Yankee Girl (11 page)

Chattering voices and snatches of Christmas carols from open doors followed us down the hall. The smell of corn-bread dressing wafted from the lunchroom. Lunch.

The scent reminded me that in two hours the Christmas pageant would be over. We'd eat, swap presents, and go home. I tried to remember what life was like before the Christmas pageant.

I couldn't.

We left the chorus at the auditorium door. The rest of us followed Miss LeFleur's clicking heels out the front door, down the sidewalk, and around the corner to the stage door.

Backstage was jammed with first graders in candy-cane costumes and second graders dressed as reindeer. It smelled of stage dust and Pan-Cake make-up.

We were last on the programme, which meant standing backstage for ever. Tommy paced along the wall, trying not to cough. Mary Martha trailed around in her Mary robes, clutching a Tiny Tears doll wrapped in a blanket that was supposed to be the Baby Jesus. Valerie stood alone, staring into the rafters. Was she nervous? Scared? I was. I could feel sweat circles creeping out from under my arms. I hoped they wouldn't show onstage.

I smelled Miss LeFleur's White Shoulders perfume before I saw her.

“Places, everyone,” she stage-whispered over the fifth graders, who were bellowing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.

Tommy went into a fit of coughs. “It's the dust,” he choked. “Anybody got a cough drop?”

“My hair's falling down,” whined Debbie.

“You're standing on my robe.” Mary Martha shoved Skipper off her hem.

Karla's pinchers closed on the back of my wrist. I scarcely noticed.

Miss LeFleur stepped through the curtains and was almost flattened by the fifth grade stampeding offstage.

“And now,” said Miss LeFleur, “the sixth grade presents the Nativity from the Book of Luke.”

Feet shuffled on creaking risers as the chorus arranged themselves. Miss Gruen's hands hit the opening chords of “The First Noël”. That was Tommy's cue.

He stood in the wings, coughing.

“Go on, man.” Jeb shoved him through the curtain.

“And it came to pass in those days…” We waited, but Tommy didn't cough.

“Wow,” whispered Jeb through his cotton-ball beard. “A Christmas miracle.”

The real miracle would be if the sixth grade got through the whole pageant without messing up.

My turn. I clamped my arms over the wet circles and stepped onstage. I peered into the dark, looking for imaginary sheep and Mama. I knew better than to expect Daddy. All I saw were wiggly first-grade candy canes in the front row.

“And they were sore afraid,” said Tommy. I gazed up at Debbie the Angel. With her beauty-shop ringlets drooping in her eyes, she looked like a tiny sheepdog.

From the wings, Valerie sang as smooth and sweet as always. If only Debbie had remembered the words she was supposed to mouth. Instead she stared straight at the audience, terrified. She opened and closed her mouth, like a guppy out of water. Then she just stood there, mouth clamped shut. The audience applauded, even if they were left wondering about an angel who sang without opening her mouth.

We shepherds followed Debbie over to the manger. The Wise Men showed up, on time for once. Valerie and the chorus sang the last verse of “The First Noël”, Leland yanked the curtain ropes, and it was all over.

I lined up for the curtain call, reaching for Mary Martha's hand. My hand closed on air. No Mary Martha. Where was she? I stepped sideways to take Skipper's hand and close the gap.

“Ready,” hollered Leland, and ripped open the curtains.

“Wait,” called Mary Martha from backstage.

She ran towards us, towing Valerie. Skipper and I dropped hands to let them in the line. But Mary Martha and Valerie edged past us to the footlights.

“This is Valerie Taylor,” Mary Martha said. “She was the voice of the angel.”

The applause stopped. There was total, stunned silence.

Then I heard someone clapping. One single person clapping. Then someone else. And someone else.

Not everyone clapped. Debbie's mother slammed her seat shut and left. Some kids booed. Others stomped their feet and whistled. They were probably just happy the programme was over.

Valerie's face glowed. I followed her gaze to a Negro man and woman in the front row of the left section, beaming as they applauded. Valerie's parents.

No one else sat in their row.

We returned to 6B after the holiday lunch – stringy turkey and dressing that tasted like mothballs – to find that the room mothers had dropped off the party refreshments. Miss Gruen looked at the plates of cookies and cupcakes, boxes of candy canes, and Hawaiian Punch already poured into Dixie cups.

“Let us commence with the party,” said Miss Gruen. She put “Jingle Bell Rock” on the record player. “No dancing,” she warned. “This is just party music.”

Still, I spied Debbie and Andy doing the twist in a corner of the coatroom. They were the only ones in a party mood.

Kids clumped in corners, mumbling. Over “The Chipmunk Song” I heard snatches of very un-Christmassy conversation.

“Is Mary Martha crazy?”

“…never thought she was a nigger lover but…”

“I'm un-inviting her to my Christmas party…”

“Me, too. Mama wouldn't let a nigger lover in the house…”

“…she
touched
a nigra…”

Mary Martha stood by the chalkboard, sipping punch. Alone. Her eyes darted around the room. But no one would look at her.

I knew how that felt. Invisible Mary Martha.

“We shall proceed with the gift exchange,” Miss Gruen announced.

The green cupcakes and red sugar cookies formed a boulder in my stomach. I hadn't gotten that extra present for Valerie.

Miss Gruen placed a large box covered with brick-printed wallpaper on her desk. I guess it was supposed to be a chimney. Miss Gruen called our names as she pulled packages from the box.

“Alice.” My present was small, flat, and light, just the size, shape, and weight of a 45 record. The new Beatles single? Who cared? When would Miss Gruen call Valerie's name?

“Debbie.” Debbie ripped open her present as she walked down the aisle, leaving a trail of wrapping paper and ribbon.

“Oooh,” she squealed. “Chocolate-covered cherries.” Debbie was thrilled. Not only did she know that Andy gave them to her (he told her), but that they had cost three dollars. Andy had left the price tag on the lid.

“Carrie.” Carrie hefted the package. “It's a book,” she said in a disappointed voice. Oh well. She could always trade.

“Leland.” His box contained two handkerchiefs. A good idea, since Leland always wiped his nose on his hand.

“What a lousy present,” he said over and over.

Valerie's desk was the only one not covered with Christmas wrap and ribbons. The boulder in my stomach swelled.

“Valerie,” Miss Gruen finally called. Relief! She was last, but Valerie had her present. Now I could open my own gift with a clear conscience.

It was a 45 all right. But not the Beatles. “Come See about Me” by the Supremes. I didn't have to look to know that Valerie was watching.

I turned and smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. Everyone was too busy with their own presents to pay us any attention.

She smiled back. “Thought you might want to hear some real music.”

“What did you get?” I was happy I could ask the question.

Valerie held up a square ivory-coloured paper box, decorated with purple flowers. “Yardley's English Lavender” said the flowing purple script on the sides. Weird. Who would give such an old-lady kind of present?

“Boys and girls, it's time to say thank you,” said Miss Gruen. “The giver may identify himself or herself, if they wish.”

Up and down the rows, we stood and said “thank you” and “you're welcome”. Except for Leland, who said, “Who gave me these stupid hankies?” No one would admit to it.

Valerie stood and softly said, “Thank you for the lavender sachet.”

Only she wasn't looking at the class. She was looking at Miss Gruen.

I should've felt happier as we lined up to go home. After all, the pageant had gone okay. Valerie had gotten her curtain call. She even got a present.

But it was Pammie's voice I heard as I watched the class move away from Mary Martha in line.

“Those girls have power.” They did.

The Cheerleaders could even make Mary Martha Goode invisible.

I lay on my bed New Year's Eve afternoon, reading “Paul and Jane's Fab Christmas” in
16 Magazine
. The Supremes sang “Come See about Me” over and over on the record player.

The phone rang. Probably someone telling us to move back North. Again. Nobody ever called me.

“Alice, phone,” Mama yelled.

Me? Who would call me?

“Hey, Alice,” rasped a familiar voice. “It's me, Saranne. Watcha doin'?”

Listening to the record Valerie gave me.
“Not much.”
What do you want?

“I'm having a spend-the-night party. We're gonna stay up until the New Year. Wanna come?”

“You're having a spend-the-night party,” I repeated, just to make sure I wasn't hearing things.

“That's what I said. Can you come?” Saranne sounded like her usual nasty self, but she was inviting me to a party.

“Sure.” Mama would say yes. I mean, how many times had I been invited to spend the night this year? Exactly zero, that's how many.

That evening I stood at Saranne's front door, scared and excited at the same time. Saranne could switch from nice to nasty without even breathing hard. But maybe I wouldn't have to worry about that any more. Because after tonight, I would belong. Really belong.

“C'mon in,” Saranne said when she opened the door. “Dump your stuff in the living room.”

The other Cheerleaders, minus Mary Martha, sat on the floor around the Russells' aluminium Christmas tree. A twirling light disc at the base clicked and hummed as it changed the silver tree to red, then blue, then green. Pretty. Just not awfully Christmassy.

“Hey, Alice,” they called. “Sit on down here. Make yourself to home.”

Alice. They called me Alice.

I am
inside
the fun, not just watching it. This is the beginning of being friends.

It was just like spend-the-night parties in Chicago. We popped corn. We polished each other's nails even though we knew our mothers would make us take it off the minute we got home. We listened to the new Beatles record and danced.

Yeah, just like any other spend-the-night. Except that these were the Cheerleaders. And they called me Alice. No one said anything about Yankees.

No one said anything about Mary Martha either until I asked where she was.

“Oh,
her,
” sniffed Saranne. “
We
aren't talking to
her
.”

“We don't talk to nigger lovers,” said Debbie, tossing popcorn in her mouth one piece at a time.

“She
touched
that nigra.” Cheryl shuddered. “She
held
her
hand.
”

“I hear Mary Martha has a cousin in Ohio. She probably caught some Yankee ideas from her.” Carrie made Yankee ideas sound like the measles.

“Oh.” What else could I say, without sounding like a Yankee?

Lucky for me, Saranne's mother came in just then to say good night.

“Y'all can stay up until the New Year comes in and that's it,” said Mrs. Russell on her way to bed. “I don't want to hear giggling all night.”

“We won't, ma'am,” we said. We knew we would. That's what spend-the-night parties are for!

“Okay, let's talk,” said Saranne as we formed a lopsided circle around her in our sleeping bags. She leaned over and clicked on the radio.

“We've
been
talking,” griped Carrie. “I want to listen to the radio. Rebel Radio is counting down the top one hundred songs of the year.”

“Not now,” said Saranne. “We've got some stuff to figure out.” She pitched her voice low under “A Hard Day's Night”.

“Like what?” yawned Carrie.

“Like Valerie.” Saranne leaned back against the couch, arms folded across her chest.

“Boring,” said Debbie. “Let's talk about boys.”

“Not now!” said Saranne. “First, we need to get things straight with you, Alice.”

Uh-oh.
So this was why Saranne invited me. Torture time.
How fast can I get dressed and out the door?

“So, Alice.” Saranne's voice hurt my ears. “We know you're a Yankee, but are you a nigger lover, too?”

Do I think black people are equal to white people? Of course!

I'd be crazy to say that. Here. Now.

“No,” I said, in a voice that sounded very loud to me.

“We don't want any nigger lovers hanging around us.” The light wheel changed Saranne's face. Martian green. Spooky blue. Glowing red, like a fun-house monster. “We have to be sure, now that you're one of us.”

One of them? That's what she said. One of them. I'll do anything not to be Yankee Girl again.

“Of course I'm not a nigger lover.” The word “nigger” felt hard and ugly on my tongue. Like “damn” or “hell” or worse.

It's just a word. I don't mean anything by it.

I couldn't believe I'd said it. But I had.

And that made all the difference.

Everyone chattered at once.

“See, I told you we could trust her…”

“Just because her daddy…”

“Good thing after that rat fink Mary Martha did what she did…”