Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  “I was hoping we could go to Telegraph together,” her mother remarked, as the song galloped on. “I found you some new records, so when school begins, you’ll already know what the others are enjoying. I’m sure you’ll never be a square.”

  Her mother’s words were cajoling in a new way. They suggested a confusing image—a square was someone who refused to go along, and so made no impression on others. If so, then her mother was saying she could become someone by going along.

  The song churned from the phonograph, engulfing the room in rhythm. The large house was jumping, the throbs barely dampened by her mother’s many books. There was a crashing crescendo, a pause in the fury, and then a wavering melody, as a new mood began.

  Released from the frenzy, Alice remembered her own concerns. The boy who played gin rummy would be in Mrs. Whitman’s class. Would she be in the boy’s class, or somewhere else? There was no use in appearing overly eager or curious. Her mother would let her know whenever the assignment had been made. In any case, she hardly knew Tree Frog.

  Her mother’s glance was close and flushed. “We can go to Telegraph soon,” she promised, as though reassuring Alice, “and I can show you the shop selling posters and jewelry. I’m sure my daughter will love those colorful designs.”

  Sammy had wanted to go to Telegraph—that must be why they’d run off. What were the boys doing there? Surely they had no need of jewelry.

  “Psychedelic, that’s the word,” her mother pursued.

  The word sounded new and vaguely chemical. Her mother was encouraging. “Another song?”

  There was no way of leaving the room. Feeling cornered, she hoped there would be no more psychedelic songs. There was something compelling in the rhythms, and the singing had a vaguely menacing edge. The songs had alluring force and fury. They were new; they should be hers. So why was her mother playing them?

  AFTER A SUMMER spent almost entirely alone, Alice was enjoying a surge of hope as she headed for school. She’d been feeling more perky just imagining the day; the school had placed her in Mrs. Whitman’s class, along with Tree Frog. She’d always had her brother in the same school, so the thought of knowing someone, even a boy, was reassuring. Maybe they would play together; or maybe she would have a group of girls. She’d known black girls in Washington—Lori, her neighbor and classmate, had been a pal—and as her mother had been saying all summer, Alice should be a leader; having seen successful integration in her Washington school, she would be ahead of the others, who were only now learning about it. There would be no real problems, her mother was sure, as long as there were some who could show the way.

  In her classes, where a grown-up was the leader, she’d always managed her boredom by daydreaming or doing more than the teachers demanded. Those things would remain the same; so the playground would be her place, if only she could find a group as she had in Washington.

  The school bus chugged along. Some of her peers were jabbering; “Proud Mary” was blaring a rolling rhythm over the speakers. By the time they pulled up along the fence, she was feeling upbeat, ready for a challenge.

  Crossing the playground, however, she found herself fending off gloomy feelings. The yard was large and unshaded, bleak; churning energy ran through the crowd. Some black boys were tussling, and though the scuffle seemed more in play than in anger, they were landing hard blows. A crowd had gathered around, goading them on; finally one of the boys broke away, cursing, as the crowd jeered and clamored for more. Fighting had been uncommon at her old school. Keeping clear of the bad apples—or so they seemed—she made her way alone. People were already forming teams: whites gathering in small groups as they came by bus from several neighborhoods, and blacks congregating in larger groups, for they were continuing in the same neighborhood school and already knew each other. Things were just beginning; even so, there was an unusual absence of mingling or even casual sharing of space that jarred her sense of the normal. Even boys and girls on a playground never kept so completely apart, unless compelled to do so.

  The school bell rang. Pushing and shoving, the groups surged for the doors. As she struggled forward, Alice got caught up and pressed among a group of black girls. Nearing the doorway, sardined among the larger, all-encompassing crowd, she found herself squeezed against one of the girls.

  “Don’t push me, whitey,” the girl commanded, shoving her hard.

  “Ooooh, she goin’ be sorry,” another added.

  They had her surrounded.

  Back on the playground, a few groups were ignoring the bell, clearly in no hurry. Finally a black man appeared by the door, calling for order and rounding up the stragglers.

  The group jammed through the doorway and suddenly eased. Clear of the girls but repelled by the ordeal, Alice found herself in a dreary corridor. The anger had been raw and demeaning. “Whitey”? She’d never heard that word from the black girls in Washington, when they met up on the playground or in a neighbor’s yard. No, that was a new one—and out of bounds. There were words she should never say, so why should she hear “whitey”? There were informal rules here; they were in school. In any case, she’d only pushed the same as everyone else.

  Approaching the classroom, Alice found some white girls—were they supposed to be her group?—hovering by the door, looking on, as though on the verge of leaving. In the room beyond were several black students, joking and laughing among themselves.

  The front row, seemingly a no-man’s-land, was occupied only by a shaggy white boy who slumped, arms folded, regarding the board. Two rows back, a black boy with flashing eyes was opening and closing a desk.

  A chubby black boy entered the room, waving and smiling.

  “We’re in the same class!”

  “Hey, Vaughan, come on over here.”

  “No, let’s be by the window.”

  “Teacher gonna move everyone anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They always do.”

  Some black girls were flowing around the room, claiming desks and then moving off and choosing others. Alice had never seen kids running so freely around a classroom. Being unruly had always been Curt’s role, but here were some unruly girls. That could be a good change. Even so, she enjoyed learning new things, mulling over the lesson, the teacher, her peers; how would she feel surrounded by so much random energy?

  As Alice crossed the room, one of the black girls panned her up and down, surveying her burgundy corduroy dress, and then glanced away, coolly ignoring her. Moments later, the girl dashed from the room and a loud argument began in the hallway. No need for more warnings; Alice could see that these tough, wiry girls, slapping and sassing, were out of her league. How had they become so bold? Her mother would be shocked if she behaved so loudly and spontaneously. Alice’s role was already crumbling—these girls would hold her in contempt. They were leaders already, and who would she be?

  Comparing her shaky morning with her mother’s hopes for the school, she was feeling unprepared and vaguely ashamed.

  As the argument continued, the white girls crowded through the doorway together, claiming some desks, circling the wagons. Alice found both groups annoying—no one was doing as they should.

  Among the black children, a few remained aloof from the group: in the second row, a handsome, carefully dressed boy with close-cropped hair; near him, a girl with cool, observing eyes and a shiny permanent, similar to the styles in Washington; and, squeezed in a desk in the corner, a morose, pimply girl. Older and larger and shunning everyone, she pondered the floor, her eyes revealing a smoldering glare if anyone came near. Crossing the room, Alice passed the girl with the shiny perm and abruptly sat down, feeling proud of her bold move. She glanced at her neighbor: long-legged like herself, the girl was surveying the room with a knowing smile. So far she seemed more appealing, and maybe more helpful as an ally, than the group of white girls. Though congregating—even clinging—together, they were clearly strangers, for they were exchanging names. One was wiping away tears. Looking
around the room, Alice wondered if she’d messed up in passing them by; but her mother had counseled her to be a leader. These separate groups were wrongheaded, even cowardly. Eyeing the white girls, now busy bonding by the door, she felt a pang. However embarrassing the unconcealed confusion was, she’d probably end up relying on them. Even so, where had they been? Her school and neighborhood in Washington had been integrated; though unusual, as her mother had commented over and over, that was what she knew. For months she’d walked to school with Lori, a black girl from her class. They’d gossiped together and gone to each other’s homes—though that was rare; they’d competed over spelling bees and been scolded together for squabbling in class. Her mother would never approve of her playing with someone who got teary over sharing a classroom with some black kids.

  The weepy girl was glancing her way, waving her over.

  The black girl near her murmured, “Go on and move, if you want. She’s saving you a place.”

  “I’m fine here.”

  “What happened—she was mean to you or something?”

  The suggestion was sardonic and sly.

  “No.”

  “Then go on—she’s saving your place.”

  “I’ve never seen her before,” Alice responded, as if defending herself, then added, “I just moved here.”

  “Ooooh.” The girl paused; she finally understood. “Where you from?”

  “Washington, D.C.”

  “You’re far from home then.” The girl assessed her closely but not unpleasantly. Alice was proud of her burgundy corduroy dress; the other girl wore a peach-colored blouse and skirt, and white patent-leather shoes. Before things could go any further, however, she leaned away, murmuring something to a black girl at a nearby desk. Then there was a flurry as another white girl—blonde and hardy, a leader—came laughing through the door and rushed for the seat Alice had just passed up. Alice was aware of an unpleasant feeling, a feeling of dismay.

  “Teacher’s coming!” a boy called from the doorway, the boy named Vaughan. He rushed across the room as a woman appeared. An eager “Good morning!” came from the hardy blonde girl, followed by guffaws from Vaughan and his companion. Then the group hushed, busy sizing up Mrs. Whitman. Alice found the woman’s presence calming; Mrs. Whitman was her mother’s age and vaguely beautiful, with long dark hair and warm eyes. The girl near her lowered her chin, surveying the woman from under her shiny bangs.

  Following the teacher, just as the bell was sounding, came a gangly redheaded boy in beige slacks and long sleeves. Finally—Tree Frog. From the door he glanced over the group. Then he loped across the room, passing Mrs. Whitman’s desk, and found a place in the second row.

  Mrs. Whitman opened the roll book and commenced reading names.

  Tree Frog’s real name was Howard Singer—all wrong. The girl in the nearby seat was Jocelyn Clark, while the carefully cropped boy was Benjamin Forman. Among the girls by the door were Nora, the hardy blonde; curly-haired Debra; and Tammy, the weepy one. Tammy had cheered up; with long brown hair, she now appeared self-possessed in her frilly blouse and beads. Slumped under Mrs. Whitman’s gaze was Jason; he had shaggy brown hair and long hands, as though he should play the piano. By the window, two black boys sat together, joking: Vaughan and Michael.

  Mrs. Whitman glanced around the room and made some adjustments, moving Vaughan and Michael up from the back row. However, when she addressed the morose girl in the corner, the girl refused to respond, shifting only her eyes. There was an uncomfortable pause, as Jocelyn murmured under her breath, “Leave her be,” and then Mrs. Whitman moved on, breaking up the group by the door by placing Nora on the other side of Jocelyn.

  When the lunch bell rang, Jocelyn jumped up and ran to the door, where she fell in with some girls from another classroom. Alice joined Nora’s group as they headed for the lunchroom. However, they were busy bonding and made no more moves regarding her. Finally Nora glanced her way.

  “Do you play handball?” she asked, in a haughty tone.

  “No.”

  “No?” Nora leaned in, amused.

  “I play baseball, though,” Alice added.

  Tammy giggled. “Do you have brothers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, so that’s why!”

  They were a group, maybe—or would be. She would have to see.

  BY THE THIRD week, the class was already becoming boring and slow. Mrs. Whitman seemed overwhelmed by the range of skills among her students, who were unable to follow lessons together, while Vaughan and Michael murmured and laughed all day long. In the beginning, Mrs. Whitman responded warmly and generously, hoping for some common goal, but there was nothing she could do. The boys were goofy and carefree, and they were increasingly sassy, playing her for a fool, vying to defy her. Whenever Mrs. Whitman was gaining control of the class, a challenge would come from Vaughan or Michael, so that Mrs. Whitman would feel compelled to respond. They could unravel the woman, and Alice, who had never seen such open contempt for a teacher, began to wonder about the power it gave the boys. They fed on her helplessness; when they weren’t clowning and tormenting Mrs. Whitman, they slumped sadly, gazing through the windows. Alice had sympathy for them then.

  Mrs. Whitman’s warmth and the boys’ demeaning rudeness made Alice feel vaguely ashamed. She was growing fond of Mrs. Whitman; but there was something uncomfortable in feeling for her, being moved by her during class. The woman’s warm sympathy was confusing; her face was full of feeling, making the class vulnerable. Mrs. Whitman was suffering, the boys were angry, the class was floundering, and there was nothing Alice could do to help. On the playground, some of the boys were showing her the same demeaning contempt, commenting on her clothes, her body. Government people like her father had been carefully planning the whole thing. Why, then, was she feeling so uncomfortable? If she was unwelcome in the school, why would her father and the government demand her presence there?

  Then there was Jocelyn, arms folded, coolly assessing the scene.

  “My mother’s a teacher,” she murmured. “If they’re scared of her, they’ll do what she says,” she added.

  In the hallways, some black students looked through Alice, completely ignoring her. She was confused and discouraged by the loss of normal eye contact, for casual mingling was now impossible. Once, forgetting the new ways, she glanced at a passing girl. For a moment, something was exchanged. Then the girl scowled.

  “What you looking at, honky?” she demanded, waving her hand in Alice’s face as she passed.

  A smaller group of black students glared or shoved, using ugly names, accusing Alice of being in the way. In the beginning, she wondered what she’d done wrong, but there was nothing—nothing she could change. They just seemed sure that whites belonged somewhere else. Coming on randomly, the clashes were scary and enraging, for there could be no pushing back. She was cornered.

  These responses were new and menacing. Her mother’s imagined harmony fled in a rush of anger and taunts. These kids wanted to move up in the world, she’d been told; apparently they would do so by pushing her down. In the classroom, however, many of them were way behind. The grown-up world would reward the learning, not the anger; but what could she learn here? In any case, there would be years of hassling, and the hassling would grow worse. The boys would become large, like her brother.

  She became aware that rumors flew among her new peers. If she defended herself against one person, soon enough others would begin taunting and harassing her in revenge. She was in a dry prairie, and someone had already tossed the match.

  One morning, as Mrs. Whitman was facing the board, eraser in hand, and Vaughan and Michael were engaged in the usual clowning, Howard Singer suddenly rose up, grabbed his desk, and hurled it upside down. Books and papers spilled over the floor.

  “Enough!” Tree Frog hollered, red-faced and panting with rage. “I’ve had enough!” Then he ran from the room.

  Scarcely a month had passed. Everything was new and wild. Though appa
lled, Alice was also jealous. Tree Frog would get away. She would never dare; her parents would never understand, they would simply be mad. They were in the program for the long haul, and so was she.

  Leaving the classroom in rising chaos and the desk topsy-turvy, Mrs. Whitman abandoned the group, following Tree Frog. Once she was gone, the room hushed, as everyone brooded on the event. A few glanced shyly around, eyeing the damaged desk. For some reason, though the mood was gloomy, there was a coming together in trouble—they were the ones who would be coming back.

  “So much for redhead,” Jocelyn murmured to herself. “He’s gone.”

  Tree Frog was oddly impressive. Who would have imagined he could be badder than Vaughan and Michael?

  “Gone where?” Alice wondered aloud.

  Jocelyn’s eyes flashed in weary contempt. “Where do you think?”

  Howard Singer never returned. Though they hardly knew each other, Alice was feeling a sense of loss as rumors bounced among the white girls. The others were openly pleased. “He brings down your grade,” confided Tammy, who knew him from her old school. Nora summed up, “There’s something wrong with him, of course. His mother’s a psychologist.” Soon he was simply gone.

  Being together in the same school made everyone a member of one group or the other. Forced to be the person her appearance made her, Alice was becoming aware of her body as never before. She’d crossed some boundary she’d never heard of, and suddenly the playground had a menacing feel. Under a new dress code, she no longer had to wear dresses. Wearing pants gave her a sense of freedom. Maybe they would see her as tough; maybe she could defend herself. So she began wearing pants. When she wore her jeans, however, someone—usually one of the black boys—would run up to her, demanding, “Are you a boy or a girl?” In the beginning, confused by the boy’s seeming confusion, she responded, absurdly, “I’m a girl.” Soon enough she saw through the charade. Once, when she demanded of a lean, agile boy, “And you—boy or girl?” the boy glared and shoved her hard. Maybe lying low would help; that’s how other white kids were dealing, heads down, ignoring bullying—but so far, she’d refused. If they were cowards, things would only get worse. From her brother she’d learned that cowards deserved to be hounded. And from her mother she’d learned to manage problems on her own, for any problem among children surely involved shared blame. She began to envy Howard Singer, who’d found a way out.