Shine (10 page)

“Screw you,” he said, shoving back his chair and stalking off. I let out my breath, which I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. But then—
crap
—he turned and came back. He stopped at my side. My heart rate zoomed. I could sense him glaring at me, but I was too afraid to look at him.

“Where do you get off being so self-righteous?” he said. He kept his voice low, but it was laced with scorn. “I’m serious. What makes you think you can go around judging people?”

He thought
I
was judging
him
? I mean, maybe I was, but
he
started it. Now I just wanted it to end, because this whole interaction had taken a strange and very freaky turn.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Are you going to answer it?”

I kept my eyes on the table. My chest rose and fell.

“Yeah,” he said, as if I’d confirmed something. “I love it when small-minded people can defend their positions. Oh, and I’m sorry you don’t like the words I use, because I have a special one just for you.” He leaned in close and whispered something in my ear that made my blood freeze.

I stayed immobile as he stomped off, terrified someone had heard. Then, with a
whoosh
, the frozen blood inside me flared to life. I felt hot and cold at the same time.

That college boy—that piss-dumb, psycho college boy—he called me a
mountain nigger
, a term used in the rare occasions when
hill people
or
white trash
wasn’t good enough. He said it to shame me, and it did. It slammed me down on the rough grit of my shortcomings and held me there.
I was trash
, my heart said, each beat driving me deeper.
I was worthless. No good. I’d been put to the test, and I failed, so I deserved to be called bad names
.

My eyes welled up, which made things worse, as the jerk had yet to leave the library. He’d just gone over to the periodicals
section, where he was reading a magazine. If he glanced my way, he’d think I was crying because of him. Which I was, but I wished I wasn’t, just like I wished he’d get the heck out of
my
library. Anyway, I knew he wasn’t actually reading that stupid magazine. I knew he was pretending, because he was flipping the pages way too fast to glean any meaning from them.

Fury slid in beside my shame, and I opened myself wide to it. I told myself that College Boy had no idea how good he had it. He probably owned his own computer, or had one at the college he could use. So for real, why
was
he here? He belonged here less than I did. And just because he didn’t drive a pickup and shoot deer out of season, did that make him better than me? Just because he had a daddy with a job and a mama who was still alive?

I gripped the edge of the table, very much aware of the transformation taking place inside me. My humiliation had turned to rage, and that was good. But it would take longer still for it to shift into something I could control. Something I could fight back with, not for the sake of my own piddling honor, but for something bigger.

I’d been put to the test with
those pants
, and I failed. But look: I’d been given a second chance. It didn’t matter if it was just symbolic. It didn’t matter that nobody would know but me. A second chance was a second chance, and I wasn’t about to let it get away.

I inhaled through my nose, deliberately searching for a spot above my rage. I knew such a spot existed, because
Mama Sweetie had taught Patrick and me about handling bad emotions. If you breathed deep and set your mind to it, you could rise
above
your anger.

One time, Mama Sweetie drove me and Patrick into Toomsboro for root beer floats, a treat she splurged on maybe once a summer. On Main Street, a man in a Lexus made a left turn without looking, and he would have taken us out if Mama Sweetie hadn’t slammed on the brakes.

“Sweet Jesus,” she said, breathing hard. “You kids all right?”

We were fine, but the driver who cut us off was fit to be tied. He was the one who screwed up, and yet he laid on his horn, leaned out his window, and yelled, “Learn to drive, you fat bitch!”

To
Mama Sweetie
, he said this!

Patrick and I were only ten, but it made us fume. “Honk back!” we said. “Go call
him
a name, or tell the police on him!”

She didn’t. She pulled into a parking space on the side of the road, put her hand to her chest, and sat for a bit. Then she said that the man already knew he was the one in the wrong, and being wrong had embarrassed him. Since he didn’t like feeling that way, he unloaded his bad feelings onto her.

“Huh?” we’d said.

“Yes, that man acted ugly,” she told us in plain English. “But throwing more ugliness back at him ain’t the answer.”

As a ten-year-old, I didn’t get it. “Still think you should tell the police on him,” I’d muttered.

I took something more useful out of Mama Sweetie’s lesson
now, even if it wasn’t what she’d set out to teach. If I was patient, if I waited until I’d harnessed my emotions, then I might just manage to shame that college boy even worse than he’d shamed me.

I studied him with the detachment I’d use if I was regarding a pile of deer droppings. He was handsome enough, or would have been if he hadn’t called me what he called me. He was tan, and he had strong forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt, which he wore unbuttoned over his white T-shirt. His cargo pants fit the right way, and unlike the guys in Black Creek, he didn’t feel the need to let them hang off his butt. Instead of boots or sneakers, he wore flip-flops, which Tommy would have called gay.

I was fairly sure this guy wasn’t, though. Gay.

He caught me staring, and this time I didn’t look away. His mouth twitched nervously.

That’s right
, I thought.
You
should
be nervous
.

I smiled, and College Boy increased the distance between us, moving from the magazine display to the
manga
rack. I knew then that I’d shoved my shame down deep enough that I could function without bursting into tears. I knew, too, that he wished he hadn’t gone off on me. I could read it in his face. But too bad.

I went over to him. My heart pounded.

“You owe me an apology,” I informed him.

“What?” he said, startled.

“I
said
you owe me an apology.” I flicked my hair out of my
eyes, which were a tawny brown like my mother’s. They gave people pause if they got a good look at them, and College Boy got a good look at them now. “For what you called me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” College Boy said. Gone was his attitude, whatever that had been about, and in its place was . . . I wasn’t sure what. Remorse?

It threw me off balance, but only for a moment.

“Let me refresh your memory,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “You called me a
mountain nigger
. Now do you remember?”

Heads turned in our direction. Lots of heads, all with shocked expressions. A young mother over by the picture books grabbed her toddler and hustled him away.

Aware of our audience, I held out my arm and twisted it to show both sides. “I’m actually white, but I guess you’re too stupid to notice?”

College Boy turned as red as the tomatoes in my garden. “W-wait,” he stammered. “No. I just . . .” His eyes darted from one glaring patron to another. “I never said that.”

“You never called me a
mountain nigger
?” I said, making the library patrons bristle again. Every one of them was as white as I was, because there just weren’t any black people in Toomsboro. But for the most part, these were educated townies, and they didn’t like that word any more than I did.

“Um, yeah, you did,” I said. “It was after I asked you not to cuss at the computer table, and you got mad and told me to mind my own business.”

“What? I didn’t—“

“And then you said you had one special word just for me,” I went on, wanting the people to hear me and not him. “Is it coming back to you? How you leaned down and called me a . . .”

I broke off, because the little hairs on my arms were telling me I’d pressed my luck far enough. Plus, Miz Hetty was out from behind her desk and striding over.

I swallowed. “Well, I’m not going to say it,” I said, even though I already had. Twice. “But actually, it was
two
words. You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

College Boy looked scared. I thought,
Ha. See how it feels
? Only it gave me less pleasure than I’d expected.

Miz Hetty reached us, and College Boy’s throat worked. He grabbed a graphic novel from the rack and held it in front of him, as if it would protect him.
Fruit Basket
, it was called.

“Cat?” Miz Hetty said.

All at once, I wondered what I was doing. I hoped Mama Sweetie wasn’t watching from heaven, because I knew she’d be disappointed.

I covered my face with my hands. My adrenaline drained out of me, and I was just a girl, and it was time to stop. Guys like Tommy, guys like the idiot college boy I’d been so busy humiliating, they did whatever they wanted. I knew that. They said nasty things, and they hurt people, and they never stopped.

But I didn’t want to be like them. I wanted to be like Mama Sweetie.

I dropped my hands. Every single person in the library was staring, and my need for vengeance just . . . died.

“Cat,”
Miz Hetty repeated.

I looked at the college boy, who’d gone pale beneath his tan. I clenched my hands to still their trembling.

“You are what you are, and I am what I am,” I said. “And maybe I
am
a hillbilly or a hick or whatever, but I would never use the word you said. Not if a person was white
or
black.”

My voice shook just as it did when I first addressed him. This time he didn’t smirk.

“I think you should leave,” Miz Hetty told him.

The college boy looked at me. His lips parted, and he struggled for words. “Listen,” he said. “I, um . . . I really didn’t . . .”

“I think you should leave
now
,” Miz Hetty said.

He nodded, defeated. He returned the graphic novel carefully to its rack and walked out of the library. I watched him the whole way, confused by what I was feeling. He didn’t look back.

I left not long after, and on the bus ride home, I wondered at what I’d done. It was almost as if a different person had taken over my body—except, was saying that a cop-out? I hadn’t been “possessed,” after all. Not by an angel or a demon. Maybe there were aspects of both inside me, but
I
was the one who chose which to let out.

I truly
was
a different person now than when I was a kid, however. When I was a kid, I was curious and fearless, and the
two qualities were twined together like ivy. I drove Aunt Tildy crazy with “all that wildness,” as she put it, and in the summer, when I didn’t have school to keep me out of her hair, she would shoo me out of the house as soon as my chores were done. She forbade me to come back till she called Christian and me in for dinner.

But what if I stepped on a rattlesnake? I’d asked. What if a dog bit me, and it had rabies and was foaming from the mouth? What if I saw a baby floating down the creek in a basket made of woven reeds, like little baby Moses?

“No,”
she said to all of those. “You can only come in the house if you’re bleeding, and I’m not talking about a scratch from picking blackberries. If you come bothering me, you better have a whole cup full of blood. And now that I’m thinking about it, if you’re bleeding that much, don’t you
dare
come in the house. Just stay on the porch and holler for me.”

Mama Sweetie, on the other hand, gave me another way to look at myself. She said God had blessed me with an abundance of spirit, and not to ever squash it down. She said there was goodness in everything and everyone, and that it was our job to let that goodness shine out.

“A person does on occasion lose his way,” she warned Patrick and me. “We all have our trials. But I’m gonna tell y’all something, something I want you to remember. Can y’all do that for Mama Sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we chorused, giggling and making eyes at each other.

She knew she was being teased, but she didn’t mind. She wagged her finger and said, “God loves you even on your blackest days, and He will always,
always
be there to guide you home. All you have to do is look for the light of His love. As long as you remember that one thing, why, then you can cast off the darkness and shine again, can’t you?”

I used to believe her. Then, for a while, I stopped. I guess I lost my way.

I wasn’t sure I’d found it again, as I hadn’t acted . . . exactly . . . shiny at the library. Yes, I was right to defend myself, but I’d gone too far.

Even so, I was proud of myself for taking action at all. I didn’t hide or run away or pretend the ugliness didn’t happen. I stood up and said something that was true. I said it out loud, and by doing so, I was standing up for lots of people, not just me.

I wondered—and again, I wasn’t sure—but I wondered if a bit of God’s light was maybe back inside me. If so, it was a dove that might at any moment fly away. But for now, here it was: soft and wondrous in the branches of my soul.