Darkness Before Dawn

by Sharon M. Draper

  The thunder continued to rumble, but it seemed to be a little farther away.

  Rhonda glanced at him. She knew about his letter, of course, but he didn’t know about hers. “Looks like its show and tell time here for the birthday girl!” She shifted on the pillow she had been sitting on. “I got my letter last week from Howard,” she said quietly.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Tyrone asked in amazement.

  “She told me,” I teased him.

  “Anyway, I was accepted with only a half scholarship. I’m not sure if my folks could handle the rest. We’d have to take on some serious loans.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Jalani asked. Tyrone looked worried.

  “That’s not the only place I got accepted.” She paused. “I also got accepted to Florida A & M. Full scholarship without sweating like a stinky old basketball player,” she teased. “Full academic scholarship! I think I’m gonna major in English—maybe teach poetry to big-headed boys who think they don’t like it.”

  Tyrone looked at her with his mouth open in amazement. A huge wad of purple gum fell out onto the floor. “You did?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going?”

  She nodded again.

  Tyrone jumped up and screamed. “Hallelujah! Life is good! Happy birthday, baby!” He picked her up and swung her around, hugging her again and again. All of us cheered at the news.

  Leon was quiet. “Even though I got accepted to Morehouse a couple of months ago,” he began, “so much has changed since then. I’m not even sure I want to go all the way to Atlanta now. I feel like I’d be leaving behind something that I’ve looked for all my life.” He glanced at me, and I know I was blushing. “I’m majoring in biology—probably with botany as a specialty. At least I’ll get easy A’s—I already know the name of every single flower in the universe! I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but I do know that roses and butterflies will always be my favorites.” I fingered the butterfly necklace for the hundredth time that day and smiled at Leon with thankfulness.

  “What are you going to do, Keisha?” Jalani asked me.

  I smiled at all of them and said, “Just a little while ago, it seemed like I was at the bottom of a pit. I didn’t know how to get out.” I thought of Edna, and of Rita. I refused to let Jonathan enter my mind. “Now,” I continued, “I am out of there and about to be out of here! I think I’m going to go to Miami University—the one here in Ohio, not the one in Florida,” I added. “I still plan to be a doctor one day. I want to go away and try it on my own, but I still want to be close to my mom and dad on weekends if I need to come home. I learned the hard way that I don’t need to be grown all in one day. I’m gonna take my time.” Leon leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I touched his hand and smiled at him.

  The thunder had just about disappeared and the room was starting to feel humid and sweaty when the lights flickered, then stayed on. The CD player upstairs blasted a little too loudly, the air conditioning clicked on, and the dim, dreamy closeness of the last hour somehow disappeared.

  “Wow! What a birthday party!” Rhonda exclaimed. “Cake! Ice cream! Thunder! Lightning! Darkness! Bubble gum! You really know how to throw a good one, Keisha.”

  “Wait till next year,” I promised. “I’m working on a tornado for you!”

  22

  Graduation was one week away. Exams were over, books had been turned in, and final grades had been tallied by the teachers. The school felt empty and very small, as if we no longer fit in the spaces it allowed. The rooms echoed strangely because teachers had taken posters off the walls and returned books to the storeroom. Seniors walked around with yearbooks instead of physics books. Getting signatures became a full-time job as everyone tried to get one from every single member of the class, as well as many of our teachers and friends from other grades. The weather was pleasant, with warm breezes checking out the flowers and trees of late spring.

  The last day for seniors was traditionally the day of the senior breakfast—as well as the senior prank. All of us came dressed in our sharpest threads—new hookups for the summer with plans and hopes for the fall. Many of the seniors had chosen to go to college, many of them right at home at the University of Cincinnati, or Cincinnati State. Others chose schools all over the country. A few kids went into the military, and some decided to go right to work, but all of us were excited at the prospect of getting out.

  After the breakfast of rubbery eggs and crunchy sweet rolls in the cafeteria, we all trooped to the overheated auditorium for recognition and awards. Scholarships were announced. Certificates were given for various accomplishments. A boy named Bruce Bingington had had perfect attendance from kindergarten through twelfth grade. The senior class gave him a special presentation—a certificate that said, “To the student who ought to be the smartest, since he never missed a day!” He accepted it and told us, “I started to skip school today, since it was the last chance I would ever have, but I’m glad I showed up!” We all laughed.

  After the awards, the seniors were traditionally allowed to go home early. But instead of dismissing us, Ms. Emmalina Wiggersly stepped to the podium. Her wig, as usual, was just a little crooked. “I have a few words I would like to say to this class,” she began in her high nasal voice. “Although I have only known many of you for a short time, I am appalled at the extreme lack of maturity that I found among members of this class! I expected more from a group of seniors.” She looked down at her notes. “First of all, those perpetrators who removed the ‘For Sale’ signs from homes in the neighborhood and put them on the lawn of the school must remove them at once and return them to their rightful places! I am not amused!”

  “I am!” a voice from the crowd cried out.

  “Secondly,” she continued, talking much too close to the microphone, “I am appalled by your incredible lack of respect to the junior class!”

  “They ain’t s’posed to get no respect! They’re juniors!” The entire class laughed in agreement. The rivalry between the junior and senior classes had been going on for years. As a newcomer, Ms. Wiggersly couldn’t understand that.

  “Finally,” she intoned into the microphone, “your misuse of school property is almost criminal!” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am referring to the case of school toilet paper that was used to line the halls yesterday. The perpetrators will be punished!”

  “Probably by making them use that stuff,” Leon whispered to me, laughing. “School toilet paper should be classified as a deadly weapon—that stuff can slice through steel!”

  “Why can’t she compliment us on the good stuff we do?” Rhonda complained. “Like our volunteer projects or our date-rape counseling center?”

  Leon looked around at the seniors, who all looked to him for the signal. “We’re gonna have to do it,” he said. “She just can’t come in here and dis us like this!” He nodded his head and said quietly, “Let ’em roll!”

  Thousands of marbles spilled from pockets, purses, and plastic bags that had been hidden under the seats in the auditorium. The noise was deafening, along with the roaring of the laughter of the seniors, the tiny glass balls rolling swiftly down the aisles directly to the spot where Ms. Emmalina Wiggersly stood. She screamed and ran up the steps to the stage.

  “I will find the perpetrators of this crime!” she squeaked. The bell rang, and the seniors gave a mighty cheer and marched out of the auditorium.

  “That was awesome, Leon,” everyone told him as they hurried out of the school. “And the ‘For Sale’ signs and toilet paper, too.” He grinned with pride.

  I ran up to him and hugged him. “I’ll help you get the signs back tonight,” I reminded him. “Did you get enough money for the collection for the custodians?”

  “Yeah, everybody was cool. We got plenty to give them something extra for sweeping up the marbles and the paper. I’d do it myself, but I might be labeled a ‘perpetrator’!” He laughed again. “See you tonight!” He ran to get his car.
r />   “You going home now?” I asked Rhonda.

  “No, girl, let’s go shopping,” Rhonda suggested.

  “You want to come, Jalani? Let’s go to the mall to get dresses to wear under our robes at graduation.”

  “I’m in!” Jalani said cheerfully. “Let’s blow this place!” She laughed. “It’s full of ‘perpetrators’!” We drove to the mall with all the windows down and the music up. We sang as loud as we could and rolled with freedom to the mall.

  “I remember seniors from past years complaining about how hot those graduation robes can be,” I said as we strolled through the aisles of the first store. “What about this dress?” I asked them.

  “That looks like something your mama would wear!” Rhonda laughed and I dropped it instantly. “This is cute, though.” Rhonda added, feeling the fabric of a slim red dress.

  “I think red dresses make you look fat,” Jalani teased. Rhonda put the dress back on the rack.

  We each picked out several dresses, went to the dressing rooms to try them on, then, still undecided, went to another store to see if they had a better selection.

  “Look at this!” Jalani said in amazement. “This same dress was twenty dollars more in that other store!”

  “They’re always jacking up the prices like that,” I complained.

  “That’s why I like making my own clothes,” Jalani said. “But sometimes I just want something quick and easy that someone else made.” She sighed and picked out two more dresses.

  I found a dress—all white—that I liked right away. “I think I’ll try this one,” I said before either of the other girls could grab it.

  “That’s sharp,” Rhonda commented.

  I tried it on and it was perfect—pale and shimmery, light and thin. It seemed to float on me rather than weigh me down. “It makes me feel like a butterfly,” I told Rhonda and Jalani as I modeled it for them.

  They agreed, and I bought it, feeling very satisfied with myself. Rhonda did the best of all of us—she found a slim black sleeveless dress to wear under her gown and a sharp little skirt and top of pale turquoise to wear sometime during the summer to impress Tyrone. But Jalani couldn’t find anything that satisfied her. She decided to wait, or go ahead and make something based on the styles she saw today. She had magic fingers—she could make a dress in one night.

  “I’m hungry!” I said finally. “Let’s all go to my house. My mom made some lasagna to die for!”

  “I’m with you, girl,” Rhonda agreed. “Shopping takes it out of me!”

  “Shopping ought to be an Olympic sport!” Jalani added, laughing. “It takes a well-fed athlete to do it right! So let’s do the lasagna thing.”

  We chattered and giggled as we drove to my house. Surprisingly, both my parents were at home—Daddy had taken a couple of vacation days, and Mom had decided to take a day off with him. It was kinda nice to have them home in the middle of the day. Jalani made lemonade, Rhonda made a salad, and I heated up the lasagna. There was more than enough for all of us. Daddy teased Jalani and Rhonda about our shopping trip and asked them about college plans and such. Mom seemed to be glad to have a house full of giggling girls—making the normal noisy sounds that girls are supposed to make.

  The doorbell rang and Mom ran to get it. “Are you expecting anyone else, Keisha?” she asked me.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  Mom called with an edge of alarm in her voice, “Victor, I think you better come here.” Daddy wiped his mouth and ran to the door. Rhonda, Jalani, and I followed.

  I gasped and stared. Standing at our door, looking somehow much older and more worn about his face, was our former principal Mr. Hathaway. It seemed as if time stood still. The smell of the lasagna, the laughter of just a few minutes ago—all of that disappeared as I tried to calm myself. I felt dizzy—like I might throw up.

  No one had seen Mr. Hathaway since he had resigned. He and his wife had moved from their home, even though it had not been sold. They had an unlisted phone number and stayed away from all of the places they used to go. And still no one had seen Jonathan.

  My mother took a deep breath and said finally, “Hello, Mr. Hathaway.” She didn’t smile.

  “May I come in, please?” He looked as if he was about to cry.

  My father frowned, but he said, “Come in. Have a seat.”

  We all sat in the living room—waiting. Finally, Mr. Hathaway sighed and looked directly at me. He said, “First of all, although I know it means very little, I am so very sorry—for everything. Keisha, there is no way I can say enough to apologize to you.”

  “I’m learning to get on with my life, Mr. Hathaway,” I said quietly.

  “There are some things that you should know,” he continued. “I have been meaning to come to your house, but I’ve been so overwhelmed with recent problems that I just couldn’t. Again, let me apologize.”

  “What do you want to tell us?” my father asked. Rhonda and Jalani had scooted their chairs closer so they could hear what he was saying.

  Mr. Hathaway began as he cleared his throat, “Jonathan did come to our home that night . . . the night of the Valentine’s Dance,” he began. “His face was badly cut and he was almost hysterical. He refused to go to a hospital. I forced him to tell me what had happened.” He sighed.

  “Did he tell you everything?” I asked harshly. “Did he tell you that he tried to rape me? Did he tell you that I cut his face trying to get away from him? Did he?” I was almost yelling, hating that I had to remember once again.

  Mr. Hathaway bowed his head. “Yes, he told us everything, dear. I’m just so very sorry ...”

  “Quit apologizing!” I yelled. Then I said, more quietly, “It’s not really your fault.”

  “This was not the first time he had done this,” he said sadly.

  “I know,” I said coldly. “Why didn’t you get him some help—do something to stop him?” I demanded.

  “I tried. The last therapists we had him with said that his inclinations were under control. That was six years ago.”

  “Tell that to Rita Bronson!” I said harshly.

  “Rita Bronson? Another attack? I didn’t know about her.” Mr. Hathaway sighed with great sorrow.

  “Where is he now?” my father demanded. “He needs to be in jail!”

  “That’s where he is,” Mr. Hathaway said sadly. “Let me explain. That night, his stepmother, who is a doctor, was able to put the necessary stitches in his face. I drove him to Lexington, Kentucky, where I have cousins. I know it was wrong, but he is my son,” he added simply.

  “So how did he end up in jail?” I asked.

  Mr. Hathaway continued. “Jonathan was devastated about his face. He is very vain, and he worried about having a scar.” I smiled with grim satisfaction. “His face had barely healed,” Mr. Hathaway continued slowly, “before he was out every day, hanging around the local high school, trying to charm the young ladies.”

  “Why didn’t you have him locked up?” my mother demanded.

  “You can’t get arrested for talking to girls,” Mr. Hathaway explained gently. “According to my cousin, who found out about all this later, Jonathan tried to use his usual smooth style with the high school girls there, but most of them ignored him—maybe because of the cut on his face. A fifteen-year-old named Candy, however, must have fallen under his spell in spite of the scar.” Mr. Hathaway breathed deeply and looked at the floor.

  “He took her to a motel room ...”

  I bet it smelled like lavender, I thought.

  “... and he assaulted her.” The silence in my living room was thick as mud.

  “Did he use a knife?” I asked.

  “Yes, the silver knife his mother gave him when he was eight years old,” Mr. Hathaway said sadly. “He loved that knife—carried it with him always. It was the only gift she ever gave him.”

  “Jonathan is very sick, Mr. Hathaway,” my father said.

  “I know. He will be in prison for quite a while. His sentence
for the attack on the girl in Kentucky was thirty years, with no chance of parole before that.”

  Inwardly, I sighed with relief. It was as if a dark storm cloud had been lifted from me, as if I hadn’t breathed since that horrible night in February. “Thank you for telling us this, Mr. Hathaway. I’m glad I don’t have to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder to see if Jonathan is behind me.”

  He stood to leave then. He shook my parents’ hands and gave me one last, thoughtful look. “Good-bye, Mr. Hathaway,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” I remembered Edna’s words once more: Yo’ spirit is a shinin’ silver star, chile. Can’t nobody take that away from you.

  Outside, the sun was bright, the air was soft and pleasant, and no clouds could be seen in the pale blue sky.

  FINALE

  We waited in the darkness for the signal to begin. I wondered what was taking so long. I heard someone whispering behind me. Our silky gowns were rustling softly as we, the graduating seniors, adjusted our hats, hair, and nerves. We stood nervously in two lines that curved from the back of the auditorium out into the hallway halfway up a flight of stairs. We were in alphabetical order for the very last time, the boys in gowns of navy blue, the girls in silver.

  I was one of the first in line because I had to sit on the stage. Even though it was hot, I was shivering in the darkness while we waited for the lights to come up to announce the beginning of the ceremony. I closed my eyes, but the darkness seemed like it was trying to grab me. I blinked, and the shadows were breathing on my neck, chasing through my thoughts.

  I let the shadows walk me back through the last two years, through loss, pain, death, and humiliation. Dark memories of fire and blood were running in slow motion through my head. I thought about Rob, who died in that car crash in November of our junior year. I thought about my Andy, my dear sweet Andy, who left me—left us all—the following April. And I tried not to think about my own dark stain.