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“So . . .”

“So I’ll probably go to Howard, in D.C. Or else maybe Cheyney School for Teachers, in Philadelphia.”

“Sounds like you have it all planned.” I could see it. Laura and all her books, striding across the quad with her curls bouncing.

“You should come too,” she says. That I can’t see. When I picture the future, I see myself tomorrow, hanging with the guys down at the pool hall. Shorty, wailing on his sax, working hard to save for his dream. Blowing off steam, throwing rhymes in the alley. Smoking reefer to feel good. Never thinking too hard, just taking the days as they come. Me, I’d rather be out in that world than stuck in those closed-up ivy halls that weren’t meant to fit me.

“It’s not for me.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

We swing our hands between us. The words weighing on my mind are
Can’t. Just. Nigger.

“You can be anything you want to be, Malcolm,” Laura says.

She’s one of the only people who don’t call me Red. I never really noticed that before. “Around town, they call me Red, you know.”

“I like your name,” she says. “Don’t you?”

Nothing really to say to that. My name is my name, and the guys call me what they call me. Never occurred to me not to like it. It’s how I came to feel like one of them.

“Your hair’s not really red,” Laura says, squinting up at me. “It’s light brown, like sand. A little golden.” She puts her hand up and touches the patch of hair in front of my ear.

I grimace. “Sand” would be no kind of street name. “Just let it be.” I lift her fingers away. Since I’m holding both her hands, I use them to swing her close to me. I do a little Lindy move, right there on the sidewalk, and spin her. She lands against me, all smiles.

Always a sure way to change the conversation.

“How’d you get so beautiful?” I whisper.

“Who, me?” She tips her cheek up, playing coy.

“Um-hmmm.” I peck the side of her face. My arms lock around her delicate waist. She’s tiny and lightweight, and touching her like this wakes my whole body. I’m aware of every single breath.

She kisses me, all sweet in my arms. It’s getting harder, I realize, to hold her. All the talk takes it real, takes it deep. Down into things that I’ve put away. Things that can’t ever be.

When I get home, I poke around my bedroom closet first thing. I think it’s in here somewhere. My suitcase is empty except for a couple of tufts of lint and a small crawling beetle that scurries off at the first hint of light, but hanging in the far corner, pushed all the way to the end of the closet, is my old green suit. To think that when I came here, it was my best outfit. Now it looks so incredibly country. I stick my hands in the pockets, find the bus ticket stub in one, and in the other, sure enough, the folded-up map my brothers and sisters gave me.

I take the map over to the bed but, on a whim, return to the closet and pull that old green jacket off the hanger. Sure enough, I can’t even get both arms into it. My shoulders are broader now. I’m taller, too. I stick one arm into the sleeve, and the cuff lands well above my wrist. It makes me happy, thinking about how much I’m changing. I push the old suit back to its dusty corner. Won’t be needing it anymore.

The map, though, still interests me. I unfold it and look. There’s Michigan, right where I left it. I put my finger on Boston, as if to say,
Here I am
.

Laura’s grandma is right. Atlanta is far. So far I can’t even span it with a spread of my pinkie to thumb. I can get as far as D.C., though. Howard. I don’t need to stretch at all to reach Pennsylvania.

I don’t like the thought of Laura at Spelman in Atlanta. That’s Deep South. Ella’s family came up from the Deep South, and she makes it sound like that, like it comes with capital letters. Ominous.

Howard, in D.C., might not be so bad, but I still don’t like it. All the laws that are made to hold down black people — where does Laura think they’re made? A Negro college in D.C. sounds like bait in the lion’s mouth, if you ask me.

Cheyney, in Philadelphia. Heck, no. That’s Pennsylvania, a large, scary state covered by mountains. I’ve seen firsthand what happens to uppity Negroes in Pennsylvania. Hard to get more uppity than trying to go to college.

The map folds easily along its worn creases. It’s been tucked away so long, I almost forgot about it.

I pull out my notepaper to write a letter to my sister Hilda. Hilda especially will want to know I’m not entirely clueless when it comes to matters of romance.
I’ve been out with a girl called Laura
, I scrawl.
She dances well and she eats banana splits. You’d like her.
My fingers hover over the page, uncertain where to go next. I want to ask Hilda:
What can I tell a girl like Laura that might convince her to stay?
But there’s no point in asking. I already know.

A girl like Laura won’t believe me if I tell her about being just a nigger. With the stars in her eyes and the Hill under her feet, she’ll never stop fooling herself into wanting the whole world. I don’t have time for such dreams anymore.

Duke Ellington’s band is onstage when we get to the Roseland. The music comes from every which way. Laura and I make our way onto the dance floor. Soon we’re sweating and smiling as we swing.

Then Duke calls out for a showcase. Most of the couples groan and clear the floor. The showcase means that the best of the best dancers go all out for a while, in a little competition.

Laura tugs my arm. I’m busy steering us to the sidelines, thinking about securing a good place to watch.

“Let’s dance it,” she says.

“The showcase?” I ask. “Uhh . . .” I don’t want to say it — she won’t want to hear it — but we both know we aren’t at that level. We’re pretty good and all, but the dancers in the showcase would be the very hottest of the hot.

“Yeah,” she insists. “What do we have to lose?”

Not a thing I can think of. I shrug. “If you’re up to it.”

Laura smiles. We head back to the dance floor. The Duke strikes up the band, and skirts start swirling.

Laura fairly floats. She’s really into it, stepping and twisting, throwing herself into every move I lead. The crowd begins to cheer for us. Maybe it’s clear that we’re out of our element, but no one’s making fun.

The showcase goes on and on. The music seems never-ending. Laura’s arms begin to soften, showing her tiredness. We’re dripping sweat, our hair out of place, but still smiling.

“Enough?” I mouth to her. She offers the slightest of nods. I spin her silly, one final time, then catch her and dip her to uproarious applause. Around us, the other showcase couples keep spinning, but I lead Laura off to the side of the dance floor. Breathless but proud.

The crowd surges around us, still cheering. They chant our names. Hands clap my shoulders; everyone jostles me. Laura’s separated from me now, folded into a press of onlookers wanting suddenly to get close.

“All right, Red.”

“Great job!”

The kinds of things I’m hearing lift me up. Everything blurs for a while, and then right into the center of it walks a woman. Silky blond hair styled in two symmetrical curls above her shoulders. Skin like cream. Lashes black as a curtain beneath slow-blinking, black-lined lids. Bloodred lips that part, smiling at me. Stunning.

It’s normal to see a few white folks mixed in with the crowd at the Negro dance. White skin will get you into the Roseland any night. But I’ve never seen anyone who looks anywhere close to this good. She comes toward me, so close that I’m about to move out of her way. Until she leans right into me. “Nice moves.” Then whispers, “You caught my eye.”

“I was fishing for it,” I whisper back. Which would have been true, if I had ever seen her.

“Push me around the dance floor, why don’t ya?” she says. She snakes herself against me, surely knowing there is no way I can refuse.

I put my hand on her waist and steer her toward the floor. Thinking I’ve never had my hands on a white girl, even back in Lansing. It went the other way around sometimes; they always wanted to know what it would be like to touch a black man’s skin, or what my hair felt like. I would bend, and they would put out their small pale fingers and bounce them off my kinky curls. Then they would giggle every time — over how it felt? I used to wonder. Or over the rush of breaking the rules?

This woman isn’t giggling. Her eyes are serious and so are her hands. If she were to run them through my hair, it wouldn’t be like it was back then. I’ve got a conk now. This Negro is good enough for her.

The crowd parts to let us through.

I squeeze her hands and start leading her. She’s no Laura when it comes to the dance moves, but she has this whole other thing going on. Sexy and throaty and rich. Her dress is one of the finest in the room. I can tell that for sure, now that I’m touching it. My hands on her waist steer her in circles.

“Are you as good as you seem?” she purrs.

“Baby, I’m better,” I promise. I spin her, lift her, and dip her, showing off my skills.

“I’ve got a car,” she says. “You wanna take off?” She kisses me, somewhere between my cheek and lips. Promising me a drink of milk, sweet as cream, smooth as honey.

“Sure,” I say. “But I’ve got a thing to do first. Meet you back here in an hour?”

I wind back through the crowd, searching for Laura. “I need to get you home,” I tell her. “Before your grandmother sends out a search party.”

Her gaze is locked on the dance floor. I can tell she just wants to keep going all night, but she nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”

The whole walk up the Hill, Laura chats on and on about the showcase. “Malcolm, I don’t know what’s come over me,” she says. “I just had to be out there. You know, I just wanted to feel like one of those girls.” She twirls in the street.

I wonder for a second if she’s been sipping at my flask. Probably not. She’s the sort of girl who gets high easily, off the music, off a moment. Maybe I was like that when I first came down the Hill. All wide-eyed and trying to take it all in. Everything was exciting.

Laura twirls and laughs, the stars in her eyes. “And Duke Ellington,” she gleefully chirps. “Playing for us. Live. Did you see how he nodded to us when we stepped off the floor?”

“Sure,” I answer. Thinking, meanwhile, that a nod ain’t nothing. I used to shine that cat’s shoes. He put nickels in my hand. The fingers that make that magic, I’ve felt them in my palm.

It takes a bit more to impress me now. And I was impressed tonight. I didn’t catch her name yet, so in my mind she’s Miss Cream. I can still feel her arms. Hope to heaven that she’s still waiting for me. That some other cat hasn’t caught her eye. Out of sight, out of mind. Not for me. But for her?

Laura grasps my hand and comes kissing at me. It takes me by surprise. All these weeks together, it’s been hard to get more than a how-do-you-do.

I scoop her close and try to push it a little. Tonight we’ve danced among the stars — maybe her cherry ice is melting.

She lets me kiss her for a while, then she ducks her face away. “I have to get home.”

I know. And I have to get back to the Roseland. “Of course.” I put my arm around her shoulders, real polite. No reason to make a fuss with her. I’m gonna get mine tonight.

Laura tucks against me while I’m thinking how to tell her about the white girl that I met. Most girls you wouldn’t even have to tell. Surely she saw me dancing up on Miss Cream. Everyone saw. I went out of my way to make sure of it. I’ve never had so many eyes on me. Never had a bunch of hip cats all drooling and wishing they were me. I was hot stuff on the dance floor for a minute there.

I want that feeling back. Coming down the Hill is a rush, for sure, but it’s not enough anymore. Maybe for Laura, but not for me. I’ve come too far.

And she isn’t the girl who can go far enough for what I need.

“There’s so much out there for us, don’t you think?” Laura’s saying.

“Out where?” There’s plenty for me right here, and plenty for her anywhere she wants, but it isn’t the same plenty and what does she mean by “us”?

“I’m so happy I met you,” she gushes. “I’m so glad we’re together now. I always wanted a boyfriend.” She’s giggling, all flustered.

Boyfriend?
The word echoes in my ears.

“I just wanted us to have a fun time,” I say. “It’s not that serious.”

In fact, it has been fun. She dances like a dream. She’s pretty enough to turn heads. It’s been a lot of fun, right up until this point, but we’re heading in different directions. Right now all I want is to go back in and dance with other girls. One in particular.

My arm around her grows heavy. “This is what we should do,” she starts. “Tomorrow, let’s go . . .” She keeps talking, but I stop listening.

Yeah, it’s getting too deep, and she’s holding me back. Holding me down when all I want is to fly high and free.

Laura leans against me. “You know?” she says.

I have so much in my heart for her. Too much, really. No space for it, in the end. And Miss Cream, moving against me like a scoop of molten vanilla. That’s where I should be.

Time to move past holding hands, two straws over a raspberry soda.

“Look, baby,” I tell her. “This isn’t working out.”

When I lean away, she falters, stumbling backward, like I’ve pulled the very earth out from under her. She stands a little apart from me, just breathing and staring. Eyes wide.

“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“No,” she says. She holds up a slim gloved hand. “I’m fine.” But I walk her anyway, and I wait until the front door is closed.

I’m half expecting Miss Cream to be gone. I scope the dance floor. Searching. Searching.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. There she is.

Sure enough, she’s dancing with some other guy. A conked black guy. As tall as me. Maybe taller. Definitely thicker, body and mind.

She stands out like wine on a tablecloth. Well, the opposite of that. I look around, thinking for the first time clearly how strange it is for a white woman to be at a Negro-night dance. Why did someone like her come here? For the thrill of doing something daring — something the world wouldn’t approve of? I can relate to that.