Because We Are (12 page)

Emma, embarrassed by this openness, averted her eyes as Carrie rushed on.

“Now Melanie's father, he's OK, really a nice man. But Melanie, she don't hardly ever see him. He works
three
jobs, girl, to keep his woman in style. But Melanie's mama is off her wig; and poor Melanie—she's a trip.”

Why was Carrie telling her all of this? Emma smiled and said, “Thanks for putting Brenda down for me.”

“Oh, that. 'Twas nothing. She's always scoping for trouble, knowing she can't handle it when she finds it. Forgit her.” Carrie swooped off, letting her black cape float. Emma watched her saunter down the hall in soft red leather folding boots—one up, the other down. Today each fingernail was a different color. Emma laughed. Carrie is a trip herself, she thought.

The bell rang. The crowd poured out of rooms into the already crowded hall. Emma hurriedly ripped Marvin's picture down and reluctantly walked upstairs to face Mr. Kooner. In the hallway, students were clanging locker doors trying to beat the second bell, while Mr. Wheeler urged people on to class. Seeing him, she thought of Allan. What would she do if Allan did not come back?

Mr. Wheeler quickly stepped aside for Emma and said, “Smile!”

Emma tried to respond.

“Much better.” He smiled back.

Mr. Kooner was sitting behind the desk that held two piles of books: nine in one, eight in the other. He glanced up at Emma. The look did not wish her a good afternoon. She knew Mr. Kooner was aware that she had enrolled in his class only because she had no other choice.

James, the big football lineman and a student council officer, came in and sat close to the teacher's desk. “You oughta let us off today, Mr. Kooner.”

“Take off,” Mr. Kooner said matter-of-factly. “Any day you like.”

Latecomers straggled in, laughing and joking with Mr. Kooner, whose manner was never ruffled by their lateness. He just sat. Was it condescension? And was all this laughing and joking an apology for his lack of attention and concern? Allan's toms, she thought. She wished she could leave that room and never come back.

Don came in and sat beside Emma. Don was pleasant. He was thin, tall, and dark, his face sprinkled with pimples. His pants were always too short. It was as if Don's body defied harnessing. Today, not only were his pants too short, they were very tight.

A burst of laughter and loud talking ushered in Liz, who was delivered to class by Brenda and her crowd. The gum popping sounded like fireworks as Liz looked around for a choice seat.

Carrie and Walt entered last. These two walked in, hand in hand, and headed down front. Carrie had discarded her cape. She wore a tight beige skirt and a low-cut red sweater. She and Walt moved as if they were listening to music arranged just for them. The sound of horns and the roll of drums could be heard in the sway of Carrie's walk.

Today Walt looked as he always looked: as if he had just stepped from the pages of GQ. He was wearing a deep-purple, (almost black) wool coat; a lavender, shetland wool sweater; a white shirt and a deep-purple tie with a thin, cross stripe, the same color as the sweater. He must go to the hairdresser before school, Emma guessed, for his perm was always just right. It was rumored his mother paid him a salary for attending school.

“Hey, Walt,” someone shouted from the back of the room. “Somebody's burning y', man. Moving in on y' time. Check it out.”

Walt jerked around. Carrie placed her long slim fingers coolly on Walt's arm. She looked at the caller. “Shut your mouth, jackass. Y' just mad 'cause I don't mess 'round with you.” She steered Walt to their seats.

Mr. Kooner waited; he watched this small drama with a bemused look on his tanned face. Carrie and Walt set the stage for his deep, clear, dramatic voice. “Now that the little bedroom scene is over, we will turn our minds to higher things.”

Emma raised her hand. “Mr. Kooner, may I, please, hold a book today?” There were only seventeen books for thirty-five students.

“That's left up to you entirely, Ms. Walsh. Your chance of holding a book is as good as anyone else's in the room. I see to that. No one can say I do not believe in equality of opportunity.”

He walked from behind the desk and looked over the room. Then he turned to the sixteen books. “All right, get ready.” He pushed the books to the floor and the scramble was on.

The laughter, pushing, and jostling turned the scramble into a scrimmage. Emma sat appalled by this behavior, adamant, refusing to join in.

Don rushed for a book and in the rough and tumble split his pants. He wore no underwear and his behind was exposed. Fingers pointed as gales of laughter rang out. Emma looked at the teacher, then at Don, whose dark face had turned ashen gray. He eased into a nearby seat. A peculiar look spread over his face, almost a grin, painful without the usual signs of pain—a vacant expression, like that of someone who is unknowingly bleeding to death.

Emma felt crushed, humiliated. That look on Don's face would, she knew, forever be stamped on her memory. And so would the look on the teacher's. Mr. Kooner had not laughed. But the contempt Emma had seen on his face was worse than laughter. What was he thinking? she wondered.

Finally the class settled down and Kooner directed their attention to the text. But before they could begin to work, the bell sounded the end of the class period.

Emma left the room, remembering the look on Don's face. Something has to be done about that Mr. Kooner, she thought angrily. But what? And who would do what had to be done?

Fifteen

It was pouring rain as Emma's mother drove down the hill to the east side of town. Streets were flooded, and at times Emma thought the motor would die. Her mother handled the car with assurance. Emma stared out at the falling rain and wished the day had been declared an official rainy day and no school. She could stand a day without Kooner.

She looked at her mother, who was dressed for the rainy weather, and thought how different she was these days. She smiled more. She acted like one who could combine suffering and pleasure and emerge strong.

Her mother caught Emma's eye and smiled. “Why you looking at me like that?”

Emma smiled back. “I like seeing you the way you are.”

“How am I?”

“I don't know. But you look happy. Is it because you know I'll soon be gone?”

“Oh, Emma. Not that you'll be gone. But I am happy that you're almost ready to go.”

“All I have to do now is make up my mind. I might go to Stanford.”

“Because of that Gary? I thought you would go to the same school as Marvin. What's with you and him?”

“Nothing, Mama.” She did not want to talk about Marvin with her mother. It seemed that her mother leaned toward Marvin.

“There's something.”

“It certainly isn't anything that would change my mind about what school I'll attend.”

Emma thought, It was you who warned me to be careful of being grateful for nothing. I'm merely taking your advice. Marvin's not for me and that's that. But all she said was, “Marvin has lots of women. He'll be fine without me.”

“The question is, will you be fine without him? He's nice and warm and friendly. He's gonna go far, too. I don't know if you'll find anyone any better than Marvin.”

Emma sighed and turned away with her chin on her hand and listened to the pour of the rain and the swish-swash, swish-swash of the windshield wipers. She thought of Gary's answer to her last letter, still urging her to consider Stanford: “
You have your stuff together, lady. Just to be aware enough to raise the question of racism puts you way ahead. Remember: To swim in this vast white sea toughens you for that vaster white shore
.…” But her mother need not know that.

Before getting out of the car she opened her umbrella, then made a dash for the main building. The rain had made her later than usual. The hall was already crowded. She was glad she had extra socks in her locker. The ones she had on were soaking even in that short distance.

As she changed her socks, she wondered if Allan would brave the rain—if he were coming back. He was too close to graduating and had too much going for him to quit now. She looked at the crowd going and coming, squirming in place like a mass of worms. She asked herself, Do they know how alone I feel here, how out of place? She remembered the day Liz had tapped her on the shoulder. How mistaken she had been to think Liz had singled her out for friendship. Brenda had evidently put Liz up to inviting her over, hoping that Emma would give in, take the insults, and become one of Brenda's followers.
No way
, she thought. Then she saw Allan.

Filled with irrepressible delight, she pushed through the crowd to reach him. He was moving away from her; she was losing him. “Allan, Allan!” she called out. He did not hear her. “Touch him,” she shouted to James, who was near Allan, looking at her struggling. James responded and Allan stopped.

Out of breath, she almost whispered, “Hi, where were you yesterday?”

“I wasn't here,” he said, not nearly matching her enthusiasm.

“Allan, I know that. Where were you?” she asked with friendly emphasis.

“At home.” He let her know by his somber mood he was not going to tell her more.

“Man, you were so right. That Kooner is a dog.” She brought him up to date on the scramble. He said nothing. She then tried another approach: She told about Carrie's show of friendship. “Why you think she'd tell me about her family, Allan? Isn't that weird, she doesn't know me
that
well.”

Allan looked at her still, not saying anything. She told him about the latest letter from Gary. Finally she said, “Allan, what's wrong with you? You're not even listening to me, man.”

He hit his palm with his fist. “So you have problems, eh?” He looked at her and his mouth quivered. For a moment she didn't know whether he was angry or going to cry. He said no more. She waited.

Allan sighed. He looked at Emma, “So you want to know why I wasn't here yesterday. I had to be home so the social worker could see a live body before she'd hand over some food stamps. They say it doesn't git cold in California. That's a lie. When the heat's off, it's cold, Em.” There was an ominous silence. Allan's voice was almost a whisper. “The worker asked what we had in the house. I knew what we had, exactly. But when my mother said ‘salt and flour,' something snapped inside of me and I had to go some to keep from asking that lady to get out of our house. Probably, you're wondering, now, why I'm telling you all of this, talking like Carrie
talked
. You don't understand. You don't have all that shit that has to come out, or blow your mind.”

Emma lowered her eyes. She could not bear to look at him. She thought of the anger she had felt when Danny had suggested her as a resource for welfare information. Now she burned with shame that she had reacted so angrily—not only because Danny had assumed that because she was
Black
she automatically knew, but mostly because she, at the time, felt herself above such knowledge. She wanted to tell Allan this, how she felt, now. But what could she say? She wanted to reach out, take his hand, and tell him she did understand, but she just stood there with her head down.

It was as though he sensed her dilemma; he took her hand. “It's OK, we'll be all right.”

“Allan, give me your phone number.”

“I'll give you my address. I don't have a phone.”

No phone?
Everybody has a phone, she thought. To her a phone was like heat, like light, a necessity. Suddenly she realized that maybe Allan was right: She did not understand
his
meaning of nothing.

“Now what's this about Kooner? I knew he was a dog, but not that kind of dog.” Allan was himself again.

She looked up at him. He was a good person, a real friend. A warm feeling spread over her. It was that same feeling she often sensed when she wished for a brother. She now knew what it was like to have a brother; and if she ever had a real one, she would want him to be like Allan.

The morning went by without the rain letting up. There was no spill over of the crowd outside so the hallways were packed. It was impossible to open a locker without assaulting or being assaulted. One would have thought that rain would have increased absenteeism, but it seemed those who were usually absent took refuge from home in the crowded halls.

Emma stepped around people eating lunch to get to Kooner's class, hardly able to wait for seventh period she was so hungry. She hoped there would still be a decent hot dog left when she reached the lunch counter.

Immediately after the second bell Mr. Kooner started reading announcements: “For seniors only, SAT tests—”

“What's SAT, Mr. Kooner?” someone interrupted.

“You a senior?”

“Naw.”

“Well, it doesn't concern you. The test will be held again soon. More info on that in the office.”

Emma listened, knowing that she and James were the only seniors in the class as Kooner read on: “
In this school, three speakers and three alternates are chosen for the graduation exercise. Any senior may turn in a paper for the competition to his/her English or history teacher.
” Emma felt a surge of excitement. Should she compete? If only she were at Marlborough. There would be no question.

Mr. Kooner then came from behind his desk, walking the aisles with a small notepad. When all the latecomers had arrived he started in assigning seats. “James and Ms. Flower.” Everybody laughed. He was insuring Ms. Flower, the smallest person in the class, access to a book.

Emma was surprised when he left Don beside her. Don had continued to scramble each day in spite of the humiliation he had suffered. It was as though he had to avoid the thought of not being up to the fray. Or as a driver who had suffered an accident, he had to get right back under the wheel or risk losing the courage to drive again. Was Kooner insuring her a book? Emma wondered. Or was he merely making sure she witnessed an example of the “good” student?