by Robin Farmer
“Sister, why do you still wear the old-fashioned habit? Don’t you get hot keeping your hair covered or not wearing something shorter?”
“I guess I’m rebellious,” she says. She winks, earning cool points.
When will the aliens return Sister?
“It’s a choice,” Sister says. She forms a teepee with her hands. “As a girl, I was attracted to the nuns in their splendid habits, which led to an attraction to the lifestyle. I believe in tradition. It’s a privilege to wear a more traditional habit and veil. Being a nun for as long as I have been means I get to choose.”
I raise my hand. Sister looks impatient.
“We’re talking, Roberta. You don’t need permission to speak.”
“Is your preference for tradition the reason why you don’t use colored chalk like some of the other sisters and lay teachers?”
She taps her hands against her nose. “I prefer white, it’s so clean against the blackboard.”
The word “clean” rubs me the wrong way. I count.
“It’s easier to see. It has a better contrast. And yes, it’s traditional.”
Glancing at the floor, I remember how in first grade when the black-and-white tiled flooring was new, we were told to walk only on the dark-colored floor tiles to keep things looking clean.
Sister pushes up her glasses to better see me frown. “Are you trying to make this a race thing, Roberta?”
“No, Sister. It’s just that you said about white being . . . so clean. It makes me wonder why white has to represent everything that is good and black is the opposite.” As her eyes narrow, I add, “In the general sense.”
“Technically black and white are not colors. But Roberta, I’ll give you the floor. Continue,” she says, sitting.
Everyone stops and listens.
“So you have the white knight on the white horse, good cowboys wear white hats, brides wear white, purity is white, communion is white,” I say. “Angels are white with white wings. Doves symbolize peace. And black is dirty and sinful, you know, a black mark is bad. Then there’s blackballed, blackmail, demons are dark. Bad guys wear black. Black cats are bad luck.”
Titters erupt. Sister’s raised eyebrows act as stop signs. I lean back on my desk, satisfied.
“My habit, which I love, is mostly black,” says Sister, who rises and paces the front of the room. “So is the robe for a judge. A starless night is black, and without it we would not have daylight. Coal, a precious resource, is black. We know that black is beautiful.”
“Preach it, Sister,” says Stephanie.
My cheeks burn, mainly since I am caught off guard by a) Sister’s response and b) brown-nosing Stephanie all up in her amen corner.
“Roberta, one of the most powerful tools is a blackboard. Teachers all over the globe use white chalk and a blackboard to teach students.” Sister taps the white chalk against the board. “Black and white together can be so powerful. Let’s focus on that.”
She’s deliberately ignoring my point. My temper shoots up like an escaped balloon. I picture the 10-speed I asked for Christmas and speed count to twenty.
“Are you finished making your point?” Sister asks.
I nod. For now. Sister responds with a huge grin, a sight as rare as Halley’s Comet. The bell rings. I file out to recess, feeling beaten at a game I expected to win. Who knew she’d checkmate me with a Kumbaya moment?
“Hey Roberta, I got a great joke for you.” Geoffrey stops me.
I think to myself, the joke is you. Sister cracked me up yesterday when she told him “some village is missing its idiot” and that he was “allergic to common sense.”
“What’s black-and-white and black-and-white and black-and-white and black-and-white?”
I shrug, scan the yard for Bonnie and wait for the cornball punchline.
“A nun falling down the steps.” He collapses into hysterics.
He wishes. I roll my eyes so hard I hope they don’t get stuck and head toward the rope jump crew.
“What’s that clown hooting about?” Bonnie asks.
“He always has such stupid jokes. He’s a flake,” I say.
“You usually like them.”
“I’m not in the mood. Sister made me mad. I make a point about how the color white stands for everything good while black represents everything bad and she acted like I didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Girl, she knew what you meant.”
“Yup, which is why my first book of poetry will be called Angel Dressed in Black.”
“Love it. Now, let’s go kick some Black butt,” says Bonnie, laughing.
Donna ambles over as we wait our turn to jump. She’s one of the few white students comfortable enough to walk over by herself to our section of the yard.
“What’s so funny, you two?” she asks.
“Sister Elizabeth,” I say.
“Oh, I thought Geoffrey told a joke about an angel.”
“Oh, that’s the title of my first book, Angel Dressed in Black.”
“I’ll buy it,” Donna says. “You’re a great writer.”
A grin takes over my face and a buzz shoots through my body. I smile at the coolest white girl I know as I wait to jump rope with the coolest Black girl on the planet.
CHAPTER 14
Clouds shaped like gigantic dumplings float overhead on a warm, sticky fall day so humid my Afro shrinks in half. This weather makes me long for carefree summer days of playing jacks or riding the trolley with Daddy while reading Right On! cover to cover. Afterward, we’d eat steaming crabs.
Instead, I’m bored out of my mind in music class. No one is singing today. We’re learning how to read music—shoot me now. I turn my attention back to Sister Elizabeth, who, with a few exceptions, has behaved like a normal teacher for weeks.
Wouldn’t it be fun to play Nancy Drew and learn more about her since she’s filling in for our music teacher? I bet she’s from down South.
My hand shoots up. Sister nods.
“Sister Elizabeth, how old were you when you discovered you had a good voice? Were your parents also singers?”
“What interesting questions. I was, maybe in sixth grade. And, yes, both of my parents have lovely voices. Much lovelier than mine.”
“Were they professional singers? I bet they were. You could have been if you weren’t committed to the Lord and all, which is more important than a singing career.”
Sister throws back her head and laughs. “I think I made the right decision with my life. I love to sing, but I love doing the Lord’s work more.”
“Are your parents happy you entered the convent?”
Her smile trembles for a nanosecond and her eyes reveal a faraway gaze. She knits her eyebrows and tilts her head. “Yes . . . they were very surprised.” Her voice sounds odd, unsure mixed with something I can’t quite pinpoint. Her whole vibe changes before my eyes. As the seconds pass, she appears . . . less Sisterly? More like a regular person time traveling in her mind. Unaware of the present, she seems just focused on what had been.
The room grows quiet. We’ve never seen her like this. Falling asleep? Sure. But right now she’s wide awake and still not really with us. Tell us where you are?
She’s so still I can see her bottom lip is slightly chapped.
“Did you want to be a nun as a little girl?” Donna asks.
“Not until I was about fourteen or fifteen.”
“Was it hard to give up your name?” I ask.
Sister shakes her head. The faraway gaze remains.
“How many siblings do you have? Any enter the priesthood or convent?” I ask.
“There are five of us, four sisters and one brother.” She says brother with tenderness. They must be close like Charles and me. “He’s the youngest. And for you Curious Georges,” she says, chuckling. “I’m the only Rucker child who gave her life to the Lord.”
Heads swivel. We look at each other with surprise. Nuns never tell their last names to students. Sister is clearly in a way-back-w
hen trance.
“Is your brother doing better?” I ask.
If a record had been playing, my question would have made it skip and scratch. Sister’s eyes snap open and her body jerks as if the devil poked her back. She adjusts her glasses and studies me as if seeing me for the first time. Those dreamy eyes seconds ago transform into a dead-eyed stare. She grimaces as if I’m an experiment gone wrong. Even the air in the room changes. Me and my big mouth.
“Excuse me, Miss Forest? What do you think you know about my family?” She shares her dagger gaze with the class and then pierces me to smithereens with it. “I give an inch and you demand a mile. I try to be nice and you ride roughshod. Don’t ask me another question unless it’s tied to the subject at hand. Got it?”
I nod, parting my lips to say I’m sorry.
“Not another word.”
What did I do? I feel low, dirty and desperate. All I know is this: I gotta fix it. One bad report and Christmas is toast.
My stomach gurgles while I try to figure out how to convince her I meant no harm.
After everyone files out, I approach Sister. She ignores me while searching desk drawers as if gold is buried in them.
“Sister Elizabeth, may I speak to you, please?”
“What is it?” She looks at me from head to toe then searches inside a drawer.
“I meant no harm, I promise. Geoffrey told a bunch of kids that your brother was sick. I’ve been praying for him because I would want someone to pray if my brother became ill. I wasn’t trying to be ugly, I swear.”
“Don’t swear.” Sister stops rummaging. Her eyes appear softer. “And take my advice: stop listening to Geoffrey. You can’t straighten an old crooked tree. You’ll get hurt in the process. I’ll talk to him about not spreading rumors like a fisher wife.”
“Yes, Sister.” I scurry toward the door.
“Roberta,” she calls after me.
I turn, holding my breath.
“Thank you for the prayers.”
“You’re welcome.” My smile is real as I hurry into the hallway. That was close. Good thing I can think on my feet.
I nearly stepped on a verbal landmine. Sister’s reaction reminded me that the body snatchers can return to the old version anytime. I let my guard down. She’s still the same crooked tree. Stupid me.
I charge into the house to find Charles watching cartoons and chowing down on a huge bowl of butter pecan ice cream topped with cookies.
“Did you leave me any?” I hurry into the kitchen and find a spoonful and two broken cookies left. I march into the living room and block the television. “You’re not the only one who lives here. Please stop eating us out of house and home.”
“At least I did not break up our family.”
I step closer. “What did you say?”
Charles’s nostrils flare.
“Take it back on the count of three,” I demand, using my fingers as I countdown. “Three, two, one.” He watches me like I’m a circus animal. “Why you say that?”
“I’m not stupid. I can figure things out.”
“I know you heard Mom say it on the phone.”
“Mommy didn’t say it. And I hate the way you treat her.”
“You’re really going to hate the way bullies treat you from now on. The next time someone picks on you, don’t come crying to me.”
“Don’t worry,” Charles says, shoveling what should be my portion of ice cream into his whale blubber mouth.
“Give me the rest of that ice cream.” I lean in to grab the bowl as he spins away.
He places the bowl at the other end of the coffee table and tosses his glass of milk in my hair.
“Oh no, you didn’t,” I sputter.
I leap onto the sofa, pinning him against the cushions. I yank him up by his collar as beads fly everywhere, some bouncing off the coffee table or rolling across the floor. Charles becomes hysterical and surprises me by cuffing my cheek with unexpected force.
“My rosary beads! You are gonna burn in hell, Roberta,” he sneers. “You only care about yourself. You make me sick.”
I let him up. He crawls after the scattering beads, picks up a few, then puts his head on his knees and cries. Now I’m bewildered as I look around for his inhaler. “Why are your rosary beads around your neck?”
“I always wear them when I am praying for something big.”
“Your spelling test?”
“No, our family.”
My mouth goes dry. I feel dumb. “Stop crying before you make yourself sick. Where’s your inhaler?”
He points to his stuffed book bag. I dig out his inhaler, and, after handing it to him I collect scattered beads. Nestling them in a napkin, I spot a few more beads in the bowl.
“I’ll be back.” I take the steps two at a time and grab my never-used rosary beads out of a drawer. In the mirror I glimpse milk weighing down a section of my Afro. I grab a T-shirt from the floor and pat my hair dry.
Downstairs, I drape my beads around his neck. “I’m sorry,” I say, helping him up from the floor. I pull him close and nuzzle his nose. “Charles, let’s pray real hard that we spend Christmas with Daddy. If that happens, it’s a matter of time before he comes back home.”
We kneel on the green shaggy rug and silently pray.
“I’m sorry,” Charles whimpers.
I clean up the milk, and we share the ice cream blessed by rosary beads and watch cartoons that make us laugh out loud.
When Mom walks in, I make it a point to not scowl and dash away. I talk to her for the sake of my brother, who beams at me. He’d purr all over the place if he were a cat.
I realize if I can be civil to Sister Elizabeth, then Mom deserves no less.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Mom and Charles.
In my room I pull out my diary and scribble myself in one word at a time.
I write: “What a weird day. If it had a theme it would be, ‘The trouble with brothers.’ Sister freaked out when I asked her about her sick brother. She’s so guarded and not just against having a good time. Clearly, she has something to hide. Word around school is she has seen him once in the hospital and he’s been there for weeks. Hearing that made me appreciate Charles a little more. ’Cause when I came home, he freaked out on me for being mean to Mom. And you know what? He’s right. I’m going to do better. Promise.”
CHAPTER 15
Picking the crust from my eyes, I toss my blanket and relish the victory warming my insides. After my fifth good weekly report, I’m off punishment. Done. El fin. Mom even threw in a sweet peace offering: Bonnie is spending the night.
We will play records and read magazines without any interference from Charles, who’s spending the night with Daddy.
I yawn, having stayed up until after midnight spinning my favorite records. I replayed Jermaine Jackson’s “Daddy’s Home” so much that I expected Mom to tell me to stop. That she didn’t is a great sign.
I hop out of bed and roll up the shade. Afternoon sun floods the room, revealing my bureau mirror smeared with God-knows-what. I study my teeth, assessing their whiteness. On a scale of one to ten, mine rank an eight. I want to score a ten before Thanksgiving, which is a few weeks away. Extra brightening drops are in order, starting today.
I make a mental note to clean my room before Bonnie arrives.
I smell bacon as I head into the bathroom.
Downstairs Mom has cooked so much bacon that when Charles heaps a handful of strips onto his plate, he barely makes a dent in the pile. He eyes me with suspicion as I grab my share.
“What are you and Daddy doing?” I chirp.
“He’s taking me to the Franklin Institute,” he says, talking with his mouth full.
“Awww, I want to go!” I joke. The interactive science museum hooked me from the moment I walked through its giant, thumping “heart” exhibit during a third-grade class trip.
“No, it’s just me and Daddy.” He frowns at me like he’s doing his math homework.
“W
hoa, calm down. I thought we made up, what’s bothering you besides being a crybaby?
Charles pokes his lips out far enough for me to cross the Schuylkill River on them. “I’m telling Daddy how horrible you act all the time.”
“Stop teasing him,” Mom says.
I jump. I didn’t hear her walk in.
“Didn’t you just get off of punishment?”
“He started it. I came down here in a good mood, and he’s acting all funky.”
Charles hits the table and runs out, leaving his food.
“Is someone bothering him at school?” I ask Mom.
She purses her lips and pours bacon grease into a can. “You know he’s sensitive. You’re so self-absorbed. He misses your father as much as you do.”
I’m fresh off punishment so I’m not reminding her she can make her children real happy by allowing their father to come home. At least things are better. Daddy comes to dinner almost every Sunday, and Mom is much more pleasant these days. But deep down I can’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.
“I’ll stop teasing him. Promise.”
Mom sighs then resumes washing the frying pan.
“Can I go downtown to Wanamaker’s with Bonnie?”
“Just be home before dinner. I have extra tokens in my bag,” she says.
We pay our fare and scout out two adjoining seats. Bonnie and I move down the narrow aisle past bright-eyed adults. During the week, most grownups look miserable going to or returning from work. I never want a job that makes me look like that.
We settle in seats near the rear door exit. We pour over the Christmas catalogue I swiped from home when the trolley jerks to a stop.
We hear a loud-talking, gum-smacking passenger before she boards. “I know that’s right, girl,” she yells to someone in another zip code. “Later.” Her raspy voice sounds familiar.
I glance up as she deposits her fare. Popping gum, she’s slender with enormous breasts and a huge Afro. A Foxy Brown wannabee. Heads snap, swivel, and lean back as she passes. I can just picture their eyes bugging out of their sockets.
“Whoa, Foxy Brown’s Afro is bigger than yours,” Bonnie says with awe. Her smile fades as the woman wiggles closer. “Nah, it’s a wig,” she mumbles.
