Stella by Starlight (14 page)

“I am not a boy. I am a man. And I want a receipt,” Mr. Spencer stated firmly.

Stella held her breath.

Mr. Pineville scowled, then busied himself sorting papers, but at last he got out his receipt book and scribbled out what Mr. Spencer had requested.

“Thank you,” Mr. Spencer said as he folded the receipt and tucked it into the bib of his overalls.

“When do we find out if we passed the test?” Pastor Patton asked.

“Come back in a week,” Mr. Pineville told them.

“I'd like to know now, sir,” Stella's father said.

“I told you—come back in a week,” Mr. Pineville insisted.

“Those other two men didn't have to take a test to register to vote.” Stella was impressed at her father's nerve.

Mr. Pineville shrugged. “Them's
white
rules.”

Mr. Spencer cocked his head. “Do you even know the answers to the test?”

“Well . . . well . . . of course I know the answers!” Mr. Pineville sputtered.

“So grade them. Now.” Mr. Spencer sat down on
the floor. After a moment, Stella's father and Pastor Patton joined him.

Mr. Pineville dropped his pencil. “What you doin' on the floor?”

“Waiting for you to grade the test,” Mr. Spencer replied.

“I'll call the sheriff if you don't get out of here,” the registrar warned, standing up.

“No need to involve the law. We just want the tests graded. Now. Please,” Pastor Patton added.

Stella sank to the dusty floor beside them, sliding close to her father.

Mr. Pineville was clearly perplexed. “I'm extremely busy today,” he said.

“We understand. We'll wait,” Mr. Spencer said. “Don't mind us.”

“You're gonna be
real
sorry you did this,” Mr. Pineville warned.

“Sorrow is part of life,” Pastor Patton replied. Then he started to sing, ever so softly.

“Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Nobody knows my sorrow

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Glory hallelujah!”

Her father and Mr. Spencer soon joined in—low, quiet, respectful. Gradually Stella added her own voice—higher, sweeter.

“Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down

Oh, yes, Lord

Sometimes I'm almost to the ground

Oh, yes, Lord

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Nobody knows my sorrow

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Glory hallelujah!”

When the song ended, they hummed the tune quietly, over and over and over.

Finally Mr. Pineville threw up his arms. “All right! I'll grade 'em. Just quit that awful singing!”

As they fell silent, Stella heard rain plinking steadily on the tin roof of the building.

She also observed that it seemed to take Mr. Pineville a long, long time to read each question and response. He squinted, put on a pair of glasses, then took them off again. He looked at each test paper over and over, moving his lips as he read. And it dawned on Stella that he couldn't read very well!

She took turns watching the clock and watching Mr. Pineville. Forty-seven minutes passed—thirty-five more than it had taken to take the test!

He finally looked up. “Y'all passed. All of you. Now get out of here!”

Stella helped her father up from the floor. The three men exchanged glances—the looks were brief, but loaded. “Thank you, sir,” Pastor Patton said.

As they reached the door, Mr. Pineville called out, his voice low and ominous, “You know that song you was singin' about trouble? Be on the lookout for it, 'cause it's comin'.”

23

Scattered rain followed them all the way home, but even though she was damp and her backside was a little sore from sitting on the wagon seat, Stella was in a good mood. At supper she chattered on to Jojo and Mama all about the trip. Papa remained quiet and thoughtful.

After helping her mother clear the kitchen, Stella hurried to find her notebook. For the very first time, she wanted to write something, and it wasn't an assignment. It wasn't required. She just wanted to remember what Papa had told her.

THE MAN WHO WANTED TO BE A SOLDIER

A TRUE STORY

Today I rode into town with Papa, and he told me a story I never heard before. When Papa got old enough, he
wanted to
decided to join the army. It was 1914. There was a war. Young Jonah wanted to serve his country and go fight the
emeny
enemy, whoever that was.

The local folks made a big deal about wanting boys from around here to sign up. Somebody said newspaper reporters with cameras would be at the
sign-up
recruiting office to snap a picture of the first
boy
young man from our area to
sign up to be a soldier
enlist.

So my daddy, who had just turned
18
eightteen
eighteen years old, got up
early
before daylight and walked
all the way to Spindale
to town. He was the very first in line.
Lots of
Twenty-two young men showed up that day, but Papa got there first.

When the reporters saw that a colored boy stood first in line, they pushed him out
of the way and said he was in the wrong line.
and told him to go home.

The newspaper people snapped their bright camera bulbs and took
lots of
dozens of pictures of Jimmy Winkleman, a white boy, instead. He had stood second in line behind Papa.

They
wood
would not let Papa be in the army. So he walked back home, so very sad. It's strange to
imagen
imagine my father being so young, and hard to think about him being so sad.

Jimmy Winkleman, Papa told me, died in the war.

24

Stella had stayed up far too late writing. It had taken her a couple of hours, and it still wasn't right. Plus, she kinda missed the thrill of sneaking out to her porch step. At least she got the story down.

So the next morning she trudged down the road yawning, but forgot her fatigue when she reached her friends, telling them about the trip to Spindale, the test the adults had to take, and how they'd all been treated.

“It made me feel good to see somebody finally stand up against a man like that,” she finished up. “Well, actually, we sat down, but it worked!”

At school, once attendance had been taken, Mrs. Grayson began the usual morning routine. “Please
rise,” she commanded. “Hands on hearts. Face the flag, children.”

Stella, with the rest of her class, chanted loudly and clearly, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

She always liked the rhythm of the words of the pledge—it made her feel like she belonged to something important.

After the morning prayer, Mrs. Grayson told them to be seated, as she had an announcement. She held up the front page of the
Carolina Times
. “I found something in here yesterday that I think will be both useful and enjoyable. I'm especially pleased to say this opportunity comes from the newspaper that represents Negro people all over the state.” Her voice was edged with excitement. “They are offering a contest for all ages—including schoolchildren.”

“What kind of contest?” Tony asked. “Sports?”

“Not this time, Anthony,” Mrs. Grayson replied. “The planners of the competition are looking for art and poetry and writing.”

Tony thunked his head down on his desk. Stella groaned.
More
writing?

“I do believe, however, that the newspaper sponsors an athletic contest in the spring, Anthony. We'll be sure to participate in that one as well,” Mrs. Grayson promised. “Now sit up straight!”

Helen Spencer raised her hand. When Mrs. Grayson acknowledged her, she asked, “If we do the writing one, how long does it have to be?”

Looking down at the information in front of her, Mrs. Grayson replied, “The entries may be drawings or stories or essays, no longer than three handwritten pages. And the best pieces will be published in the paper!”

“Do we
have
to enter the contest?” Randy asked. “I like bugs and science better.”

“Scientists must be good writers as well,” Mrs. Grayson informed him.

“I knew she'd say that!” Carolyn whispered to Stella.

The teacher went on, “Each of you will prepare a piece of writing or art for the contest. I will choose the best from each of the age categories and submit those three to represent Riverside School.”

“What will they be judged on?” Carolyn asked.

“Creativity. Clarity. Cleverness. And penmanship! Poor handwriting can destroy your chances to win,” Mrs. Grayson replied, looking stern.

“Since I can't
do
a sport in the competition, do you think it's all right if I
write
about sports?” Tony asked.

“I'm sure that will be acceptable,” Mrs. Grayson told him. “So let's get busy, children. I expect our Riverside School to be wonderfully represented in this contest! We will spend from now until lunch working on ideas and rough drafts. Little ones—grades one, two, three—I will work with you first. Get your pencils out and ready to draw your very best pictures. Older students—I want you to organize your thoughts, take notes, and decide what you will write.”

The room buzzed with activity for the next hour or so. Stella, however, sat slumped in her seat. Everybody else was scribbling away on their papers. Stella stared at her empty, blue-lined sheet, disheartened. She couldn't think of a thing to write about, or anything that anybody else would even want to read.
All that practicing in the middle of the night didn't do me a lick of good!

Hazel leaned over into the aisle and called out, “Stella? How do you draw a picture of a hole?”