The Girl on the Outside

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Praise for the Writing of Mildred Pitts Walter

Because We Are

A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

A Parents' Choice Award Book for Literature

“Walter draws readers into a complex situation with finely paced writing, good integration of themes, and an understanding of the feelings of young men and women.” —
School Library Journal

The Girl on the Outside

A Christian Science MonitorBest Book

A Notable Children's Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies

“[Walter] re-creates the tenor of the times from both black and white perspectives and gives the incident immediacy for today's younger teens …” —
Booklist

“We are moved … by the courage required of these children and their parents …” —
School Library Journal

“A moving, dramatic re-creation of the 1957 integration of a Little Rock high school as seen through the eyes of a black girl and a white girl.” —
Booklist

“A vivid story … written with insight and compassion, its characters fully developed, its converging lines nicely controlled.” —
Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

Second Daughter

“Based on a real case, this admirable historical novel is unique for the perspective it lends to the Revolution and its profound impact on the lives of all Americans.” —
Kirkus Reviews

Trouble's Child

A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

“Walter immerses readers in Martha's internal struggle, holding their attention to the last page. The quickly paced text utilizes the native dialect, further adding to the aura of the isolated island setting as Walter shows how ritual and superstition dominate.… While Martha's particular problems are unique, adolescent readers will easily empathize with her predicament of feeling confused by the pull from so many different directions at this stage of life.” —
School Library Journal

The Girl on the Outside

Mildred Pitts Walter

Dedicated to the memory of Earl

It is lonesome, yes. For we are the last of the loud
.

Nevertheless, live
.

Conduct your blooming in the noise and whip of the whirlwind
.

—Gwendolyn Brooks

Chapter 1

“I'll freeze the ice cream, but I'll have to get a bath first,” Sophia shouted as she dashed up the stairs. It would be good to get out of those sticky churchgoing clothes. She felt wilted.

As she turned on the water for her bath, she was flooded with happiness: Arnold Armstrong had asked for an evening visit. This happiness, without worry and anxiety, could not have been imagined when she first knew Arnold was coming home for a brief summer visit. Her excitement had been overshadowed with doubts. Would he even remember her? Or would he still think of her as a special friend? Arnold was the oldest son of the minister at First Methodist, Sophia's church. At nineteen, he was two years older than Sophia, and he had already finished his freshman year at Yale.

Quickly Sophia set the small clock near her bed to alarm at six-thirty, just to remind her not to be late. Then she wrapped her head in a thick towel in final preparation for her bath.

Lying limp in the cool water, Sophia believed this had to be the hottest day ever in Mossville. She let the water ripple over her as she settled farther into the tub, folding her long legs to accommodate her body. There was a surge of relief. The coolness numbed her.

How pleased she was with herself. She was liked. She flushed, remembering the brief encounter with Arnold in the crush of people after the morning service. He was still in his choir robe, his dark hair damp from the hot, moist air.

“Is it all right if I come by this evening?” he had asked.

She had wanted to shout that it would be super, but she'd only smiled and said quietly, “Yes.”

“At seven?”

“At seven.” He had looked her in the eyes. She tried to stop the rush of color to her cheeks, but it spread, making her heart feel squeezed in her chest. She turned away abruptly, made her way through the crowd, and waited for the rest of her family near their car.

Now she turned over onto her stomach, bending her legs at the knee, her feet in the air. The movement made small waves that washed over her back. How wonderful—a bath. What if she could stay right there always? But there was ice cream to freeze; and finally there would be school. Yes, summer was over. No more work at Woolworth's; Arnold would be going back to Connecticut; only two more days before school. Could it be possible that on Tuesday, September 4, 1957, things as she knew them might give way to something terribly new?

Why do they have to come to
our
school? The thought of Negroes at Chatman brought resentment. Why did things have to change now? This was Sophia's last year at Chatman High. She had dreamed of being a senior, doing all the fun things: homecoming, senior day, the senior prom, and, at last, graduation. What would the year be like with
them
there?

She now saw the faces of the nine Negroes scheduled to enroll at Chatman as they had appeared on local television and in the newspaper. Three boys and six girls. Only yesterday one of them had shopped at the counter where she worked.

The girl had come in when there were few customers. Sophia watched her hurriedly select bobbie pins, a small comb, and a band of elastic. However, when the girl was ready to purchase the items, Sophia ignored her. The girl waited. A white customer came in. Sophia rushed to help her. Several times Sophia ignored the girl while she waited upon whites who had come in later.

Now Sophia ducked her face under the water and came up smiling. That girl. What patience! Or was she mocking
me
? Suddenly Sophia felt angry. She fought the feeling but it spread. She became confused. Was she angry at the girl or at herself?

“Sophia, are you going to freeze the ice cream?” Burt, her older brother, called up to her.

“Yeah, I'm coming,” she said, regretting she had promised. Why had Ida been given two days off, anyway? She should be there to freeze that ice cream.

Slowly Sophia pulled herself up out of the water. The hot air of the room made sweat pour off her. She carefully dried only between her toes, then ran, naked, down the hall to her room.

The sound of voices spiraled up the stairs and Sophia knew her older sister, May, and her husband, Ken, had arrived. She dressed hurriedly in white shorts and white shirt, still tying the shirt in a knot at the waist as she rushed down the stairs.

Everybody had gathered in the backyard where plants, trees, and flowers were cultivated almost to perfection. The trees offered shade, and the flowers gave off their spicy fragrance in the humid air. In spite of the shady loveliness, it was still sticky hot in the backyard. Yet, it was cooler than inside.

Her mother, Molly, was showing May a beautiful yellow rose. The rose, her mother, and May shared a similar beauty, Sophia realized. She both admired and envied their fair creamy skin, light hair, and light eyes … the way they looked: fresh, crisp, cool even in that hot weather. She would love to have those qualities, but like her father, Alex Stuart, she was freckled, had red hair, and lively brown eyes. No matter how she tried to be beautiful, she managed always to look like the milkmaid, scrubbed clean.

Burt helped her chip the ice and pile it around the can in the wooden bucket of the freezer. As he concentrated on the task, Sophia marvelled at how well he did things with only one hand. Here he was twenty-five, and he had gone to the Korean War to return with one arm missing. Nevertheless, he typed his own stories for the
Daily Star
.

A calm, collected kind of peace registered on Burt's face as he chipped away at the ice. He was the male image of Molly and May. Sophia liked how his well-shaped nose and mouth and his fair coloring all added up to a look of distinction. If only she had one tenth of their mother's beauty!

As she turned the handle of the freezer, the conversation between Ken, a member of the state legislature, and her father caught her interest. Their discussion of school integration reminded Sophia of the morning service at First Methodist Church.

The pews had been almost full when they arrived. Sophia sensed a somber, hushed atmosphere. Was it the heat—or fear—that had the congregation in its grip? There were not the usual smiles and howdies. Everyone appeared to be repressing joy, withholding. Still, they seemed expectant.

Her father, tall, straight, his red hair and freckles giving him a boyish look, led them to their seats with long strides. Sophia sat next to him with Burt between her and their mother. She loved singing with her father's baritone on one side, and Burt's bass on the other. Her father's singing was as impressive as his speaking. Sophia often wondered what he would have become if he were not Mossville's busiest attorney.

Right then, her father and Ken were talking about legal ways to keep those Negroes out of Chatman. Burt left her alone near the back steps to finish the job of freezing the ice cream, in order to join their conversation. Sophia knew that the heat in their backyard would now intensify.

Ken and her father were allies against Burt. Her brother had the unusual gift of speaking up and saying things that few people in Mossville were apt to say. More than once Sophia had heard her father angrily denounce Burt as a communist. Of course, all her father meant was that Burt liked Negroes a bit too much.

Sophia admired Burt more than anyone she knew, but she, too, often felt that he was “way out.”

The slowly turning crank of the freezer brought to mind the monotonous twirling of the big fans overhead at church. The service had progressed from songs to prayer, to collecting the offering, and then to the choral selection before the sermon. Burt sat back, relaxed, soothed by the singing. Their father was on edge, upright in the pew, dissatisfied.