“This is school,” Miss Hill replied curtly. “You came here to learn, not to debate trials. Or to talk about that foolishness going on up north.”
With a swift wave of his right hand, Shorty swept the history text off his desk. “I ain’t stud’n no mo’ lies from white folks. Ain’t nothin’ in that book ’bout me. One page, talkin’ ’bout Abraham Lincoln freein’ slaves. And even that been ripped out.”
Without a word, Miss Hill marched over and retrieved the book from the floor. She glared at Shorty and said, “Leave.” She flared her nostrils and said, “Go on back to the cotton field and be ignorant.”
“Ign’ant?” Shorty said with a snort. “You thank ’cause you know the stuff in that book, that make you smart?”
Miss Hill held his stare but said nothing.
Shorty chuckled. The rest of us squirmed. The air in the room had quickly grown stiff with the window closed. But it wasn’t nearly as stiff as Miss Hill stood as Shorty spoke his next words.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a Jim Crow nigga,” he said. “You got that college education, but what good it do you? You thank we don’t know you work them fields in summertime jest like the rest o’ us do?”
He stood. And although Miss Hill was tall, his six-foot frame towered over her. Shorty bent forward. “Chop, chop, chop,” he said, as he pretended to hoe a field. “Got my college education, but the white man don’t pay me ’nuff to make a livin’. Got to chop his cotton jest like the rest o’ dese dumb niggas if I wants to eat.”
“Get out,” Miss Hill said.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Shorty said, his face hard. “All mens is not created equal. The Negro ain’t endowed by his Creator with them in-ale-li-en-able rights that book talk about. That ain’t my history,” he said, nodding toward the book in Miss Hill’s hand. “That story belong to the white man.”
Chapter Six
Friday, November 11
“ITS TIME FOR SOMTHNG NEW,” SHORTY’S NOTE READ. “I need yor help. Meat me afta scool.”
Without a word, Shorty had pressed the note into my hand during lunchtime and quickly walked away. What made him think I could stay after school? For one, Ma Pearl never allowed me to stay in town after school for any reason. And two, we lived eight miles out. I would have to walk home if I missed my ride with Uncle Ollie.
Yet as I sat through science, the last class of the day, totally uninterested in the life cycle of a frog, I couldn’t help but consider Shorty’s note. It’s time for something new. What did that mean? And why did he think I could help?
Not only was I curious about his plan, I also wanted desperately to ask him about something else—whether we were truly related, and if so, whether he knew anything about my daddy, Johnny Lee Banks. Through school, I had known Shorty for years. But except for a nod or two of acknowledgment, we had never really spoken. Perhaps it was time we did.
By the time class was dismissed, I had come up with a plan to stay after school. I knew Ma Pearl would never believe I needed help with my schoolwork, nor would she go for me staying late to help one of my teachers. So I volunteered my brother, Fred Lee. My plan was risky, but I was willing to take a chance if it meant I might get to know more about my daddy.
“Don’t worry about cleaning the blackboards or sweeping and mopping, Mrs. Washington,” I said while the rest of the class filed out of the room. “Me and my brother Fred Lee can do that.”
Mrs. Washington, one of the most refined Negroes I had ever met, frowned and peered at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. “My brother Fred Lee and I,” she corrected me.
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. My brother Fred Lee and I is what I meant.” I knew that, and I don’t know why I allowed my grammar to slip around Mrs. Washington. She could embarrass a soul worse than Ma Pearl could.
Mrs. Washington smiled slightly, which was rare—the smile, that is, not the slightness of it. She was dressed in a navy blue skirt paired with a silky beige blouse. Her feet sported blue high heels that matched her skirt. She was definitely not dressed to perform her janitorial services, which the school board did not provide but required of the individual teachers.
“What makes you think I clean this room at the end of the day?” she asked.
I glanced around the room. “Somebody does. It’s always clean.”
“I have some girls who come in after school and take care of my room for me.”
I felt like a plum fool. I hadn’t noticed that Mrs. Washington’s hands were just as nice as Mrs. Robinson’s. A bright red polish even coated her nails.
“If you’re interested in helping them,” she continued, “feel free. But I can’t pay you.”
“Pay?” I asked, my brows raised. “I wasn’t expecting to be paid, ma’am. I was volunteering.”
This time it was Mrs. Washington who raised her brows. “Oh,” she said. Then, “Hmmm. Volunteering?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I realized the time was running out as we stood there debating paid work against volunteer work. Fred Lee would be waiting for me near the front door of the school, and Shorty would be waiting for me at the side exit. I needed to get to Fred Lee and convince him to come clean Mrs. Washington’s room while I met up with Shorty.
Two girls entered the classroom. I recognized them—one from the eighth grade class, the other from the ninth. They were sisters who lived in town with their mama and their elderly grandparents. From what I was told, their mama did washing and ironing for various white women in Stillwater.
“Althea. Aretha,” Mrs. Washington called out to the girls. “I won’t need you to clean the classroom today.” She glanced at me, sized me up, and said to Althea and Aretha, “Come back on Monday. I’ll let you know whether I still need you then.”
Both girls looked a bit shocked, but neither said a word as they backed out of the door.
Mrs. Washington stuffed papers into a black satchel. “I’ll determine whether I want to use you and your brother after I see whether you can do a better job than those two,” she said, nodding toward the door. “You did say volunteer, right?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I had no plans to clean Mrs. Washington’s classroom every evening. I had enough chores waiting for me at home. “With all due respect, Mrs. Washington, my brother and I can only clean your room today.”
Mrs. Washington paused her paper stuffing and pursed her lips.
I hated that look.
She removed her glasses and peered steely-eyed at me. “I just sent those girls on their way because you offered to clean my room at no cost to me.”
I stammered. “I—I meant today only.”
“Why today?” she asked.
I was already about to go home and lie to Ma Pearl. Now I was being forced to lie to Mrs. Washington as well. Because I certainly couldn’t tell her the truth. She, like Ma Pearl, would only think the worst if I told her I needed to meet Shorty Cooper after school.
I sighed and said, “It’s not for me. It’s for my brother Fred Lee.”
As if she already doubted me, Mrs. Washington raised an eyebrow.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. How many times had I heard Reverend Jenkins say that during a sermon? More than I cared to count.
“Well,” I said, still fumbling for words. “He doesn’t want to go straight home. He—he got in trouble this morning,” I blurted when the lie began forming in my head. “He figures the longer he’s gone, the better chance our grandma will forget about the whupping she promised he’d get as soon as we got back.”
Mrs. Washington began shoving more papers into her satchel. The only word she had for me was “Umm-hmmm.” And I could tell from the way she said it that she neither believed me nor cared. She only wanted the free cleaning for the afternoon.
“So Monday I’m back to paying Aretha and Althea,” she said after her satchel was sufficiently stuffed.
I swallowed all my lies with one gulp and nodded.
Mrs.
Washington snatched up the satchel and glared at me. “You and your brother clean the room today,” she said. “But don’t ever waste my time and resources like this again. Understand?”
With shame rising in my face, I stared at the floor and uttered, “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Seven
Friday, November 11
BY THE TIME I CONVINCED FRED LEE TO CLEAN Mrs. Washington’s classroom, and by the time Mrs. Washington trusted us enough to leave her room so I could escape as well, Shorty, with the toe of his worn brown shoe, was snuffing out what looked to be his fourth cigarette, based on the butts already scattered on the ground.
And the look on his face said he was just about ready to head home. He squinted one-eyed at me and asked, “What took you so long, girl?”
The air was chilly, but sweat rolled down my back just the same. And it was not just the fact that I had spun a web of lies that made me nervous. It was the fact that I was only thirteen and was standing under a sugar gum tree in the schoolyard with a boy who was sixteen. A boy who was smoking cigarettes, or doing the devil’s business as Ma Pearl would say. Of course, it didn’t seem to bother her that Papa pretended to smoke a pipe. Nor did it bother her that his mama, Grandma Mandy actually did smoke one. I was no more than about five or six years old, but I could still remember the sweet scent of the smoke from the Prince Albert tobacco floating from the front porch where Grandma Mandy smoked every evening.
But the cigarettes that Shorty smoked smelled nothing like the Prince Albert tobacco. A thick fog lingered in the air, and I had to only half breathe in order to keep from choking. My stomach churned when he pulled a pack of Kools from his shirt pocket and shook one out.
Using the bark on the tree, he struck a match and lit his cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, the cigarette dangling from his mouth.
I shook my head. But I did mind. The scent was sickening. The man on the radio claimed cigarettes could freshen your breath. “As cool and as clean as a breath of fresh air,” he said. “Your mouth feels clean, your throat refreshed.” But I don’t know how that was possible seeing how horrible that smoke smelled when Shorty blew it from his mouth.
Shorty inhaled deeply, his cheeks going in so far, it’s a wonder he didn’t pass out. After a moment of sucking in whatever there was to suck in from the cigarette, he exhaled, releasing a stream of gray into the cool November air.
“What did you need to talk to me about?” I asked. “I can’t stay long. My brother’s cleaning Mrs. Washington’s classroom, then we have to head home. It’s a long walk. We need to get there before dark.”
Shorty nodded toward a beat-up black pickup, its color more rust than black. “I’ll give you a ride.”
I nodded, and Shorty continued. “You good friends with Preacha’ Boy, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. Hallelujah and I are friends.”
Shorty flicked ashes from the cigarette and chuckled. “That boy stupid as the day long.”
My forehead creased. “Hallelujah is the smartest boy I know,” I said in his defense.
“Book smart,” Shorty replied. “He know them books a’right. But he don’t know nothin’ ’bout real life.”
I hadn’t risked getting a beating by Ma Pearl just to stand there and listen to Shorty put down Hallelujah. “I’m going back inside to help my brother so we can get on home,” I said.
When I turned to leave, Shorty grabbed my arm. His hand was rough and callused, probably from gripping a hoe since he was a child—like me.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding like he really meant it. “I shouldn’a said that.”
I grimaced and stared at his grimy fingers gripping my arm.
He let go.
He kicked at a bed of brown and yellow leaves piled at the base of the tree, then sat on the ground. With his cigarette-free hand, he motioned me to join him.
“I’ll stand,” I said. It was bad enough I was out there with him in the first place, so I certainly didn’t want to risk someone seeing us sitting under a tree together. Especially if that someone happened to be Reverend Jenkins. Or Miss Johnson, my teacher from seventh grade. She always warned us girls to stay away from certain types of boys. I didn’t really know what kind of boy Shorty was, but puffing away on that cigarette right outside the school didn’t give him the image of a good boy.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked. “Your note said it was time for something new, and you need my help. It didn’t say anything about putting down my best friend.”
Shorty raised his eyebrows. “Best friend, huh?”
“Since we were little.”
Shorty smirked. “Don’t know what to think of a fella whose best friend is a girl.”
Again I turned to leave.
Shorty quickly apologized. “Look, I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Things jest seem so easy for him. Got his daddy here teachin’. Got that fancy Buick to ride in. Them fancy clothes like some city boy from up nawth. Fancy way o’ talkin’,” he said, frowning.
“You’re jealous of Hallelujah?”
Shorty scoffed. “I ain’t jealous o’ that joker.”
“Well, maybe you ought to get to know folks before you judge them,” I said. “Hallelujah’s had a hard life too.”
“Hard life? What that clown know ’bout a hard life?”
“For one, he doesn’t have a mama.”
“I ain’t got one neither.”
“His is dead.”
“Mine’s too,” said Shorty. “Far as I’m concerned.”
“Your mama’s in California. Just like mine is in Chicago. They ain’t dead in the grave. We can still see them.”
“When the last time you see’d yo’ mama?”
“July,” I answered curtly.
“And that ’bout go’n be yo’ last time. I ain’t see’d my mama since I was two. Since the day she hopped in my uncle’s car and caught a ride to California.”
“You haven’t seen your mama in fourteen years?”
Shorty placed his cigarette between his lips and sucked in his cheeks for a real long time. When he finally blew out a stream of smoke, he said, “Like I said, she dead to me.”
Shorty cleared a spot of leaves, then ground the cigarette into the dirt until the tip stopped burning. “What you know ’bout that marchin’ they doin’ up nawth?”
“Only what Hallelujah told me, and what I read in Jet magazine.”
Shorty’s face lit up. “You see’d one o’ them?”
“A few,” I answered. “Reverend Jenkins gets a copy every week. Hallelujah sometimes brings them by the house so I can keep up with what’s going on with colored folks outside of Leflore County, Mississippi.”
“You thank I could git holt to one?”
“I’m sure Hallelujah would bring you a copy if you asked.”
Shorty shook his head. “Fellas like him don’t ’sociate with fellas like me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“High-class Negroes don’t talk to low-class Negroes.”
I threw up my hands. “There you go again, judging folks. I’m leaving.”
Shorty leaped up. “Wait.”
I flinched before he could grab my arm.
“So this marchin’ that’s goin’ on,” he said, “Preacha’ Boy thank we should do it too, huh?”
“Stop calling him Preacha’ Boy.”
Shorty sat back down, cross-legged, on the ground. He huffed out a puff of air. “What good it doin’ the Negro in the South to have a bunch a peoples in the Nawth walkin’ ’round shoutin’ words with no meaning? How that go’n change somethin’ in Miss’sippi?”
I didn’t have an answer, so I asked him a question. “What do you want me to do? Why did you ask me to meet you?”
“Talk to Preacha’—I mean yo’ friend.”
“And tell him what?”
Shorty shook his head. “I don’ need you to tell him nothin’. I need you to tell me what he sayin’.”
Shorty frowned. “I told you. He ain’t go’n talk to me.”
“Have you tried?”
“Don’t hafta. I already know he won’t have nothin’ to do with somebody like me. Folks like him don’ view folks like me no higher than a slave, takin’ care o’ the white man’s cotton.”
“I live on a white man’s cotton plantation, and Hallelujah’s friends with me.”
“You different. You smart.”
“So?”
Shorty scowled. “He know you ain’t go’n always be out there on Robinson’s place. Him and his daddy both know you go’n move on one day.”
“The Jenkinses don’t class themselves like that.”
Shorty snorted. “You got some learnin’ to do, girl.”
“So what’s your plan, Shorty Cooper? How you gonna change things? How you gonna keep Negroes in Mississippi from getting killed?”
Shorty stood again and leaned against the tree. “Fight back. That’s what we need to do.”
“When you say fight, you don’t actually mean like with fists, do you?”
“Fists, feets, even guns if that what it take to git these peckerwoods to leave us alone.”
My heart raced. Fists. Feet. Guns. “You really talking about shooting someone?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Shorty said. He clenched his hands into fists. “Kill one o’ them. Show ’em what it feel like to be scared all the time.”
Now my heart threatened to beat right out of my chest. “I don’t think Hallelujah would go along with any plan that involved killing people.” I said. “And neither would I.”
Shorty squinted at me. “You say you reads them Jet magazines, don’t ya?”
I nodded.
“Then you know ’bout that Negro doctor in Mound Bayou.”
“Dr. T. R. M. Howard,” I said.
“That’s him,” Shorty said, nodding. “I heard he said somethin’ ’bout Negroes go’n start fightin’ back if white folks don’t stop slaughterin’ us like hogs.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
A Sky Full of Stars Page 4
