Destiny (20 page)

Priscilla-Anne gave her a push.

"Will you shut up? This is serious, Helene. Truly." She stopped, then sighed. "I love him."

Helene's eyes widened. She stared at Priscilla-Anne with new respect.

"You do? You're sure? Oh, Priscilla-Anne . . ." They looked at each other for a moment, wide-eyed. "Is it nice? I mean—does it feel good?"

"Good?" Priscilla-Anne laughed. "It feels great."

"And does he love you?"

Helene leaned forward impulsively, reaching for Priscilla-Anne's hand. Priscilla-Anne's eyes dropped.

"Well, I guess so. I think so. I mean, obviously he hasn't said so yet— we've only had four dates. What boy is going to say that after four dates? But . . . when he looks at me, you know—he looks like he does, and—" She broke off suddenly, and her grip on Helene's hand tightened.

"If I tell you the God's honest truth, Helene, do you swear, just swear, you won't breathe a word to one living soul?"

"Oh, I swear. Priscilla-Anne, I swear."

"You do?" Priscilla-Anne looked at her doubtfully for a moment, then she sighed. "Well, I shouldn't probably be telling you this—and I

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wouldn't, maybe, if I wasn't so worried. Well, not worried, exactly, but I've been thinking about it and thinking about it, till I thought I was just going to go crazy, and . . . Helene, you know what I think the problem is? I think folks lie, that's what I think. I think they just don't come out with the simple plain truth."

"The truth?" Helene stared at her. "How do you mean?"

"Well . . ." Priscilla-Anne sat up and settled herself comfortably on her haunches. She leaned forward earnestly. "The thing is, they don't warn you—not the way they ought to. They all say a girl ought to do this, and she'd better not do that, and they just go and leave out the most important part—that you're enjoying it yourself! I mean, it feels real nice, and I don't know, but I don't think your mind is working too clear. So just when you know, back of your mind, that you ought to be giving him the red light, what happens? You go give him the green one before you've even noticed. ..."

She paused dramatically to let this piece of information sink in, and Helene listened respectfully. She just knew that everything Priscilla-Anne said would be useful to her one day—she hoped one day very soon. Meantime, she didn't want to interrupt the flow. Priscilla-Anne was a year older; she'd be fourteen next month. And Priscilla-Anne had breasts: real breasts, like a woman. Maybe when Helene grew some—if she ever did—she'd have to face the same problem. Green light or red: she couldn't wait.

"You want me to tell you what he did?" Helene nodded energetically, and Priscilla-Anne drew closer. She held up one finger.

"First date—okay? He kisses me. And just as I'm beginning to get used to it, and enjoying it and all, you know what he does? He goes and kind of pushes with his tongue, and he puts it inside. Right inside my mouth! You remember, like Susie told us that time? She called it French kissing? And when she told us, I just thought that was the most disgusting thing I ever heard, and everybody knows she's not much better than a slut anyway. . . . But you know, he did it, and Helene, I swear to God, it felt great. Just great."

"Oh, Priscilla-Anne." Helene stared at her round-eyed. She gave a nervous little giggle. "On the first date? He did that on the first date?"

"Wait, there's more." Priscilla-Anne raised a second finger.

"On the second date—he puts his hand right there." She indicated the extreme tip of her breast.

"Right there?"

"Right there. Well, then I pushed his hand off", and he waited awhile, then he moved it right back again. It was kind of funny, you know? And he laughed, and I laughed, and then . . . then, he started moving his finger back and forth, back and forth, real slow, right on the tip there,

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where a baby would suck. . . ." Priscilla-Anne blushed. "And Heldne, it just felt so good I thought I was going crazy. I knew I ought to stop him, but he was moving about so fast, kind of squirming, and then, before I knew it—his hand was inside."

"Inside?" Helene swallowed. "You mean under your sweater?"

"Under my sweater to begin with." Priscilla-Anne looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "And then, right under my bra. I was so surprised! I do not know how he did it. One minute it was all tight and done up, in fact I was getting so warmed up and so hot I felt I was goin' to bust right out of the thing any minute, and then—it's undone. And he's touching me. Really touching me."

There was a silence, and the two girls stared at each other. Helene's mind was working frantically, trying to remember the things she'd heard the other girls say. It was all so complicated. Above the waist was all right, she was pretty sure about that, but not right away. Not on the second date. On the fifth, or the sixth, maybe, or even later, but that quick! Priscilla was watching her reaction anxiously. Now she leaned forward.

"You think that was wrong? On the second date? You think he'll think I'm easy? You think he'll tell the other guys?"

"No, no, of course not." Helene tried not to sound dubious. "I mean, if you love him. If he loves you ..."

"Well, I don't know." Priscilla-Anne shook her head. "It's real hard. You see, the thing is, we've had four dates. Number five is tonight. He's borrowing his daddy's car, and he's taking me to the new movie at the drive-in. And I just know that he's going to want to sit in the backseat, and—"

She broke off, and glanced back down the road beyond the ballpark. In the distance the orange shape of the school bus could just be made out, approaching slowly in a cloud of dust. Priscilla-Anne stood up. She brushed down her skirt and picked up her books. She eyed Heldne as she got slowly to her feet.

"You want to stop off at my place on the way back? Come in the store? The new fountain's arrived. I'll get my daddy to fix us a soda if you like."

Helene hesitated, and suddenly Priscilla-Anne laughed. She linked her arm through Helene's.

"Oh, come on. Why not? You never will. What you worrying about— your mother? She can wait awhile, can't she?"

Helene hesitated. Down below, she saw Billy Tanner look up. He stared in their direction for a second, lifted his hand in a quick salute, then let it fall. She shrugged.

"Okay," she said lightly. "Why not for once?"

Priscilla-Anne grinned. "I'll tell you what happened on dates three and

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four if you do." She paused, and Helene saw her eyes fall to Helene's neat white shirt, then back to her face.

"In fact, if you like, I'll do more than that. You know what you told me —about your mother, and how she wouldn't buy you a bra yet and all? Well, come back with me, and you can have one of my old ones." She nudged Helene in the ribs.

"I hardly wore it. It's almost new. But then I've been growing real fast. . . ."

Helene stopped in her tracks. Her face went scarlet.

"Priscilla-Anne! Would you? You think I need it?"

"Sure do . . . now, come on. That dumb nigger drives the bus is new. It's late—and my throat is just parched. . . ."

By the time they ran down the slope and skirted the ballpark there was a whole crowd of kids scrambling to get on the bus. Priscilla-Anne and Helene had to stand at the back of the line, and by the time they climbed aboard, there was only one seat left. Priscilla-Anne grinned; she snapped her gum, and her eyes roved the bus—checking out the talent, she called it.

"You take it," she said, pushing Helene into the last seat. "It's okay. I prefer to stand."

The bus started to move off, then it stopped. The driver was looking back over his shoulder. Helene saw him haul on the brake. He was new; a man of about fifty, very thin. He was wearing a shiny gray suit frayed at the cuffs, and a white nylon shirt. The bones on his wrists stuck out. She saw him turn, and she saw him hesitate. Priscilla-Anne did, too, because she gave him a long cool stare, then turned her head and began to hum a tune.

"Miss. Miss. You gonna sit down, or what?"

He was trying to make a joke of it. There was a flash of white teeth. The conversation in the bus fell away. Suddenly, there was dead silence. Pris-cilla didn't even turn her head. "Miss. Miss. You gotta sit down. It's against the regulations to stand. ..."

Very slowly, Priscilla-Anne turned her head. She had an audience now, and she knew it. She was enjoying herself, Helene could see it. Very slowly she brushed an imaginary fleck of dust off her sleeve. She turned her head, just a fraction.

"You talking to me, boy?"

The heat in the bus was intense. The silence seemed to shimmer. In back, someone laughed. The driver raised his eyes. He just looked at Pris-

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cilla-Anne awhile, not moving, not speaking. Then, very slowly, he turned back and released the brake. The bus moved off. Conversation started up again, Priscilla-Anne began to hum once more and swing her hips to the tune, and Helene felt sick.

"Why'd you do that?" she said when they'd gotten off the bus in Orangeburg. "Priscilla-Anne—why'd you call him 'boy' like that? He didn't mean any harm. He was only doing his job."

"Who cares?" Priscilla-Anne gave a toss of the head. "He's just a dumb nigger drivin' a bus. He'd be picking cotton if the machines didn't do it better. No nigger talks to me hke that. And don't say a word to Daddy, for God's sake, or he'll go wild. For months now, it's been 'nigras, nigras, nigras'—ever since that Supreme Court decision, you know."

Heldne sighed. She read the newspapers hke anyone else; of course she knew. The case of Brown vs. Board of Education, and the new Supreme Court ruling, stating that segregated education was unconstitutional. Oh, yes, she knew. Priscilla-Anne's father wasn't the only one who had talked of nothing else for months. "My daddy says there's just one good thing. If it ever happens—and my daddy says it won't, he says the South won't stand for it—I'll be out of school before they start bussing them in. Can you imagine, Helene—sitting next to one of them in class?" Priscilla laughed. "They smell, you know. It's true. They smell real funny. And my daddy says that guy—what's his name—Earl Warren—he says he'd better just not set foot in Alabama or the lynching parties'll be out. ..."

"Mississippi Mary didn't smell." Helene frowned. "Or if she did, she smelled nice. You remember, I told you, Mississippi Mary? I never did know why they called her that. She was my nurse. For a bit. When I was little . . ."

"What, her? That fat one? Lived over by the old cotton fields? Yeah—I remember. She died a while back, didn't she?"

"That's right."

"And all the other niggers got drunk at the funeral. Jesusl Who cares? You goin' to come get that soda?"

Helene nodded. They crossed the street, went by Cassie Wyatt's beauty parlor, past the old hotel, which was closed up now. They were building a motel now, a brand-new one, with bungalows on the outskirts of town. Rumor had it Priscilla-Anne's father had bought the hotel site. He was going to knock the old place down and extend his store.

The store had changed, too, over the last few years. Merv Peters had installed new shelves and fridges; you served yourself now: no waiting, except at the checkout. And now there was the soda fountain too: a long white counter, shiny-topped high stools, rows of syrup bottles, and a radio

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set tuned to WQXA. Nonstop country and western: Priscilla-Anne thought it was square.

Helene shook hands shyly with Priscilla-Anne's father and perched on top of the stool. She was thinking about Mississippi Mary. Surely she was right? She hadn't smelled funny, and she'd been kind. She used to lift Helene up and rock her against those mountainous breasts, and sing those lovely slow songs till Helene fell asleep. That was when she was Uttle, of course, before she was big enough to stay on her own. Then Mississippi Mary had left, and Helene didn't see her again till that time she went by her tarpaper shack, and Mississippi Mary gave her the cool sweet green tea. And Mother had been so angry when she found out. . . . She frowned.

She hadn't cried or anything, but she was sorry Mississippi Mary was dead, and she was sorry for the bus driver. She wished Priscilla hadn't spoken to him like that. . . .

When they'd finished the soda, Merv told them to cut along, and they went up to Priscilla-Anne's bedroom. Helene stared at it wide-eyed. She'd never imagined a girl her own age could have a room so pretty! Everything was sugar-pink. There were sugar-pink flounces on the bed, and sugar-pink frills on the draperies. There was proper wallpaper with roses on it, and a row of walkie-talkie dolls, all in pink dresses.

Priscilla-Anne gestured around it negligently.

"Nice, huh? My daddy just did it up for me. He'll do anything for me now, since my mama walked out. He's lonesome, I guess." She shrugged. "And he's doing all right now, what with the new soda fountain and all. Going places, you know? Says there's no reason Orangeburg has to stay a one-horse town." She sighed. "I don't know, though. It'd be nice to leave, I think. Go someplace bigger. Montgomery, maybe. That's great." She turned her head. "You ever think of leaving?"

"Maybe. Yes. Sometimes."

Priscilla frowned. "You don't talk about it so much now, though. You used to—remember? How your mother was going to take you back to England and all. London." She shrugged. "I didn't like you so much then. London. And you talked funny. You were a little fancy, you know? Stuck-up. Everybody said so—except for Billy Tanner, of course."

Helene went red. She turned away and pretended to look at the dolls.

"We're saving up." She hesitated. "Mother is, you know. But it's expensive—to go back to England. It's a long way away." She turned to look at Priscilla-Anne. "There's a box," she added finally. "Mother has an old tin box. And when we have some extra money we put it in there, and when there's enough—one day—we'll go, I guess."

"A box? Your mother keeps her money in a boxT Priscilla-Anne

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seemed to find that funny because she started to laugh, and then stopped and shrugged. "Well, why not, I guess. A bank, a box, who cares? Except ..." She hesitated. "It's going to take a while, isn't it? I mean, working for Cassie Wyatt, your mama can't make that much. . . ."

"She makes more now," Helene interrupted eagerly. "She works more hours, now that I'm in school. Five afternoons a week, and . . ."

"She works afternoons?" Priscilla-Anne frowned. "She does? That's funny."

"What's funny?"

"Well, I went by Cassie Wyatt's the other week." Priscilla-Anne tossed the ponytail and looked at herself in the mirror.