back to me. “Belle Teal, I am sorry for what I did.”
“Well, I am sorry too.”
Even so, we don’t say anything for a while. Finally Darryl, he can’t take the silence any longer. “I decided to come to the Halloween party,” he announces.
“You did?!” Clarice and I cry.
“Are Winnie and Terrence coming?” I ask.
“Are you still going to be a fireman?” asks Clarice.
“I don’t know about Winnie and Terrence,” says Darryl. “And my costume —”
Darryl is interrupted when Little Boss, who has been sitting at a table directly behind him, tips his chair backward and bumps into Darryl, squeezing his chest against the edge of our table.
“What was that you just said?” asks Little Boss.
“Little Boss, you say you’re sorry!” I exclaim.
Little Boss crashes his chair back into position, then stands by Darryl’s side. He is joined by Chas and Vernon.