“I just don’t understand why a woman in this town had so many copies of Invisible Man,” Denise says, shrugging. Her arm is still around me and it feels cozy with her belly pressing against me on the other side.
Edie and her mother have already headed to the kitchen when Denise gasps and says, “Oh!”
I jump away from her, worried I’ve hurt her or the baby somehow. But she’s grinning, and then, as she looks at me, Denise takes my hand and holds it to her stomach. Her belly feels like a basketball. It’s so perfectly round, it’s hard to believe there’s a baby growing inside.
“Oh!” I say, too. I felt a thump where she placed my hand.
“That’s the baby kicking.”
My mouth drops open and I hold my breath, hoping I’ll get to feel it again. Just when I think the baby is going to be shy, there’s a little thump again in the same place. “Wow.”
“Pretty cool, huh? I think the baby likes Tim’s voice, so I hold the phone up to my stomach whenever he calls so they can talk. Maybe the baby likes your voice, too.”
No matter how many times I tell myself it’s true, I can’t believe I was the baby in there kicking Denise once.
I look around as we follow them to the kitchen. Ms. Whitman has been working hard on the bed and breakfast. They’re all small changes, but they look good. She re-covered the chairs in the sitting area to a soft gray fabric with pink pillows. She’s also switched out some of the art from the watercolor prints of flowers and meadows that Mrs. Harris had. The new pieces are photographs and paintings of the ocean, boardwalks, and beach scenes.
Ms. Whitman sets out hummus, warm pita bread, and some olives and cheese. Just before she sits down, her phone rings. She takes a look at the screen, frowns, and says, “I’m so sorry, but I need to take this. Edie, can you get everyone drinks?”
Her brows are still furrowed when she comes back a few minutes later, phone in hand. Edie sucks on an olive pit, staring at her mom. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, honey. We’ll talk about it later.”
Now Edie’s frowning. She spits out the pit and drops it into the tiny bowl on the table. “Did something happen? Is Craig okay?”
Ms. Whitman’s eyes slide over to Denise and me. “We have guests, sweetie.”
“I’m just going to tell Alberta later, anyway.”
Her mother sighs. “That was your father. He’s going to call you later, but he wanted to let me know he won’t be able to make it this weekend.”
Edie’s entire body slumps. I can’t tell if she’s crying. Her hair falls in front of her face like a black sheet as she looks down at her lap.
“He’s so sorry, Edie. He just couldn’t make it work around a business trip he has in London. But he’s going to call and figure out a good time to come soon, okay?”
I don’t want to stare at Edie while she’s upset, but I can’t help it. She hasn’t moved. I look at Denise, who mouths, We should go.
Ms. Whitman stands behind Edie, rubbing her back. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie,” she murmurs. “You’ll see him soon.”
Denise and I quietly get up from the table and thank Ms. Whitman for the snack.
“I’ll talk to you later, Edie,” I say before we walk out of the kitchen. It doesn’t feel good enough, but I’m not sure what else to say. She’s still not looking at anyone.
Denise and I get to the front door before we hear Edie choking out a sob.
GUMBOTTOM
I CRACK OPEN ANOTHER JOURNAL BEFORE BED. THIS one is from 1956, and Constance is still loving Santa Barbara. I’m about to close it for the evening when I turn the page in the middle of the March entries and find a black-and-white photograph.
I gasp. Edie found the last picture, and I didn’t expect to come across another one. I’m even more surprised to see it’s a picture of a woman who’s not Constance. This one was taken from far away, and it’s of a tall, dark-skinned woman standing next to a pickup truck. I’ve only seen trucks like this in super-old pictures, just like this one. The woman is squinting into the sun, her hand resting on the side of the truck. Instead of a big smile, like Constance, her lips are pressed into a thin, straight line.
I wish I could see her face better, but it’s blurry, even when I hold it close to my eyes. I turn it over, where it says Juanita McCrimmons, Gumbottom, 1954. The same year as the photo of Constance. Hers seemed like a professional picture, but this one looks like a shot taken by someone the woman knows.
I grab my phone to text Edie, but before I can pull up her name, someone knocks on my door. I quickly slide the picture and journal under the pillow behind me. They’re not a secret, exactly, but it still feels like maybe Edie and I should have told someone we have these.
“Come in!”
Dad sticks his head in. “Almost time for lights out, sweetheart.”
“I know. I’m just texting Edie.”
He smiles. “You’ve become fast friends, huh?”
“Yeah.… Hey, Dad? Do you know anything about Edie’s father?”
He twists his mouth to the side, thinking. “Probably not much more than you do. He works in music, and Calliope said it keeps him busy. Why?”
“Edie thinks she’s never going to see him again.”
“What? Oh, Alberta, I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
I scoop my knees up to my chest. “He was supposed to come visit this weekend, and now he’s not.”
“Well, sometimes plans change.” Dad sighs. “We don’t know what he has going on.”
I want to say that’s not fair, especially when someone is counting on you. He didn’t see Edie when her mother told her. I don’t think anyone has ever looked so sad.
“But I’m sorry for Edie,” Dad says, making his way across the room to kiss the top of my head. “I know she’s had to deal with a lot of change lately.”
She’s not the only one. But I just nod at my dad, give him a hug, and say good night. I’m sorry for Edie, too. And I hope she’ll feel better in the morning, just like Dad and Elliott always say I will when I’m upset about something.
I slip the picture into my bag the next morning, making sure I tuck it between the pages of my notebook so it doesn’t get creased or torn. I decided not to text Edie about it after all. I figured she might cheer up a little when she sees it.
But when I go to the B&B after breakfast, Ms. Whitman opens the door with an apologetic smile. “Good morning, Alberta. I’m sorry, but Edie isn’t feeling well today, so she’s staying home.”
I don’t think Ms. Whitman is lying, but I’m pretty sure Edie not feeling well has everything to do with her dad and nothing to do with a cold or fever.
“Do you need a ride?” she asks, running a hand over her bandana. It’s pink today.
“No, thank you. I’ll ride my bike. Tell Edie I hope she feels better soon.”
“I will, honey. She’ll appreciate it. Have a good day, okay?”
I planned to wait for Edie before I looked up Juanita from the picture, but I have a feeling she doesn’t care much about Constance’s life right now. And maybe I can really cheer her up if I find out something about Juanita while she’s home sick today.
“Where are you going?” Oliver asks when he passes me in the hallway before lunch. I’m walking in the opposite direction of the cafeteria, toward the library.
“I have to do some work for a class,” I say, shifting impatiently.
He frowns. “During lunch?”
“I just… yeah. It’s kind of important.”
“All right, well, see you later,” he says, waving his lunch sack in the air.
I slide into a seat behind the computer farthest from the library entrance and pull the picture from my notebook. I stare at it again and make a silent wish that there’s something out there about Juanita McCrimmons. I have her first and last name. And what is Gumbottom? The name of a town?
I take a deep breath as I type in her name. A lot of hits come up in the search, but it’s mostly random entri
es with all the individual words I typed in. Like someone named Lorna McCrimmons on Gumbottom Road. I scroll through the first page until I get to the bottom and—
“Oh my god!” I say out loud. So loud that the librarian looks over. And she’s not as friendly as Mrs. Palmer. I shrink down in my seat as I click on the link. It’s an online directory, with a few Juanita McCrimmonses, listed by location.
One lives in Alaska, and another one is in Massachusetts. There’s a Juanita McCrimmons who’s in her fifties in Chicago, and another in her sixties who lives in Missouri. I do the math, and I’m pretty sure they’re all too young to be the woman in the picture. I sigh and keep scrolling until—
I clap my hand over my mouth this time. Because there, right in front of me, is exactly who I think I’m looking for. A woman named Juanita McCrimmons. In Gumbottom, Alabama. But I deflate almost immediately. She died over ten years ago. And when I open a new tab and search for an obituary, nothing comes up.
I quickly scan the names under hers for people who might be related. Not all the last names match, but maybe they’ll know something about this woman. Something about Constance. I scribble them down.
My stomach grumbles. I could take a break and still have time for lunch, but I want to finish what I started, so I begin looking up the new names. It’s a short list, and not much comes up. More of the same online directory entries, and a few family-tree sites that don’t lead to anything.
It seems like I’ve only been here a few minutes, but the next time I look at the clock, I have five minutes until lunch is over. Which is perfect timing, because I have one more name left. I type in Rosemary McCrimmons… and she has a website!
Okay, so it’s a link to a real estate agent’s website, but it’s still something. I click on it and press my palms against my knees as I wait for the page to load. A picture of a light-skinned black woman with short black hair pops up, followed by a bunch of boring stuff about houses.
But there’s an e-mail address. And a phone number. And she’s black, which means maybe she’s related to Constance, too. I send the link to my e-mail and copy down her name and information in my notebook. I log out and stand up from the computer just as the bell rings, hugging the notebook to my chest.
BLEACHERS
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, EDIE IS SULLEN.
I can’t think of any other word to describe her. We have an assembly during first period, and her boots clomp so loudly as we file into the gym the sound echoes off the walls like we’re in military boot camp.
Ever since yesterday, the news about the picture and Juanita and Rosemary has been sitting on the tip of my tongue. I thought about e-mailing or calling Rosemary myself, but every time I reached for my phone, my heart started beating so fast that I set it right down again. I bet Edie wouldn’t be nervous about calling her at all. I just can’t find a good time to tell her.
Once we find seats on the bleachers with the rest of our class, she crosses her arms and stares straight ahead. She barely grunted a response when I said hi to her this morning. Now she’s glaring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
I know she’s not mad at me, but I feel bad that she’s so upset. And I don’t know what to say to make her feel better.
Oliver slides onto the empty space next to me. “Is that Laramie over there?” He’s pointing to the wall of bleachers across the gym, where the eighth graders are gathered.
Everyone is supposed to be sitting with their grade, like we are, but Oliver is right. There’s Laramie, perched at the top of the bleachers. Gavin is on one side of her, and Nicolette is sitting next to him.
“Man, she’d probably ditch our table if we had lunch with them, too,” Fletcher says from the other side of Oliver. Of course he’s chewing on something, and for once, I can’t see what’s rolling around in his mouth.
Edie doesn’t even look over, but I channel her glare and turn it on the guys. Why are they paying attention to this stuff, anyway? They only started sitting with us this year.
I keep glancing at Laramie during the assembly, though. Even as Ms. Franklin stands at the front of the room in her seafoam-colored Crocs, recapping the first month of the school year and making announcements for October. I know every expression Laramie has ever made, and it’s not hard to see she doesn’t look happy… even though she’s inches away from her crush.
Nicolette isn’t talking to her at all. She just keeps flipping her hair back and forth, scanning the gym with a bored look on her face. Gavin leans over to Laramie every once in a while to say something in her ear. He always laughs and she smiles, but the smile fades as soon as he looks away. Every time he does this, Nicolette finds some reason to poke Gavin or nudge him with her shoulder, bringing his attention back to her.
After a while, I start trying to catch Laramie’s eye, thinking maybe she’ll crack a real smile if she sees me. Especially after she came over for dinner the other night, things seem almost back to normal with us. Almost. She never looks at me.
By the end of Ms. Franklin’s announcements, Laramie is staring at her feet, tucking her curls behind her ears and looking at no one.
“What up, Wednesday Addams?”
Does Fletcher have a death wish? He hasn’t called Edie that since the first day of school, and I don’t know why he chose today of all days to do it again. I haven’t seen her smile since we set foot in the building.
She doesn’t even look at him now as she listlessly swirls a spoon through her yogurt cup. So, dumbo Fletcher says it louder.
“Hey, Wednesday.”
“Quit it, Fletcher,” I say in the sternest tone I can muster.
When Edie still doesn’t say anything, he shrugs and looks at me. “What’s wrong with her?”
“None of your business,” I answer, because it sounds like something Edie would say, and she’s clearly not speaking today unless she absolutely has to.
Across the table, Laramie is quiet, too. I wonder if it has something to do with Nicolette not talking to her during the assembly. Or Gavin sitting between them.
When Laramie gets up to toss her trash, I follow her, even though I’m not done with my lunch.
“Hey,” I say, jogging to catch up to her with my tray in hand.
She looks over her shoulder. “Oh, hey.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You just seem… kind of quiet, I guess.”
“I’m fine,” she repeats in a firmer tone. A tone that means she wants me to drop it.
But I don’t think best friends are supposed to just drop it.
“Is everything okay with you and Nicolette?”
She stops outside the doors to the cafeteria. “Um, yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I saw you… sitting with her at the assembly.”
“So?” Laramie is frowning now, but I keep talking.
“So, you looked really unhappy.” I take a deep breath. “And it looked like Nicolette kept trying to get Gavin to talk to her every time he said something to you.”
Something flashes across Laramie’s face. Sadness? Relief that I noticed? Especially since I’m the only person she’s told about her crush?
But then, a second later, the expression is replaced by a dark look. “Seriously, Alberta?”
I wince. Laramie has never looked at me like that. “What?”
“Are you seriously so jealous that I’m friends with Nicolette? You don’t have to make things up, you know. Everything with Nicolette is fine. Everything is fine, okay?”
“I just…” What happened? It’s like we never went on that walk at all. This definitely isn’t the Laramie who confessed her crush to me and thanked me for being her best friend.
She whips around and stalks into the cafeteria, not even giving me time to finish my sentence.
“Have you had a chance to read any of the other journals?” I ask Edie on the walk home from school.
Maybe now is a good time to bring up Juanita.
“No of
fense, but I wasn’t really in the mood to catch up on Constance’s life when I’m never going to see my dad again.”
“Oh.” I pause. Maybe there’ll never be a good time with the mood Edie has been in, so I forge ahead. “Well, I found something. Someone who might be able to tell us something about Constance.”
She doesn’t look as excited as I hoped she would, but she doesn’t look uninterested. I quickly tell her about all the things I found and stop to pull out my notebook. I show her the picture.
“Do you think this is her mom?” she asks, staring at the woman by the truck.
I shrug. “I don’t know. But I think we should call this Rosemary woman. She might know something.”
“Where does she live?”
“Atlanta,” I say. “But she has the same last name. And she’s black, too.”
I hope she’ll say we should go call her right now. And that she should be the one to call… because I think I might be too nervous to do it.
But Edie only nods, so I don’t say anything else. I just match my steps to the beat of her boots thumping on the pavement.
I go inside the B&B with her so we can split up the rest of the later journals from the box. She may not be in the mood to read them, but I’m ready to get started on the rest of our research.
Ms. Whitman looks at us cautiously when she asks how school was, and I answer quickly so we don’t have to deal with an awkward silence or grumble from Edie.
“Well,” says Edie’s mother, “I have some good news.” Edie’s eyebrows lift, but before she can say anything, Ms. Whitman holds up her hand. “No, I’m sorry, but your father still isn’t coming this weekend.”
Edie folds her arms across her chest.
“But. If it’s all right with you, I was thinking we could have a little Halloween party here at the B&B.”
For the first time today, I see Edie smile. And when we’re on the stairs up to her bedroom, she says, “Should we call that woman in Atlanta?”
Edie doesn’t look nearly as nervous as I was when I even thought about calling Rosemary McCrimmons, and she’s actually putting her number into her phone.
The Only Black Girls in Town Page 14
