by Z. Z. Packer
“I love me some Michael Jackson,” Janice said when she’d finished humming, smacking her lips as though Michael Jackson were a favorite meal. “I will marry Michael Jackson.”
Before anyone had a chance to impress upon Janice the impossibility of this, Arnetta suddenly rose, made a sun visor of her hand, and watched Troop 909 leave the field hockey lawn.
“Dammit!” she said. “We’ve got to get them alone.”
“They won’t ever be alone,” I said. All the rest of the girls looked at me, for I usually kept quiet. If I spoke even a word, I could count on someone calling me Snot. Everyone seemed to think that we could beat up these girls; no one entertained the thought that they might fight back. “The only time they’ll be unsupervised is in the bathroom.”
“Oh shut up, Snot,” Octavia said.
But Arnetta slowly nodded her head. “The bathroom,” she said. “The bathroom,” she said, again and again. “The bathroom! The bathroom!”
ACCORDING TO Octavia’s watch, it took us five minutes to hike to the restrooms, which were midway between our cabin and Troop 909’s. Inside, the mirrors above the sinks returned only the vaguest of reflections, as though someone had taken a scouring pad to their surfaces to obscure the shine. Pine needles, leaves, and dirty, flattened wads of chewing gum covered the floor like a mosaic. Webs of hair matted the drain in the middle of the floor. Above the sinks and below the mirrors, stacks of folded white paper towels lay on a long metal counter. Shaggy white balls of paper towels sat on the sinktops in a line like corsages on display. A thread of floss snaked from a wad of tissues dotted with the faint red-pink of blood. One of those white girls, I thought, had just lost a tooth.
Though the restroom looked almost the same as it had the night before, it somehow seemed stranger now. We hadn’t noticed the wooden rafters coming together in great V’s. We were, it seemed, inside a whale, viewing the ribs of the roof of its mouth.
“Wow. It’s a mess,” Elise said.
“You can say that again.”
Arnetta leaned against the doorjamb of a restroom stall. “This is where they’ll be again,” she said. Just seeing the place, just having a plan seemed to satisfy her. “We’ll go in and talk to them. You know, ‘How you doing? How long’ll you be here?’ That sort of thing. Then Octavia and I are gonna tell them what happens when they call any one of us a nigger.”
“I’m going to say something, too,” Janice said.
Arnetta considered this. “Sure,” she said. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
Janice pointed her finger like a gun at Octavia and rehearsed the line she’d thought up, “‘We’re gonna teach you a lesson!’ That’s what I’m going to say.” She narrowed her eyes like a TV mobster. “‘We’re gonna teach you little girls a lesson!’”
With the back of her hand, Octavia brushed Janice’s finger away. “You couldn’t teach me to shit in a toilet.”
“But,” I said, “what if they say, ‘We didn’t say that? We didn’t call anyone an N-I-G-G-E-R.’”
“Snot,” Arnetta said, and then sighed. “Don’t think. Just fight. If you even know how.”
Everyone laughed except Daphne. Arnetta gently laid her hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “Daphne. You don’t have to fight. We’re doing this for you.”
Daphne walked to the counter, took a clean paper towel, and carefully unfolded it like a map. With it, she began to pick up the trash all around. Everyone watched.
“C’mon,” Arnetta said to everyone. “Let’s beat it.” We all ambled toward the doorway, where the sunshine made one large white rectangle of light. We were immediately blinded, and we shielded our eyes with our hands and our forearms.
“Daphne?” Arnetta asked. “Are you coming?”
We all looked back at the bending girl, the thin of her back hunched like the back of a custodian sweeping a stage, caught in limelight. Stray strands of her hair were lit near-transparent, thin fiber-optic threads. She did not nod yes to the question, nor did she shake her head no. She abided, bent. Then she began again, picking up leaves, wads of paper, the cotton fluff innards from a torn stuffed toy. She did it so methodically, so exquisitely, so humbly, she must have been trained. I thought of those dresses she wore, faded and old, yet so pressed and clean. I then saw the poverty in them; I then could imagine her mother, cleaning the houses of others, returning home, weary.
“I guess she’s not coming.”
We left her and headed back to our cabin, over pine needles and leaves, taking the path full of shade.
“What about our secret meeting?” Elise asked.
Arnetta enunciated her words in a way that defied contradiction: “We just had it.”
IT WAS nearing our bedtime, but the sun had not yet set.
“Hey, your mama’s coming,” Arnetta said to Octavia when she saw Mrs. Hedy walk toward the cabin, sniffling. When Octavia’s mother wasn’t giving bored, parochial orders, she sniffled continuously, mourning an imminent divorce from her husband. She might begin a sentence, “I don’t know what Robert will do when Octavia and I are gone. Who’ll buy him cigarettes?” and Octavia would hotly whisper, “Mama,” in a way that meant: Please don’t talk about our problems in front of everyone. Please shut up.
But when Mrs. Hedy began talking about her husband, thinking about her husband, seeing clouds shaped like the head of her husband, she couldn’t be quiet, and no one could dislodge her from the comfort of her own woe. Only one thing could perk her up—Brownie songs. If the girls were quiet, and Mrs. Hedy was in her dopey, sorrowful mood, she would say, “Y’all know I like those songs, girls. Why don’t you sing one?” Everyone would groan, except me and Daphne. I, for one, liked some of the songs.
“C’mon, everybody,” Octavia said drearily. “She likes the Brownie song best.”
We sang, loud enough to reach Mrs. Hedy:
“I’ve got something in my pocket;
It belongs across my face.
And I keep it very close at hand
in a most convenient place.
I’m sure you couldn’t guess it
If you guessed a long, long while.
So I’ll take it out and put it on—
It’s a great big Brownie smile!”
The Brownie song was supposed to be sung cheerfully, as though we were elves in a workshop, singing as we merrily cobbled shoes, but everyone except me hated the song so much that they sang it like a maudlin record, played on the most sluggish of rpms.
“That was good,” Mrs. Hedy said, closing the cabin door behind her. “Wasn’t that nice, Linda?”
“Praise God,” Mrs. Margolin answered without raising her head from the chore of counting out Popsicle sticks for the next day’s craft session.
“Sing another one,” Mrs. Hedy said. She said it with a sort of joyful aggression, like a drunk I’d once seen who’d refused to leave a Korean grocery.
“God, Mama, get over it,” Octavia whispered in a voice meant only for Arnetta, but Mrs. Hedy heard it and started to leave the cabin.
“Don’t go,” Arnetta said. She ran after Mrs. Hedy and held her by the arm. “We haven’t finished singing.” She nudged us with a single look. “Let’s sing the ‘Friends Song.’ For Mrs. Hedy.”
Although I liked some of the songs, I hated this one:
Make new friends
But keep the o-old,
One is silver
And the other gold.
If most of the girls in the troop could be any type of metal, they’d be bunched-up wads of tinfoil, maybe, or rusty iron nails you had to get tetanus shots for.
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Margolin said before anyone could start in on the “Friends Song.” “An uplifting song. Something to lift her up and take her mind off all these earthly burdens.”
Arnetta and Octavia rolled their eyes. Everyone knew what song Mrs. Margolin was talking about, and no one, no one, wanted to sing it.
“Please, no,” a voice called out. “Not ‘The Doughnut Song.’”
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br /> “Please not ‘The Doughnut Song,’” Octavia pleaded.
“I’ll brush my teeth two times if I don’t have to sing ‘The Doughnut—’”
“Sing!” Mrs. Margolin demanded.
We sang:
“Life without Jesus is like a do-ough-nut!
Like a do-ooough-nut!
Like a do-ooough-nut!
Life without Jesus is like a do-ough-nut!
There’s a hole in the middle of my soul!”
There were other verses, involving other pastries, but we stopped after the first one and cast glances toward Mrs. Margolin to see if we could gain a reprieve. Mrs. Margolin’s eyes fluttered blissfully. She was half asleep.
“Awww,” Mrs. Hedy said, as though giant Mrs. Margolin were a cute baby, “Mrs. Margolin’s had a long day.”
“Yes indeed,” Mrs. Margolin answered. “If you don’t mind, I might just go to the lodge where the beds are. I haven’t been the same since the operation.”
I had not heard of this operation, or when it had occurred, since Mrs. Margolin had never missed the once-a-week Brownie meetings, but I could see from Daphne’s face that she was concerned, and I could see that the other girls had decided that Mrs. Margolin’s operation must have happened long ago in some remote time unconnected to our own. Nevertheless, they put on sad faces. We had all been taught that adulthood was full of sorrow and pain, taxes and bills, dreaded work and dealings with whites, sickness and death. I tried to do what the others did. I tried to look silent.
“Go right ahead, Linda,” Mrs. Hedy said. “I’ll watch the girls.” Mrs. Hedy seemed to forget about divorce for a moment; she looked at us with dewy eyes, as if we were mysterious, furry creatures. Meanwhile, Mrs. Margolin walked through the maze of sleeping bags until she found her own. She gathered a neat stack of clothes and pajamas slowly, as though doing so was almost painful. She took her toothbrush, her toothpaste, her pillow. “All right!” Mrs. Margolin said, addressing us all from the threshold of the cabin. “Be in bed by nine.” She said it with a twinkle in her voice, letting us know she was allowing us to be naughty and stay up till nine-fifteen.
“C’mon everybody,” Arnetta said after Mrs. Margolin left. “Time for us to wash up.”
Everyone watched Mrs. Hedy closely, wondering whether she would insist on coming with us since it was night, making a fight with Troop 909 nearly impossible. Troop 909 would soon be in the bathroom, washing their faces, brushing their teeth—completely unsuspecting of our ambush.
“We won’t be long,” Arnetta said. “We’re old enough to go to the restrooms by ourselves.”
Ms. Hedy pursed her lips at this dilemma. “Well, I guess you Brownies are almost Girl Scouts, right?”
“Right!”
“Just one more badge,” Drema said.
“And about,” Octavia droned, “a million more cookies to sell.” Octavia looked at all of us, Now’s our chance, her face seemed to say, but our chance to do what, I didn’t exactly know.
Finally, Mrs. Hedy walked to the doorway where Octavia stood dutifully waiting to say goodbye but looking bored doing it. Mrs. Hedy held Octavia’s chin. “You’ll be good?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And remember to pray for me and your father? If I’m asleep when you get back?”
“Yes, Mama.”
WHEN THE other girls had finished getting their toothbrushes and washcloths and flashlights for the group restroom trip, I was drawing pictures of tiny birds with too many feathers. Daphne was sitting on her sleeping bag, reading.
“You’re not going to come?” Octavia asked.
Daphne shook her head.
“I’m gonna stay, too,” I said. “I’ll go to the restroom when Daphne and Mrs. Hedy go.”
Arnetta leaned down toward me and whispered so that Mrs. Hedy, who’d taken over Mrs. Margolin’s task of counting Popsicle sticks, couldn’t hear. “No, Snot. If we get in trouble, you’re going to get in trouble with the rest of us.”
WE MADE our way through the darkness by flashlight. The tree branches that had shaded us just hours earlier, along the same path, now looked like arms sprouting menacing hands. The stars sprinkled the sky like spilled salt. They seemed fastened to the darkness, high up and holy, their places fixed and definite as we stirred beneath them.
Some, like me, were quiet because we were afraid of the dark; others were talking like crazy for the same reason.
“Wow!” Drema said, looking up. “Why are all the stars out here? I never see stars back on Oneida Street.”
“It’s a camping trip, that’s why,” Octavia said. “You’re supposed to see stars on camping trips.”
Janice said, “This place smells like my mother’s air freshener.”
“These woods are pine,” Elise said. “Your mother probably uses pine air freshener.”
Janice mouthed an exaggerated “Oh,” nodding her head as though she just then understood one of the world’s great secrets.
No one talked about fighting. Everyone was afraid enough just walking through the infinite deep of the woods. Even though I didn’t fight to fight, was afraid of fighting, I felt I was part of the rest of the troop; like I was defending something. We trudged against the slight incline of the path, Arnetta leading the way.
“You know,” I said, “their leader will be there. Or they won’t even be there. It’s dark already. Last night the sun was still in the sky. I’m sure they’re already finished.”
Arnetta acted as if she hadn’t heard me. I followed her gaze with my flashlight, and that’s when I saw the squares of light in the darkness. The bathroom was just ahead.
BUT THE girls were there. We could hear them before we could see them.
“Octavia and I will go in first so they’ll think there’s just two of us, then wait till I say, ‘We’re gonna teach you a lesson,’” Arnetta said. “Then, bust in. That’ll surprise them.”
“That’s what I was supposed to say,” Janice said.
Arnetta went inside, Octavia next to her. Janice followed, and the rest of us waited outside.
They were in there for what seemed like whole minutes, but something was wrong. Arnetta hadn’t given the signal yet. I was with the girls outside when I heard one of the Troop 909 girls say, “NO. That did NOT happen!”
That was to be expected, that they’d deny the whole thing. What I hadn’t expected was the voice in which the denial was said. The girl sounded as though her tongue were caught in her mouth. “That’s a BAD word!” the girl continued. “We don’t say BAD words!”
“Let’s go in,” Elise said.
“No,” Drema said, “I don’t want to. What if we get beat up?”
“Snot?” Elise turned to me, her flashlight blinding. It was the first time anyone had asked my opinion, though I knew they were just asking because they were afraid.
“I say we go inside, just to see what’s going on.”
“But Arnetta didn’t give us the signal,” Drema said. “She’s supposed to say, ‘We’re gonna teach you a lesson,’ and I didn’t hear her say it.”
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s just go in.”
We went inside. There we found the white girls—about five girls huddled up next to one big girl. I instantly knew she was the owner of the voice we’d heard. Arnetta and Octavia inched toward us as soon as we entered.
“Where’s Janice?” Elise asked, then we heard a flush. “Oh.”
“I think,” Octavia said, whispering to Elise, “they’re retarded.”
“We ARE NOT retarded!” the big girl said, though it was obvious that she was. That they all were. The girls around her began to whimper.
“They’re just pretending,” Arnetta said, trying to convince herself. “I know they are.”
Octavia turned to Arnetta. “Arnetta. Let’s just leave.”
Janice came out of a stall, happy and relieved, then she suddenly remembered her line, pointed to the big girl, and said, “We’re gonna teach you a lesson.”
&nb
sp; “Shut up, Janice,” Octavia said, but her heart was not in it. Arnetta’s face was set in a lost, deep scowl. Octavia turned to the big girl and said loudly, slowly, as if they were all deaf, “We’re going to leave. It was nice meeting you, O.K.? You don’t have to tell anyone that we were here. O.K.?”
“Why not?” said the big girl, like a taunt. When she spoke, her lips did not meet, her mouth did not close. Her tongue grazed the roof of her mouth, like a little pink fish. “You’ll get in trouble. I know. I know.”
Arnetta got back her old cunning. “If you said anything, then you’d be a tattletale.”
The girl looked sad for a moment, then perked up quickly. A flash of genius crossed her face. “I like tattletale.”
“IT’S ALL right, girls. It’s gonna be all right!” the 909 troop leader said. All of Troop 909 burst into tears. It was as though some one had instructed them all to cry at once. The troop leader had girls under her arm, and all the rest of the girls crowded about her. It reminded me of a hog I’d seen on a field trip, where all the little hogs gathered about the mother at feeding time, latching onto her teats. The 909 troop leader had come into the bathroom, shortly after the big girl had threatened to tell. Then the ranger came, then, once the ranger had radioed the station, Mrs. Margolin arrived with Daphne in tow.
The ranger had left the restroom area, but everyone else was huddled just outside, swatting mosquitoes.
“Oh. They will apologize,” Mrs. Margolin said to the 909 troop leader, but she said this so angrily, I knew she was speaking more to us than to the other troop leader. “When their parents find out, every one a them will be on punishment.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” the 909 troop leader reassured Mrs. Margolin. Her voice lilted in the same way it had when addressing the girls. She smiled the whole time she talked. She was like one of those TV-cooking-show women who talk and dice onions and smile all at the same time.
“See. It could have happened. I’m not calling your girls fibbers or anything.” She shook her head ferociously from side to side, her Egyptian-style pageboy flapping against her cheeks like heavy drapes. “It could have happened. See. Our girls are not retarded. They are delayed learners.” She said this in a syrupy instructional voice, as though our troop might be delayed learners as well. “We’re from the Decatur Children’s Academy. Many of them just have special needs.”
