Yankee Girl (8 page)

I trudged off to the bus stop.

“Holy moly!” Jeb almost swallowed his toothpick. “Are you supposed to be a cheerleader or something? Halloween ain't till tomorrow, you know.”

“Of course she's a cheerleader,” said Pammie, although she didn't sound too sure herself. She straightened my blouse collar, stepped back, and squinted.

“You need lip gloss.” She dug a tiny compact out of her purse. She stuck a finger in something that looked like Vaseline and smeared it on my mouth.

I ran my tongue across my lips. It tasted like waxy strawberries.

“Don't do that,” Pammie said. “You're licking it off.”

“How do I look?”

“Better,” Pammie said, but not like she meant it. She handed me her pocket mirror. My lips looked greasy, my hair like unravelled yarn. Same old Yankee Girl.

The bus pulled up and the door wheezed open. From the back, Saranne yelled, “Hey, Yankee Girl, sit here. Shove over, Debbie. Let Yankee Girl sit down.”

Oh, well. It would take them a while to get used to calling me Alice. At least I wasn't invisible.

I wedged in next to Debbie.

“Hey,” Debbie protested. “You're squishing me.” She gave me a hip butt, sending my rear out in the aisle. I didn't care. I was sitting with the Cheerleaders!

Debbie flounced and smoothed her skirt beneath her. Then I noticed.

My skirt was fire-engine red. Debbie's was tomato red. So were Saranne's and Carrie's and Cheryl's.

I had picked the wrong colour material.

“Hey, your uniform is…” Debbie began.

“Perfect, just perfect,” Saranne jumped in.

“Really?” It didn't look perfect to me.

“Looks fine. Doesn't it look fine, Carrie?” Saranne nudged Carrie.

“Sure,” said Carrie, as if she couldn't care less.

Invisible Alice was back.

Mary Martha waited for us on the playground.

“Doesn't Yankee Girl's jumper look fab?” Saranne said in a peppy voice.

Mary Martha shot her an odd look. “Well, it's…”

“Fine,” Debbie interrupted.

“I suppose it's okay.” Mary Martha looked me up and down. “Tell your mother if she moves the buttons on the straps, your bib won't droop so much.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Everyone just stood around, looking at each other. “Aren't you all going to practise?” I'd stopped saying “you guys”, but hadn't gotten the hang of saying “y'all”.

“Nah, we're all practised out,” said Saranne. “Don't worry. You'll do fine.”

Did I imagine it, or did she wink at Cheryl? Did Cheryl wink back?

“Well, then, where's the game?” I asked.

“I have the directions all written down for you.” Saranne took a folded sheet of notebook paper from her purse.

“Couldn't I just ride with you?”

“Gee, sorry,” Saranne said. “Our car only has room for five.”

I could sit on someone's lap.

But I didn't want to sound pushy.

There was only one person left.

“Are you crazy?” sputtered Jeb. “Me? Bring a girl to a game? And don't go asking Pammie or Mama either. You do and we won't be friends no more.”

So I was stuck with Mama.

“Saranne certainly gives detailed directions,” she commented as she studied Saranne's tiny cursive. “We shouldn't have any trouble finding this.” Just to make sure though, we left the house a whole hour before game time.

A good thing, too. Half an hour later, we found ourselves in the middle of a Negro neighbourhood. We pulled into a Texaco station to get our bearings.

“Maybe we made a wrong turn somewhere.” Mama took off her sunglasses and peered at Saranne's directions.

We must have. We were in a whole other world. A Negro world. Men wiping windshields at the Texaco. Women dragging two-wheeled wire carts of groceries. Boys and girls speeding by on bikes and skates. All Negroes.

“Twist and Shout” blared from a radio on a kitchen chair outside the gas station. But not the Beatles' version.

“That was the Isley Brothers, here on WOKJ,” oozed a smooth-talking deejay.

Mothers scolded kids for biking on the sidewalk. The gas-station men argued about the World Series. Boys and girls shouted teasing insults at each other. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend I was in my own neighbourhood.

But I wasn't. We didn't belong here.

A man in a Texaco shirt came up to Mama's open window. “Luther” was embroidered in red across his shirt pocket.

“Are you lost, ma'am?” Luther said. He didn't look at her, I noticed.

“I think so,” said Mama. “We're looking for Dilworth Field.”

Luther couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd said we were looking for President Johnson.

“Yes, ma'am. You in the right place. You sure y'all are looking for Dilworth?”

“If that's where they're playing sixth-grade football.”

Luther looked doubtful. “Well, if you're sure. Go down two blocks and Dilworth's on the right. Football field directly behind. Can't miss it.”

Mama nosed the Chrysler back into the street. Two blocks down, I spied a sign.

“Look. Dilworth High School.”

Mama swung into a patch of dirt and dead grass that was the parking lot. People streamed past us, heading for the field. Moms and dads with lawn chairs. Kids in hooded sweatshirts. Boys in football pants and jerseys, swinging helmets by the chin strap. Cheerleaders in jumpers like mine except different colours: green, purple, and orange.

All Negroes.

“Think I'll walk down with you,” said Mama.

“Okay, if you want to,” I said, casual-like. I didn't feel casual. I felt like the whitest white person alive.

We walked across the rutted parking lot, pretending not to notice the looks thrown our way. Where were Jeb and the football players? Saranne and the Cheerleaders?

We rounded the corner of the school and could finally see the field. I picked out the two teams and their cheerleaders. One set dressed in green, one in purple.

Both Negro.

“Maybe everybody's late. Maybe Saranne got it wrong,” I babbled. Panic knotted my stomach.

“Something's not right here.” Mama's new wrinkle deepened. “I'm getting to the bottom of this.”

“Mama, don't.” I knew she'd do something terribly embarrassing.

She marched over to a group of mothers in the end zone. The mothers looked pretty much like mine: capri pants and sweaters, headscarves and rainbow-coloured Keds. Except they were Negro.

“Excuse me, but when does Parnell School play?” Mama asked a woman in a pink headscarf.

The woman looked at Mama as if she were a Martian.

“Y'all ever heard of a Parnell School?” Headscarf Woman asked the other mothers. To Mama, “This game is between Brown and Miller.”

I had never heard of Brown or Miller.

The women whispered among themselves.

Headscarf Woman looked at Mama and shook her head. “Is this Parnell a white school?”

“Not any more,” said Mama. “Alice, what is the name of that Negro girl in your class?”

“Valerie Taylor.” What did Valerie have to do with anything?

The Negro women perked up.

“Reverend Taylor's girl?” said Headscarf Woman.

Mama nodded.

“Ma'am, Valerie Taylor goes to a white school. White schools don't play down here.” The woman's eyes looked sad but kind. “Somebody's playing a joke on you.”

It all made sense now. The jumper pattern that didn't come together, the cheers no one wanted me to learn, Saranne's directions. The gum on my skirt. The Y said they had to let me be a cheerleader…but the Cheerleaders didn't have to let me cheer.

I didn't look at Mama. I didn't want to see her horribly sympathetic look.

The purple and green uniforms and the brown faces blurred with the tears I held inside.

Valerie was wrong. I knew how it felt to be the only one. The only one.

“I've a mind to call that Saranne's mother,” said Mama as she gunned the car out of the Dilworth parking lot. “Sending us on a wild-goose chase like that.”

“No,” I said, louder than I needed to. “I mean, this is between me and Saranne.” I slumped down in the car seat, folded my arms against my chest, and hoped that Mama wouldn't say anything more.

I should've known better.

“Well, then sit up and snap out of it, young lady.” Mama sounded crabby. Maybe because I wouldn't let her talk to Mrs. Russell. Or maybe because she had done all that sewing on my uniform for nothing. I tried to explain.

“See, I think the Cheerleaders were all in on it. Not just Saranne.” This was harder than I thought it would be.

“Why on earth would your new friends do such a thing?”

“Because I'm a Yankee.” There. I said it. Would Mama understand?

Mama frowned. “Then just think how much worse the Negroes have it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Someday you'll be glad you lived in 1964. You can tell your children about it.”

“Who cares?” I stared out the windshield at nothing. So much for talking to Mama. Hadn't she ever been eleven? Didn't she remember what it was like? I guessed not.

I spent the weekend hiding in my room, wishing I were dead. I just knew the whole sixth grade was laughing about the Cheerleaders' little joke.

“Hey, girl,” said Jeb at the bus stop Monday morning. “Where was you Saturday?”

So the Cheerleaders hadn't told
everybody
.

“We got lost,” I said. “Which wouldn't have happened if I'd gone with you.” It was sort of the truth.

“Sorry.” He gave me a crooked Paul McCartney smile. “You can go with me next time.”

“There isn't a next time,” I snapped. “That was the last game.” Something else the Cheerleaders hadn't bothered to tell me. Mama had called the Y to ask for the rest of the football schedule. There was no rest of the schedule.

Jeb shrugged. “I owe you one, okay?”

“You bet you owe me,” I said. “I'm holding you to that.”

Jeb grinned and poked a finger in my elbow. “Or?”

“Or I'll tell your mama you wouldn't let me ride with you.”

Jeb stopped grinning. “Okay, okay.” The look in his eyes made me feel powerful.

Until we got to school. Jeb wandered off with Andy and Skipper. I leaned against the oak tree and watched the Cheerleaders trade Beatles cards. Last Friday, I thought I'd stand with them for ever. Last Friday, a million years ago.

“Alice, I heard what happened Saturday. I'm sorry.”

I turned to see Mary Martha, looking serious.

“S'okay,” I mumbled.

“No, it's not,” she said. “White people in a coloured neighbourhood? Who knows what could've happened?” She looked me in the eye. “I just want you to know that I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“You didn't?” I figured the whole sixth grade had been in on the joke.

“I most certainly did not,” she huffed. “C'mon. I'll prove it to you.” She dragged me over to where the Cheerleaders huddled at the edge of the playground.

“Saranne, did I know about what y'all pulled on Alice?” Mary Martha demanded.

Saranne kicked the crumbling playground asphalt with the toe of her loafer. “No, we didn't tell Mary Martha.” She smiled, her pointy teeth winking at me. “We didn't mean anything by it.”

It wasn't a great apology, but it would do.

From then on, I stood with the Cheerleaders before school. Not in the centre, but not at the edges either. Kind of halfway in the middle.

Nobody but Mary Martha ever talked to me. She wasn't exactly friendly. More like polite. After being invisible, polite felt like friendly. I didn't care. I belonged. Sort of.

“So that misunderstanding with the cheerleaders is cleared up?” Mama asked at supper that night.

“Hmmm,” I answered with a mouthful of peas. I hoped she'd tell me not to talk with my mouth full and drop the subject.

“How is Valerie getting along?” asked Daddy.

I swallowed the peas. “Okay, I guess.” She wasn't, but it was too complicated to explain. Debbie threw Valerie's sweater in the trash can again. Carrie smeared paste on Valerie's chair while she was at the pencil sharpener. Cheryl left ugly notes in Valerie's cubby.

Saranne had pulled the worst trick of all. She'd sprinkled skunk oil inside Valerie's desk. It smelled like a million dead, rotting skunks.

“You better hope that bottle doesn't come open in your purse,” said Carrie.

It didn't. But the trick backfired because the whole class had to breathe that eye-watering stink. Everyone blamed Valerie. After all, it was her desk.

“Told you niggers stink,” Leland said about a thousand times.

Miss Gruen banged open all the windows even though it was freezing outside. The janitor washed the room down with Lysol, which did
not
get rid of the smell. Now 6B smelled like skunk
and
Lysol. The odour hung on for days.

Through it all, Valerie never cried, never lost her temper.

One chilly November morning Mary Martha was absent. I didn't know what else to do, so I stood with the Cheerleaders as usual.

As we huddled against the cold, Saranne said, “I'm getting tired of doing the same old stuff to Valerie Coon. Hey, Yankee Girl. You got any ideas?”

“Who, me?” Saranne? Talking to me?

“Forget her,” said Cheryl. “Yankees like nigras.”

“My daddy says all Yankees are nigger lovers,” said Debbie. “He says they even marry them and have half-nigger kids.” She unwrapped a stick of lime Fruit Stripe, popped it in her mouth, then popped it out again. “Bleah.” She pulled at a long strand of hair. “I hate it when I get hair in my mouth. 'Specially when I'm chewing gum.”