Our house could feel lonely because my mother was busy with her life and my father was busy with his. And then there was me. Lily promised to write, and to call once a month when she got to Georgia, but I knew she’d forget. That she’d get too busy to remember me. And when fall came I’d be off to ninth grade at a new school by myself—because Jennifer went to Marlborough in Hancock Park.
I had no idea what to expect from my new school. Lily had heard from someone that there were only a few colored kids there and nobody talked to them and they had to huddle together at lunchtime while people ignored them. That was good to know.
Lily was letting the water run and run and it had already been twenty minutes. Earlier, at the breakfast table, our mother had mentioned the business with the long showers. She said, “Lily, you’re not the only one who lives in this house. There are other people who’d like a hot shower besides you, and—” My mother stopped midlecture because just then Lily pushed back her chair, stood up, and quietly walked out of the room—not even clearing her bowl from the table. My mother went on eating her half grapefruit with her special serrated spoon, and I looked back at Mrs. Baylor and caught her with her head bowed and smiling to herself.
My mother was on a diet. That’s why she was eating half a grapefruit and drinking a can of Metrecal for breakfast. She was always on a diet. But it never lasted. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be sneaking a box of See’s Candies into the house and slipping it under the stack of sweaters in her closet—to pick at later while she waited for my father to come home from the Flying Fox. He stopped by there most nights after work to unwind.
While I waited for the shower to shut off, I thought about writing a new novel. I was only in the thinking stage for this one, but it was going to be about my daddy’s secret sister. Minerva. She was an outside child. He hadn’t even known about her until he was in high school. What a great subject. I came across her picture tucked under the blotter on my father’s desk in his home office. Lily knew all about her and explained to me who she was. That’s what gave me my great idea.
I listened to the shower going full blast as if Lily had a point to prove. I sank down into the bedcovers, thinking and thinking and occasionally reading a couple of pages of Anne of Green Gables, to help put me in a writing mood.
The shower cut off and there was a period of silence. I waited, breathing softly and listening, debating if I should tell Lily what had happened a few days ago—down at the Bakers’. I risked annoying her, but I wanted her opinion. I’d have to see what her mood was first.
She could be moody. I could usually judge her frame of mind by the way she searched for what she wanted to wear. If her mood was bad, then there’d be a lot of jerking drawers open, rummaging around, and slamming them shut in a violent way. Or there’d be stomping over to the closet we shared and sliding clothes back and forth on the closet rod. If she didn’t find something quickly, there’d be accusations about people messing with her stuff. People—meaning me.
So I braced myself when the door opened and a cloud of apple-scented steam followed her into the room. She had on her white terry-cloth robe and her hair was making a wet splotch on the back of it. In her hand, her transistor radio was belting out Martha and the Vandellas’ “Heat Wave.”
She stopped, held the radio like a microphone, and began to sing the words at the top of her lungs, moving around as if she was on a stage. When the song ended she fell back on her bed and yelled, “I love that song!” Then she got up, walked over to me, and said, “You know what I think? I think I’m going to remember this song forever.”
Apparently, her friend Lydia had played it over and over at her pool party the week before and Lily had felt pure happiness when everyone began to sing the song at the top of their lungs.
“You know you only feel pure happiness like ten times in your whole life.”
“Only ten times?” I asked.
“Okay—maybe twenty times.”
As she and her friends sang, Lily said, it was as if the music drifted up into the sky and hovered over all of LA. As though everyone she knew was dancing to Martha and the Vandellas. And they were all in this heat wave together. It was like magic, she told me.
Lydia was Lily’s best friend. She lived around the corner on Escalon. Her family had been the first colored family on her block, just like us. Her father was a judge and her mother a lawyer. So she was way more bourgeois than we were. She already had a car. It was a used Corvair, but still, to me it represented freedom and independence.
I thought of those twenty times and soon disputed that “fact.” People had to have more than twenty experiences of joy in their whole life. They had to.
“It’s never going to be like that again. Because I’m going away and they’re going away. Next year, I’ll hardly know those people. Or the knowing will change and we’ll all be half forgotten in each other’s lives because we’ll be busy making new lives.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. I didn’t like when she talked about her new life to come. She sat down at her vanity and began to examine her face. Lily liked looking at herself. She liked checking up on her beauty. When we walked down Crenshaw, she looked in the big plate glass windows of the stores along the way over and over.
“I’m going by Marcia Stevens later,” she said. “I saw a Help Wanted sign in their window and I’m going down there to check it out. I know I’m only going to be here for another month or so but, hey, why not?”
Marcia Stevens was a boutique in Marlton Square.
“I’ve never seen any colored people working there,” I said.
“So? We don’t know for a fact that they don’t hire colored.”
“They probably won’t hire you?”
“I’m going to try anyway.”
When we first moved to Montego Drive, the stupidest thing happened. One of the Baker girls walked up when I was sitting on the porch reading and stood there at a safe distance at the end of our walkway. I hadn’t yet met them, but from what Jennifer told me, I knew there were three girls in the Baker family and they were the ones who’d locked me out of their rope jumping. I knew this one was the youngest and her two older sisters had probably put her up to it.
I looked at her and waited. Was she going to ask to be my friend? Was she going to introduce herself? Finally, she said, “Why do you have that white girl living with you?”
I didn’t know who she was talking about, so I thought it was a joke. “What?”
“That white girl. Why is she living with you?”
Then it became clear. She was talking about my sister. I suppose with her gray eyes and light brown hair, Lily could look white to some white people, but she’d never fool anyone colored. Any colored person could tell right off she was one of them.
“That’s my sister and she’s not white,” I said, and the Baker girl just turned on her heels and trotted back down the street. I guess to make her report to her sisters.
“The one who asked you that question,” Jennifer said later, “that’s Marcy. They’re always putting her up to stuff. Because she’s kind of slow.”
Slow, I thought, thankful I wasn’t slow.
I watched Lily begin to roll her hair on giant rollers.
“I have something to tell you,” I said.
“What?” she asked. But just then The Temptations’ “My Girl” was suddenly coming out of her radio. With only half her hair rolled, Lily stood up and started doing the Temptation Walk. She pulled me up next to her and said, “Follow me.” Then it was as if she was climbing stairs, slowly, with her head going this way and that, her eyes closed, and I knew she was drifting off to that place where someone was calling her “My Girl.” Someone who had to just stop in his tracks and do a slow pivot like Smokey Robinson with his brilliant smile that slid over his mouth and drifted right up to his laughing eyes.
That was going to happen to me one day, I thought. Someone was going to call me “My Girl!” As soon as I got my figure an
d my mother let me get my hair cut.
The song ended and Lily flopped down on her little bench in front of her vanity and began to scrutinize her highlights.
“So what were you going to tell me?” she asked.
CHAPTER 3
The Bakers
* * *
IT HAPPENED a few days ago. If only we hadn’t been playing jacks on Jennifer’s porch. Weren’t we too old for jacks anyway? If only we hadn’t seen kids going down there with towels around their necks and thongs flip-flopping on their feet. If only the day hadn’t been so still and hot. Jennifer looked past me and said, “Those kids are walking down to the Bakers’ to go swimming.” I turned around and watched them saunter by.
“They have a pool,” she said. “I swam in it last summer . . .” She drifted off, probably remembering what that felt like.
I glanced over at her. She was going to want to go down there. I remembered vividly the Bakers’ brand of meanness when they wouldn’t let me jump rope.
We looked toward their house. The Baker girls—Marcy, Deidre, and Jilly—didn’t go to the school where I’d be going. They went to Saint Mary’s. The girls at Saint Mary’s wore uniforms and hiked up their pleated skirts as soon as they left school, Jennifer told me. “I heard the nuns make you kneel on the carpet and if your skirt doesn’t reach the floor, they say it’s too short and send you home.” She looked toward their house again. “Let’s go ask them if we can swim.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re not going to let me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. And I don’t want to go.”
Jennifer bounced the small rubber ball and scooped up five jacks. But it felt like she was going to sulk. I was still on threesies. She continued to sixies, sevensies, and on and on until she’d scooped up every jack. Then she put a super-bored look on her face and said unenthusiastically, “Wanna play another game?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with you to the Bakers’.”
I trudged home to get into my suit and grab a towel out of the linen closet. I slipped on my Bermudas and T-shirt over my suit. If I was going to be turned away, I didn’t want it to be in just my swimsuit with the ruffle at the waist. I went to find Mrs. Baylor to tell her where I was going. She was mopping the kitchen floor. She stopped and put her hand on her hip, waiting.
“I’m going swimming down at the Bakers’.”
“Where do they live?”
“Just down the street.”
She sighed. “So they invited you to go swimming down at their house, did they?”
“Jennifer wants to go. She said it’ll be okay.”
“And you believe that, do you?”
“She said it’ll be okay,” I repeated.
“Hmmph.” She shook her head and kind of chuckled to herself. “You go on, girl. And see what happen to you.” She dunked the mop in the bucket and then twisted the water out. “You not a little white girl. You going to see.”
I knew I wasn’t a little white girl. I knew what I was.
I dragged a bit as we walked down to the Bakers’, slowed by the scenarios I pictured. Deidre Baker, the oldest, chasing me out of her backyard with a broom. All the kids laughing at me and pointing.
“Come on,” Jennifer said. “Why are you going so slow?”
I picked up my pace.
We could hear the whoops and hollers and splashing as soon as we walked up the driveway to a wrought iron gate standing ajar as if it were personally saying, Come on in. Jennifer looked at me and grinned. I didn’t feel like grinning.
Jennifer forged ahead and I followed, suddenly feeling my heart in my mouth. We walked through the gate and the splashing stopped. It was as if a faucet going full blast had suddenly shut off. All went quiet and all eyes turned to me, then to Jennifer, then back to me.
“Hi, Jilly,” Jennifer said. Jilly was our age. She came over and stood in front of us. She crossed her arms.
“Can we swim?” Jennifer continued, as though she wasn’t noticing anything out of the ordinary.
Jilly looked me up and down. “You know we don’t allow colored people in our pool—or our house.” Marcy hurried over and joined her. Then Deidre. All three of them crossed their arms and stared at me.
I felt my face grow warm. I swallowed. I wanted to back out of their yard. All the kids in the pool were now treading water and watching intently.
One girl, sitting on the side with her feet in the water, stopped eating her hot dog and held it at her mouth without taking a bite.
The world stopped spinning. I almost stopped breathing. There was still the welcoming scent of chlorine and Coppertone and hot dogs and mustard. I thought I could even smell the Hawaiian Punch. All the happy smells that meant summer and fun. But they were not for me. Not for me.
We stood there with our towels around our necks trying to decide what to do next.
“You can stay, but not her.” Deidre pointed her finger at me and kind of jabbed it in my direction as if she might poke it through my chest. Jennifer looked at Deidre’s finger and then at me. I stepped back a bit.
Jennifer stared at Deidre as if not quite comprehending what she was saying. “What?” she finally said.
“You can stay. Only you.”
Jennifer glanced at me and then she slowly turned to go.
“But you can stay, I said,” Deidre repeated.
Jennifer shook her head. “I’m not staying if Sophie can’t.”
“No, Jennifer,” I said quickly (and I felt I had to do this). “Go on. It’s okay. I don’t want to swim in their pool anyway.” What I meant to say but didn’t was: You’re the only friend I have. What if you start thinking I’m getting in the way of your fun? Then you might not want to be my friend anymore.
“No, I’m not staying,” she said firmly.
“I want you to stay. You have to.”
“No, I don’t either. They’re prejudiced.” She pointed her finger at Deidre, then waved it at the three of them. “You’re all prejudiced.”
In response, Deidre put her hands on her hips. Marcy stepped forward. “So what if we are? We don’t care if we’re prejudiced. We like being prejudiced.”
“How would you like it if people were prejudiced against you, and for no reason?”
“I wouldn’t care,” Marcy said.
“You would, too.”
“No—because I have plenty of other friends.”
“You’re stupid,” Jennifer said. She grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”
I shrugged as if I didn’t care, not even a little bit. We left through the gate, our towels still around our necks.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” I said to Jennifer. I didn’t want to have to explain the situation to Mrs. Baylor. It felt like a kind of shame that I’d brought on myself. And she might be ready with a Ha! And you thought you were so special.
We walked back up the street, past my house, and continued to the end, around the corner, and then down Escalon until we came to the pass-through that ran between the driveways of two houses in the middle of the block. It bordered the Bakers’ backyard, with a wall of hedges separating it.
Quietly we crept up the narrow walkway to their hedge. Through an opening in the branches we could see much of the Bakers’ yard. Kids were back to splashing and diving for the pennies someone had thrown into the pool, and Deidre—who everyone called Dee Dee—was there with her feet dangling in the water. Then someone splashed her and she jumped up, bursting into laughter.
“I wish I had me a peashooter,” Jennifer said.
We both laughed and then clapped our hands over our mouths before someone could hear us.
Deidre jumped into the pool, climbed out, and ran across the cement to a bag of chips on the patio table.
“Oh, too bad she didn’t slip and fall,” I said.
We almost bent in half with a laughing fit. Jennifer regained her control and s
hushed me.
We watched as Deidre flopped down on the bench across from Jilly, a leg on either side, and they began to share the bag of chips. Jilly looked pleased with herself. Then Marcy climbed out of the pool and made Deidre scoot over so they could all share the bench and the chips. Everything had returned to normal. It was as if nothing had happened. Jennifer and I showing up was barely a hiccup in their afternoon activities, and they were back to their usual summer fun.
Suddenly, Jilly was up and jumping into the pool, diving down and then resurfacing, her dark-blond hair floating on the water behind her. She rubbed the droplets out of her eyes while laughing and calling to one of the other kids
We grew tired of the spectacle and turned to go. I had expected to feel much worse than I did. It was just the way it was. Anyway, I could imagine beating up each and every one of those kids. I could imagine beating them and beating them and beating them. Even the boys.
We walked back up the street. Jennifer went into her house and I just hung out in the backyard until I heard the garage door go up and my mother’s car pull in. She was probably coming from her gallery. Mrs. Baylor was running the vacuum in the living room and singing “Amazing Grace.” As I hurried past, she shut it off and said, “I thought you were going swimming down to your little friend’s house. What happened?” She seemed to regard me suspiciously. Could she know? Why was she looking at me like that?
“I did go down there,” I said, not really lying.
“Why your hair not wet?”
“I wore a cap.”
She cocked her head. “They don’t ever keep your hair dry.”
“Mine does,” I said.
“Only if you wear a shammy around your hairline. Did you wear a shammy?”
The lies were piling up and making me feel funny. I didn’t think of myself as a liar. “No,” I said, and hurried past. She seemed to think about this for a second. Then she turned the vacuum cleaner back on and returned to her song. Which made me feel extra guilty, since I was reminded that God was watching me and I really didn’t want to be a wretch, like the lyrics said.
It All Comes Down to This Page 2
