The Only Black Girls in Town

by Brandy Colbert

  She says it like it’s a joke, but there’s something on the edge of her voice. Something that makes me think she’s not kidding at all.

  “She’s my friend. She’s not a poser. You don’t even know her.”

  And I really hope you’re not turning into Nicolette McKee.

  After the opening, we go to dinner with Verbena Fujimoto. Elliott orders half the menu while Denise asks Verbena question after question about her art and life. Dad monitors his phone for social media about the event, interrupting their conversation every few minutes to show them a new picture or post.

  Laramie and I barely talk. I see Dad looking over at us a few times, but I don’t meet his eye. We never used to have moments like this, but it’s happening more and more lately. I don’t like the tension. It’s so thick I can practically see it hanging above us, and no matter what, I can’t win. I don’t want Laramie talking about Edie, but I don’t want her to think I like Edie more than her.

  In the car, I notice Denise peeking back at us a couple of times. I sit silently between Laramie and Elliott.

  “Thanks for letting me come tonight, Mr. Freeman-Price,” Laramie says when we drop her off after dinner. “It was fun.”

  But I think everyone in the car can tell she doesn’t mean that last part.

  “Hey, are you coming to the surf festival on Saturday?” I ask before she closes the door.

  “I don’t think so,” Laramie says after a moment. She looks at her shoes. “It’s Nicolette’s birthday, so…”

  So she’s going to her party without me. I wonder if it’s at Nicolette’s house. Her parents used to make her invite me, but I guess the rules changed last year. I watched from my bedroom window while Rebekah tied balloons to the mailbox and draped a metallic banner over the front door. Then I watched as a bunch of people from school showed up with wrapped presents and gift bags.

  “Oh, okay.” I swallow. “Well, is Leif still going to the festival?”

  “Yeah, he’s competing.”

  Laramie still isn’t looking at me, probably because she’s breaking another one of our traditions. We always used to go to Pismo Beach to watch Leif compete in the preliminary round on Saturday. He usually made it to the finals on Sunday, too, and a couple of years ago, he took home the top prize in his age group. This year, Irene put together a group of kids from surf camp who want to go. Laramie never said she was coming, but when I told her, she said it sounded fun. I guess I thought that meant she would come with Leif and their mom since we’ve always done everything together. Elliott says you should never assume anything, but it’s hard not to when it’s your best friend since fourth grade.

  A thick silence hovers between us, and I don’t like it. But I don’t know how to fix it.

  Laramie finally looks at me before she heads up the path to her house. “See you at school tomorrow.”

  Dad waits until she’s inside before he drives away. Elliott squeezes my arm. “Have a good time tonight, Al?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Then, repeating Laramie, I say, “It was fun.”

  I keep forgetting to do things before I go to bed.

  First, I brush my teeth, but I forget to swish with the fluoride rinse that sits on the counter. Then, as I’m getting ready to curl up in bed with Constance’s journal, I remember my sleep cap is in the bathroom, where I left it this morning.

  As I make my way past Denise’s cracked door for the fourth time in ten minutes, she calls my name. I poke my head in.

  “Everything okay?” she asks from the bed, where she’s rubbing lotion into her elbows.

  I nod, but it must be clear to Denise that everything is not okay. She gestures for me to close the door and pats the empty space next to her on the bed.

  I tentatively perch beside her. I try not to look around too much so she won’t think I’m nosy, but I haven’t really been in here since she moved in. Instead of the office/guest room, it looks more like a real bedroom. The desk is still here, but Dad moved the computer. Stacks of books line the nightstand and desktop, and Denise has set up incense and oils on top of the dresser. From the open closet door, I see a row of colorful caftans and flowing tops.

  “Did you really have fun tonight?” she asks, scooping her fingers into the lotion jar.

  I shrug. “Kind of. I liked meeting Verbena Fujimoto. She’s probably the coolest person who’s ever been to Ewing Beach.”

  “Isn’t she?” Denise says wistfully. “It was such a joy to meet her. You know, they always say not to meet your heroes, but she was everything I thought she’d be. Maybe even better.”

  The only heroes I have are surfers, and most people haven’t heard of them like they know singers or actors. My favorites right now are Coco Ho and Sage Erickson. Some of them, like Wendy Botha, aren’t even surfing anymore, so I only know them from old videos Irene tells us to find online.

  “Things with Laramie all right?” Denise presses.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” When Denise doesn’t say anything, I go on. “Everything used to be fine between us, but now it seems so different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Well, she hangs out with Nicolette McKee sometimes.”

  “McKee?” Denise frowns, trying to place the name.

  “The family across the street.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Her frown deepens. “They’ve never been very neighborly, if I’m recalling correctly.”

  “That’s them. Nicolette is in eighth grade, but she and her friends like having Laramie around, so Laramie has started hanging out with them.”

  “And she’s leaving you behind?”

  I nod. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s because she’s… growing so much faster than I am.”

  “Growing?”

  “She already got her period. And she’s so tall now. I feel like such a baby next to her sometimes.”

  “Oh, Alberta. I know it’s hard, but try not to focus on that too much, okay?” She pauses. “I got my period much earlier than everyone else in my class—when I was ten. All I wanted was to be like the other girls. I felt so different.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And, you know, sometimes growth comes faster on the inside. Your body is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.”

  My skin is hot, even though Denise knew just the right thing to say.

  “What about Edie?” Denise asks. “You two seem to get along well.”

  “We do. But tonight… Laramie told me Nicolette and her friends were talking about Edie.”

  “What did they say?” Denise asks, twisting the top onto the lotion jar.

  “That she was a poser. They think her whole look is fake.”

  I’m pretty sure the look on Denise’s face is the exact one I gave Laramie at the gallery. “Why would they think that?”

  “Because they don’t know any black people who dress like her or who like the same things as her.”

  Denise scoffs. “You have to be kidding me. That was her reason?”

  I nod again, pulling at a loose thread on the seam of my pajama pants. Denise is quiet for a moment. For so long that I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. She has enough on her mind, I think, as her protruding belly catches the corner of my eye.

  But then I feel her hand, gentle under my chin. When I look up to meet her gaze, she’s giving me this expression that’s somewhere between sadness and a smile.

  “I don’t know all the facts or everyone involved,” she says softly. “But I do know that what they said about Edie is not okay. People who say things like that usually haven’t been exposed to other races or cultures. And, unfortunately, they think it’s fine to pass judgment on a group of people they know nothing about.”

  “Yeah, I kind of told Laramie the same thing.”

  Still, Denise’s words send a flood of relief swimming through me. What Laramie said has been bothering me for hours, but I thought maybe I was taking it too seriously. She says I do that sometimes. And usually, when it has to do with r
ace stuff, the only black people I have to ask are Dad and Elliott. They help me talk things out when they can, but they don’t always get why something is important to me. Sometimes they tell me I should just stop worrying about things, even though it’s not always that easy.

  “Also,” Denise continues, “a big part of me can’t help wondering if Laramie told you that because she’s a bit jealous of your friendship with Edie.”

  I shake my head. “We’re best friends. I mean, I totally like Edie, but Laramie and I have history. And now she’s friends with Nicolette and Gavin and those people. Everyone likes Laramie.”

  “Well, I know.” She pauses. “But that doesn’t mean she’s not also threatened by your new friend across the street.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I think it’s highly plausible,” she says.

  I feel so much better than when I walked in here, and it hasn’t even been five minutes. I don’t want Laramie to be jealous of Edie, but I also like knowing maybe there’s a reason she’s been acting so different lately.

  “Thanks, Denise.” I stand to go back to my room so I can get in a few journal entries before bed. But then I remember something she just said: I don’t know all the facts… “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you’re having trouble finding something for a story… research… what do you do?”

  “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Well, we are living in the golden age of information, so it’s easier to find people and facts now than it’s ever been. But with so much at our fingertips, there’s also a lot of room for incorrect information. What are you trying to find?”

  Ugh. I should have thought of what to say before I started asking questions. I’m not ready to tell anyone about the journals. They still belong to Edie and me for now. I don’t want anyone else knowing Constance’s story. Not until we figure out who she is.

  “Um, just a school paper.”

  Denise raises her eyebrows. “Research papers in seventh grade? Schools really have come a long way.”

  “It’s more like a profile.” I feel bad lying to Denise, but I’d feel worse if I told her about Constance before Edie and I were ready.

  “When I can’t find something online, my next stop is usually the library.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “The library?” I don’t want to spend a bunch of time looking through old, dusty books that may or may not help. And how would I even know where to start? As far as I know, cities don’t have yearbooks of every person who ever lived there.

  “I know, I know—so antiquated, right?” Denise laughs. “But the library is your best bet. They have reference books that can’t be checked out, and microfilm.”

  “Microfilm?” I’ve never even heard that word.

  “It’s a way of viewing archives of newspapers, newsletters, government documents… maybe town directories.” My ears perk up. A town directory sounds a lot like a yearbook. “I haven’t been to the library here, but it looks nice from the outside. It might be worth going up there to see if they can help you find what you’re looking for.”

  I don’t know if it will be helpful. I picture Edie and me combing through stacks of huge, heavy old books and turning up nothing. But I guess it can’t hurt. Because we’re pretty stuck right now when it comes to Constance.

  December 23, 1955

  Mrs. Hansen found my Sun-Reporters.

  She knows.

  And now, two days before Christmas, I have nowhere to sleep.

  Lord have mercy on me.

  Love, Constance

  RUBBER DUCKY

  “WHY ARE YOU SO QUIET?” EDIE ASKS THE NEXT afternoon.

  It’s Thursday after school, and we’re on our way to the library. I know I’ve been quiet all day, but I couldn’t get the whole thing with Laramie out of my head. Every time I look at Edie, I remember what she said about her.

  The funny thing is that the more I’m around Edie, the less I think about what she’s wearing. I barely even notice her black lipstick anymore. She’d look stranger without it. And I like having a friend who’s interested in different things than me. She talks about New York a lot, but when I think about leaving Ewing Beach, my throat gets tight. I’d probably talk about it all the time, too, if I ever had to move.

  “Just tired,” I say. “We got home kind of late after the gallery show.”

  She sighs, her boots clomping a distinct rhythm on the sidewalk. “I used to go to the studio sometimes with my dad when he was recording with artists. It was so amazing, seeing him work. He’s still my dad, but, like, a totally different person when he’s behind the boards.”

  If I could go back in time, I think I’d ask Edie to go with me to the show instead of Laramie.

  “Ooh!” she says, her eyes getting huge. “I almost forgot to tell you—my dad is coming to visit next weekend!”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, he’s coming all the way to Ewing Beach, and Mom is going to let him stay in one of the rooms at the B&B.” Edie is beaming. I think she’s more excited than I’ve ever seen her. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. You’ll love him. Everybody loves him.”

  The library is located in a craftsman-style house that looks a lot like Edie’s, only it’s smaller and taupe-colored with mint-green trim and a wraparound porch. There’s a slot on the front for book returns, and a wreath made of yellowed book pages hangs on the front door above the EWING BEACH PUBLIC LIBRARY sign.

  The bell jingles as we step inside and I think of the mooing cow at Coleman Creamery. I haven’t been since school started. I think about Leif and wonder if he’s giving Nicolette McKee free ice cream now instead of me.

  “Good afternoon, girls,” says Mrs. Palmer. She’s the head librarian, and Mrs. Harris’s daughter. I saw her at the B&B a few times before Edie moved in, when all of Mrs. Harris’s kids were helping clean out her things. I’ve always thought she was pretty, with curly dark hair she wears in an angular bob and freckles sprinkled across her nose.

  “Hi, Mrs. Palmer,” I say with a smile.

  She returns it as she steps away from her computer and leans her elbows on the counter. “It’s good to see you, Alberta. How have you been?”

  “Good,” I say. “School is really busy this year, though.”

  “Are you in sixth grade now?”

  I shake my head. “Seventh.” Then I see her eyes warmly taking in Edie, so I say, “This is Edie. She and her mom bought the B&B.”

  Mrs. Palmer’s eyebrows rise. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Edie. I hope you’re enjoying the bed and breakfast. My mother loved it very much.”

  “We love it, too,” Edie says in the polite voice I’ve only heard her use with adults. “I live in the attic.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Palmer seems surprised, but gives a quick nod and another smile. “Well, let me know if you girls need help with anything, okay?”

  We head to a table as far from the front desk as possible so we can talk without anyone overhearing us. A few people are huddled up behind the line of public computers, and out of the corner of my eye, I see others browsing the stacks. Thankfully, no one from school is here, and no one even looks up as we sit down across from each other.

  Edie sets down her bag and gasps.

  I follow her eyes to the table two down from us, where a plump tortoiseshell cat is curled on top, snoozing away. “That’s Jordan. She lives here.”

  Edie jumps up and bounds over to her, pausing with her hand above Jordan’s head. “Is she friendly?”

  “Yeah, just don’t touch her stomach.”

  “That’s totally like my cat, Arnold,” Edie says. “He would try to claw your face off if you even went near it.” Then she leans down next to Jordan, cooing, “And you are so pretty, just like Arnold.”

  Jordan’s ears perk up and her green eyes flick open at the sound of Edie’s voice. Then, as Edie gently strokes her head, her eyes slowly close into contented slits. I can hear her purring all the way over here.<
br />
  “I’ve literally never met a cat who doesn’t like me,” Edie says, returning to the table after several minutes of loving on Jordan.

  I pull out the list of facts we have about Constance and place it on the table between us. Edie adds the photograph. We both stare at it.

  “I have a theory,” I say in a low voice.

  “Please do enlighten us, Ms. Freeman-Price,” Edie says, and we both giggle. It’s a perfect imitation of our history teacher, Ms. Gillingham.

  “Constance was black.”

  Edie’s eyes widen to approximately the size of dinner plates.

  “She never comes out and says it in the journals I have,” I continue. “At least not so far. But she’s really interested in what’s happening to black people. And she seems really… affected by it. She also has this huge secret that she’s worried about everyone finding out.”

  Edie runs her fingers along the edge of the picture. “You really think this woman is black?”

  I stare at Constance’s sweet, open face. No, she doesn’t look like any black people I know. Not even light-skinned black people. But I’ve seen pictures of people who passed for white, and they don’t look a whole lot different from Constance.

  “I do,” I say to Edie.

  “Well, she doesn’t sign her full name in the journals I have.” Edie stares down at the list as if it has all the answers. And I think it does, maybe. Only it’s more like a puzzle now. One that’s missing a few pieces. “And she keeps saying she’s not going to mess up again.”

  “See? She said the man she knew back in Alabama probably would’ve been part of the bus boycotts. But black people were the ones boycotting, so he had to be black, right?”

  “Or maybe she just had a black boyfriend.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that was so easy back then, especially in the South. She got kicked out of her boardinghouse in San Francisco because she said the woman who ran it knows.” I pull out the 1955 journal, flip to the last page, and slide it toward Edie. “And this is her last one from that year.”