Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  She turned the page and encountered another image: Huey Newton seated on a wicker throne, holding a rifle and an African spear. Now, that was clever symbolism, calling to mind some form of pan-African cultural bond. All those images of men with guns, men with spears, men with bows and arrows and bazookas and what have you, were so pervasive that it was hard to sustain the argument she’d just been making. Was that why Tom had seemed annoyed? She closed the magazine and finished her wine. With Tom, it was so hard to tell.

  Part II

  occupy

  chapter one

  Alice

  AS THE MORNING dragged on, Alice was feeling low. She’d raced through her reading assignment before anyone other than Tammy and Debra and now, overhearing them giggling together as though they were on the way home from summer camp, she found herself brooding. Classroom neighbors, Tammy and Debra had become playground pals, but Alice’s classroom neighbor, Jocelyn, had her own group of black girls from another class and a cool, uncomprehending gaze, if Alice was foolish enough to go anywhere near. Early on, seeing Alice coming up, one of the group had demanded, “What you want with us?” as another jeered, “Go away, white girl.” Jocelyn’s eyes were flushed with scorn and spurning as she murmured, “She’s in my class,” and the girls moved away laughing. Back in the classroom, an ugly mood hung over them, flaring up now and then.

  In response, Alice had been forced to rely on her other classroom neighbor, Nora—until the handball dust-up. Back in September, Nora had passed every lunch hour playing handball with the other white girls, and for a while they enjoyed the game. Blonde and energetic, Nora shepherded the group through the lunchroom and around the playground, keeping them close, fending off taunts. She was regal—generous and temperamental, as she pleased—and the others were her followers. Even so, Alice was an up-and-coming challenger, for handball was a girl’s game and, free of her brother’s domineering control, she was feeling unleashed.

  In the beginning, Nora always won, persevering over the other girls in turn, while her good humor and easy dominance gave the games a deeper purpose. Tammy and Debra enjoyed losing, it seemed, for that way they could show they were girls. Rough play was for boys and Nora. They regarded Alice, the only real challenger, as an amusing renegade until one day, when she landed the ball in a corner, beyond Nora’s easy leap. Sure of trouncing her in the end, Nora laughed and complimented her adversary, unaware of how keen Alice was on winning for once, after losing among boys for so long. And so, to the girls’ annoyance and chagrin, Alice replayed the move throughout the lunch hour, riding roughshod over everyone else’s feelings, defeating Nora and then doing away with the others, as if she had something to prove. The strategy was flawless—as gloating and dependable as cheating. As far as everyone else was concerned, it was worse than cheating—galling but not glaringly wrong. Nora was good-humored in defeat; it was Debra who, by flouncing off the court before her game was over, announced Alice’s blunder.

  The following morning, Tammy, carelessly aloof from the playground squabbles, caught Alice by the classroom door. “Don’t you know, Nora always wins,” she confided, covering her mouth with one hand as though she’d just revealed someone’s crush. Tammy was confusing; though she’d gone teary in class, somehow that no longer seemed embarrassing. For the moment, Alice was aware of unusual feelings, refusing to shun a girl she would have shunned before—and even admiring her.

  Following her loss, Nora dropped the handball games and began leading the group to some benches on the playground, where she would brag about her summer camp in the Berkeley hills and how she’d gone kayaking on a lake.

  Soon after, Alice had gone to her mother with a problem: she was hoping to get to know one of the girls in her class, but Tammy’s house was far away. She was wondering how arrangements could be made; she could go by school bus, if Tammy offered, but getting home would be a problem, and so she was hoping her mother would agree to come for her, if anything happened.

  “Are you sure Tammy’s eager to play?” her mother probed.

  “Eager?”

  “If she were, you’d know.”

  Alice was feeling overwhelmed by school problems and unsure of anything.

  “There must be some girls nearby,” her mother went on. “Why is Tammy so appealing—is she very independent?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Does she need a group, or can she do things alone?”

  “They have a group.”

  “And are you in the group?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then she may choose the group,” her mother counseled, as though grasping her daughter’s problem. “And what about Jocelyn?” she pursued, asking as usual about the black girl. Hearing no response, she concluded, “Well, there’s always Sabrina’s girls.”

  Of course Alice would have been willing to go to Sabrina’s house, though the girls were somewhat older and presumably had other things to do; but her mother was just delaying, it seemed, caught up in Peace and Freedom and the Cleaver campaign. She was also doing the choosing, as always; indeed, she was so gushing on the subject of Sabrina’s daughters—Helen and Maggie—that it seemed as though she were the one pining for companionship. By comparison, Alice was feeling overwhelmed and could hardly say how impossible Jocelyn had really become, or why she found Tammy appealing; that was why her mother had the chance to say so much. And so her imagination kept replaying someone else’s hopes, as her own could barely be heard. There should have been a response regarding Tammy—but her mother had moved on. Tammy had been judged; if the girl had measured up, her mother would have been more willing to ferry Alice around.

  She resolved to see Tammy somehow, with no one’s help.

  IN CLASS, THE morning dragged through its final half hour as Mrs. Whitman waded rudderless through the room, pausing here and there, coaching the others. Her face flushed, her blouse dusted with chalk, she offered encouraging words that calmed the group as a lullaby would, though leaving Alice feeling more keyed-up than before. She could have read more if only Mrs. Whitman had assigned more reading. For now, though, Alice was daydreaming away the hour, imagining going home with Tammy. If only she’d joined her early on—but Tammy was far away, in the row by the door, where she was showing off her green Girl Scout uniform and giggling with Debra. The uniform had lapels and a sash and gave her a foreign look, as though she’d come from an Iowa 4-H club. Even Debra was admiring the badges on the sash. Tammy was so confiding and amusing that she could make Debra giggle, though Debra was sour and judgmental with everyone else. Unfortunately, she was always hanging around the group, clinging for safety under Nora’s wing. Nora enjoyed her role as leader and Tammy, refusing to conceal her fears as Alice would, showed no shame in following. Envying the other girl’s freedom, Alice resolved to become a Girl Scout. Her mother made fun of such things—badges, uniforms, troop leaders—but Tammy’s house was far away, and badges and uniforms were the price of seeing her after school.

  Nearby, Jocelyn and Nora were jealously eyeing Alice’s paper. Though they’d been doing well enough so far, the reading was new, and nearly everyone was confused. Jocelyn and Nora had begun teaming up in class, if only for the shared goal of beating Alice.

  When the bell rang, Alice ignored the group as Nora joined Tammy and Debra and headed for the door. She would go her own way, passing up lunch and reading in the school library. There were safe ways of moving alone through the halls. She would drop Nora’s group and manage on her own.

  Away from the lunchroom, the long hallway echoed as she walked. Just being there was asking for problems, as someone much worse than Nora or Jocelyn could come along. Feeling lonely and scared in the abandoned space, Alice changed her mind. Nora’s group would be on the bench soon enough.

  The schoolyard was in full sun. Only a maple tree rose through the asphalt, shading an overflowing garbage can.

  On the bench were Nora and Tammy and Debra. They eyed Alice as she came up, and though Tammy waved, Nor
a and Debra were looking her over with cool displeasure. Soon they were joined by Sharon, Nora’s pal from another class. Nora and Sharon had houses in the hills and had always known each other. Sharon’s plump arms and droopy curls gave her a puppy-dog demeanor, while Nora’s gossipy sense of humor always made her laugh. These days Tammy and Debra grouped with them, forming a foursome.

  As usual, they were comparing preferences and family outings and grumbling about class. That week they’d heard a lesson on the presidential campaign.

  “Of course everyone’s for Humphrey,” Tammy said, giggling, as though conformity should be seen as inherently funny.

  Alice saw an opening, a way of impressing them. Surely she’d heard as much from her mother as anyone and could join in. She’d had enough of hearing the girls gossip about unfamiliar local parks, knowing she would have nothing to say. In the beginning, she’d assumed her parents would help her learn the ropes, but with her father away on weekends and her mother reading or going to Party gatherings, there’d been no chance. And there were so many new things she could be doing.

  A pause came. In a rush of energy, Alice glanced at Tammy and announced that her mother would not be voting for Humphrey, along with everyone else, but for Cleaver. The pause dragged on; then someone—Debra, whose father was a nuclear something-or-other—demanded, in a humorless tone, “Who?” She glared for a moment from pale eyes, made ugly by blonde, nearly bare lashes.

  “Eldridge Cleaver. He’s—”

  “I thought so,” Debra responded, snapping like a Venus fly trap. Then she added, “I’m sorry to say, but your mother is dangerously wrong.”

  Nora and Sharon leaned away, laughing. For a moment Alice was dumbfounded, then embarrassed by Debra’s dry judgment. But soon she was angry they would shun her for something her mother planned to do. She was simply informing them. In any case, Cleaver had no chance of winning. Her mother was merely protesting. Was there something wrong with that?

  On the other hand, if everyone else was for Humphrey, why was her mother dumping him for Cleaver?

  The sun shone. Sharon and Nora were whispering, then giggling. Finally Tammy spoke up.

  “Well, I’m sure your mom has her reasons.”

  Tammy was looking around the playground as she spoke, so who could say if she approved of Cleaver, or was merely showing sympathy for someone—anyone—condemned for an idea. Tammy defended nonconformity. Her family was from Philadelphia, and they’d come to Berkeley the year before. Her father was a professor, like Debra’s; he researched what Tammy called the psychology of “doing what They say, even when you know it’s wrong.” Beyond that the explanation grew hazy and Alice was wary of probing, for fear of showing her ignorance. After all, when she’d asked the meaning of “nuclear,” Debra had glared from those lashless eyes and then changed the subject.

  Tammy had found a way of resolving that problem, too. “Even her mother has no idea, I’m sure,” she’d murmured to Alice as they were heading for class. The thought was amusing and sly; it made Alice laugh.

  The only people Tammy condemned were those who never refused commands. They were the dangerous ones, she was always saying. She felt sympathy for Vaughan and Michael, the rambunctious bad boys, for the same reason everyone else found them annoying: they refused to comply. Tree Frog had escaped, becoming a running joke for Tammy, but Vaughan and Michael had no such hopes. They impressed her by being glum or buoyantly rude. Vaughan could be heard laughing when he should have been reading, and if anyone objected, he would say something demeaning and saucy. Though they were pushing as far as they could, Mrs. Whitman hung in, pleading and cajoling or ignoring them so the class could go on. The unruly boys had the run of things; Tammy had dubbed Mrs. Whitman’s class “The Vaughan and Michael Hour.” Unable to share Tammy’s sympathy, Alice felt a pang of envy thinking of how her brother could do as he pleased, even when it made her mother angry. Vaughan and Michael were far more daring, responding with open contempt. Once Mrs. Whitman had commanded Vaughan, and he’d responded, cool and surly, “Try and make me.”

  These were new phrases, new ideas, and suddenly her group was learning them. Alice wondered where they could be used.

  As for Jocelyn, she was a moody presence; though aloof if she found herself lagging, she would engage when she chose, offering commentary on the class and vaguely personal information. Jocelyn’s mother was an imposing figure, they’d been informed—a schoolteacher; on bad days, when Vaughan and Michael really got going, Jocelyn would assume charge, and her glares and scoffing words could do more than the teacher’s pleas.

  ONE DAY, DURING a lull, as Alice was reading from her mother’s book of fairy tales, Jocelyn and Nora found a subject they could share—church. Alice heard them, but there was no sense in getting drawn in, for she had nothing to say about church. She’d learned her lesson with the Humphrey-Cleaver argument. And so she immersed herself in a new tale—a girl whose brother drank from an enchanted river and became a roebuck.

  Jocelyn rapped on her desk. Alice glanced up and saw Jocelyn’s eyes.

  “How about your family? Where do they go?”

  “We never go to church.”

  “Oh.” Jocelyn barely paused. “So you’re Jewish.” She glanced over, as though something finally made sense.

  “No.”

  Jocelyn glanced harder. “If you are, why not say so?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  “Then how come you never go to church? How about your mother?”

  “She’s an agnostic.”

  “A what?”

  “She’s not sure . . . not sure if there’s a God.” The words sounded foolish even as she spoke, impossible to defend.

  “Then send her on over to my church, maybe she can learn some.” Jocelyn slammed her desk, causing Ben to eye them. He’d been ignoring Alice ever since the day in Mr. Boyd’s office.

  Nora had been amused by the sparring. Barely glancing over, she proceeded to clear things up. “No way could she be Jewish.”

  “No?” Jocelyn shrugged. “I thought maybe she was.”

  “My family is Protestant, but we never go—”

  “I heard you before. And Sunday school?”

  “Well—”

  “When do you read the Bible?” Jocelyn demanded. She paused, her eyes narrowing. “And you say you were for Dr. King.”

  “Oh, no,” came Nora’s helpful commentary. “Her mom’s for Cleaver.”

  Jocelyn glared, uncomprehending. “You’re foolin’ me.”

  Alice was stung: she’d imagined Jocelyn would be impressed.

  “You’re bad,” the girl concluded. “You’re gonna burn.” She waved her hands, as though conjuring up the flames. “Good thing you been baptized—”

  “No . . . maybe . . .”

  Jocelyn’s jaw dropped. “You mean you ain’t never been baptized?” Leaning away, she surveyed the other with steady, smoldering eyes. She’d found the clue she needed.

  Alice’s mother had grown up going to church and could clear things up. For now, though, Jocelyn had found Alice vulnerable and there would be no more tangling with her.

  COMING HOME FROM school, Alice found her mother in the bedroom, reading.

  “Of course I had you baptized! You’ve always belonged to the Church!” she gasped, as though denying some outrageous lapse. “Whatever made you think otherwise?”

  The claim was surprising, maybe false. Baptism conferred some belonging, it seemed, some place in the Church, yet her mother had rejected such things and chosen to keep her in ignorance. Her mother should have informed her; then she could have belonged, she could have defended herself.

  “How come we never go to church?” she demanded, growing annoyed.

  “You’ve never asked to go!”

  “But—”

  “I’ve always thought you should choose for yourself—and you’ve never shown any interest.”

  They’d never gone to church; Alice knew nothing of what happened there. She was a
ngry to hear her mother blaming her.

  “Are you feeling a real impulse?” her mother asked soothingly, closing her book, her words carefully chosen. “If so, I’m sure we could find—”

  “No, please.”

  Her mother’s eyes were steady, full of suggestion; she paused, inhaling deeply. “I’ve always seen you as a true nonbeliever, like your father. And I’ve always thought you should choose for yourself.”

  There had never been any grounds for choosing. Yet Alice had been deemed an outcast by her classroom neighbor and would now be dealing with the consequences. Moreover, Nora and Debra had heard the argument, and something would surely come of that.

  Her mother was peering closely. “I hope nothing happened to offend the other girl—what was her name?”

  “Jocelyn.”

  “Oh my—Jocelyn!” she gasped. “Well, there’s no use in showing contempt for her religion.”

  “I never showed contempt.”

  “Are you sure? What made her so angry, then?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Sometimes you have to be careful in conversation; you can’t always say whatever you please.”

  Alice was dumbfounded. Why was her mother accusing her and defending Jocelyn? She fled the room before her outrage could show.

  THE OTHERS WERE never as openly rude as Jocelyn, yet the Cleaver remark and the church argument hung over the bench. Alice’s anger was growing. The others were merely parroting what they heard at home—so why should they censure her for doing the same?