Yankee Girl (12 page)

“See, Alice,” Saranne broke in, “we need to all stick together on this Valerie thing. Don't need anybody finking out on us.” She helped herself to a handful of popcorn.

“Huh? Finking out about what?” I was lost in this conversation.

“We need to decide what to do about Valerie,” said Saranne. “What are we going to do if she goes to junior high with us?”

So what if she does?

But I was one of them now. I kept quiet.

“That would be just terrible,” Cheryl mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Yeah,” said Saranne. She crunched her popcorn with her sharp little teeth and swallowed. “What if she brings more of her nigra friends with her? I mean, if she graduates with us, they're gonna think it's okay for them to go to white schools. My daddy says pretty soon the schools will be more nigra than white. If that happens, he's gonna send me to Council School.”

“What's Council School?” I said.

“Private school,” said Saranne. “The White Citizens' Council started them so we don't have to go to school with nigras.”

“Yeah, my daddy says he might send me next year,” yawned Debbie. “Big deal. School is school.”

“You don't want to go to Council.” Saranne poked Debbie in the arm. “They don't have cheerleaders, because they don't have a football team.”

“They
don't
?” Debbie shuddered. “How vomitaceous.”

“Get rid of Valerie now, and we won't have to worry about next year.” Saranne smacked popcorn salt from her hands.

“How?” said Carrie. “We've tried just about everything and she's still here.”

“I don't know,” Saranne said. “But we'll think of something.”

I felt queasy.

But I'm not doing anything. I'm just listening.

Cheryl passed me the popcorn bowl. Debbie rolled my hair on orange-juice cans. And the Beatles sang “She Loves You” as we sat around the Christmas tree and thought of ways to get rid of Valerie Taylor.

In Chicago it was easy to say that Southerners were stupid and wrong. Easy to think that you would do things differently. Not so easy in the Russells' living room. Thinking about what other people should do was one thing. Doing it yourself was another.

We never did come up with a plan for getting rid of Valerie that night. And the first day back from Christmas there was something new to think about.

Seventh grade. Everyone was talking about seventh grade.

Five more months and we would be in junior high. Practically teenagers.

Miss Gruen had seventh grade on the brain, too. “Next year you will change rooms for each class,” she said.

I knew that. Pammie said she had five minutes to go to her locker, go to the bathroom, and get to class. It gave me the shivers.

“To accustom you to changing rooms, Miss LeFleur and I will exchange reading groups.”

Miss LeFleur at last! Bye-bye, Toad Woman and brown dresses. Hello, Miss LeFleur and pastel sweaters. At least for reading group.

Although the rooms all had the same pale green walls and dirt-coloured linoleum, 6A looked cheerier. Potted African violets on the windowsills, a piñata dangling from the ceiling, artwork on the bulletin boards. Miss Gruen tacked perfect spelling and math papers on
her
bulletin boards.

Everyone stampeded for the back seats. Not me. I grabbed the front desk, centre row, in front of Miss LeFleur and that big rebel – no –
Confederate
flag.

Today she wore a fluffy mohair sweater that looked like cotton candy. Her charm bracelet jingled as her grading pencil slashed through a pile of tests.

Valerie brushed by my desk on her way up front. She stood before Miss LeFleur, workbook in hand.

Miss LeFleur didn't notice.

Valerie cleared her throat. “Miss LeFleur,” she said softly.

The red pencil moved steadily across the page.

“Miss LeFleur,” she said in her regular voice.

Miss LeFleur looked up. “Oh! Valerie. I didn't know you were there. Well?” She tapped her pencil on the pile of papers. “What do you want? I'm busy.”

Valerie whispered as she pointed to something in the workbook.

“The directions are right there on the page.” Miss LeFleur sounded cranky. “I can't be spoon-feeding you. Don't coloured schools teach how to read directions?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Valerie ducked her head and went back to her desk.

Miss LeFleur opened her bottom desk drawer and got out a spray can of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. Lysol?

Then she stood, stacked the tests on her chair, and sprayed the desk with Lysol, wiping it with a paper towel. When she finished, she sprayed the air around her desk, a magic circle to protect her against…Valerie?

“Some folks think nigras have special germs,” Jeb explained later. “They don't mean nothing by it.”

So why did I have this icky feeling in my stomach? The same feeling I had whenever I looked at Miss LeFleur's Confederate flag.

After lunch that day, Valerie and I were alone in the rest room. All I could think of was Saranne's party.

“You have a good Christmas?” I whacked at my frizzy bangs with a hairbrush, while Valerie washed her hands.

“Hmmm.” Valerie smiled at me in the mirror over the sink. “You?”

“Yeah, pretty good.”
I went to this party where we figured out ways to get rid of you.
“I've been listening to that record you gave me. I like it.”

“The Supremes are great.” Valerie dried her hands on a paper towel. “Did you see them on
The Ed Sullivan Show
Sunday night?”

“Yeah,” I said. “They did ‘Come See about Me'. How come Rebel Radio doesn't play their stuff, if they're that good?”

“I told you if you want
good
music, you listen to WOKJ,” Valerie teased.

The bathroom door creaked, and I knew someone was about to come in. I started for the door. Valerie got busy washing her hands. Again.

No one could've told that we had just had a friendly talk, Valerie and I.

Especially not the Cheerleaders.

Between feeling like a fink and worrying about seventh grade, I didn't notice when Miss Gruen flipped the calendar over to February. Suddenly, Valentine's Day was the number-one topic on the bus.

“We don't have to give valentines to everybody any more,” Saranne rejoiced.

“What do you mean?” I braced as Ralph took a corner on two wheels.

“The other teachers made us give valentines to the whole class.” Carrie palmed a peppermint toothpick and passed the bottle to Debbie.

“We're old enough to know who we want to give a valentine to,” said Saranne with a pointy-toothed smile.

“Naw, that ain't it.” Debbie chewed her toothpick. “I heard Miss LeFleur say it wasn't fair to make us give a nigra valentines if we didn't want to.”

“Who would?” Cheryl hooted.

“Oh, who cares about her,” said Debbie. “Andy's going to send me roses.” She flipped her wrist so we could all see she was wearing Andy's ID bracelet. It meant they were going steady.

“You lie,” snapped Saranne. “He isn't going to do any such thing.”

“Is too,” said Debbie calmly. “You're just jealous.”

I
was jealous. A lot of girls wore boys' IDs. Carrie wore Tommy's.

“You don't even like him,” Saranne had said when Carrie showed off her new ID bracelet.

“So what?” said Carrie. “It's just until somebody better turns up.”

“Like who?” said Saranne in a hateful voice. “Ringo?”

I wasn't sure I even wanted a boyfriend, but if all the Cheerleaders had boyfriends, then I needed one, too. Jeb would do. At least he talked to me. Sometimes.

“No way,” said Jeb. We were in the Mateers' den, drawing cloud charts for science. “Why would I give my ID to some old girl?”

“Maybe if you liked somebody…” I hinted as I coloured cumulonimbus clouds.

“Well, I don't.” He rapped out a drum solo on the table edge with coloured pencils. “Girls are creepy.”

“Gee, thanks.” I thumped him on the head with my pencil.

I added Valentine's Day to my list of Holidays That Stink.

We stood shivering in the drizzle, waiting for the first bell and the “King Cotton March”. It had to be pouring for Mr. Thibodeaux to let us inside before the first bell.

“I've got an idea,” Saranne said. “How to get rid of Valerie once and for all.” She waited for us to ask her “what”.

“What?” asked Cheryl.

“We could send her valentines…”

“What!” squawked Debbie.

Saranne gave her a mean look. “I was saying we could send her valentines. But instead of signing our names, we could write stuff like ‘Nigger, go home', ‘Niggers stink'. Like that. We can get the whole class to do it.”

“The boys won't do it,” said Carrie. “Tommy says the boys aren't giving valentines to anybody but their girlfriends.”

Saranne waved away the idea like a pesky fly. “The girls will do it.”

“Mary Martha won't,” Carrie reminded her.

“We aren't talking to her, remember?” said Saranne. “The big nigger lover.”

I didn't want to think about valentines at all. When I was in second grade, Daddy got transferred to Chicago the week before Valentine's Day. I sent everyone in the class a card signed, “Your new friend, Alice Moxley.” I got one valentine back. From my teacher. Talk about feeling rotten! What if that happened again?

I can't send Valerie a mean card. I'll send a nice one. It'll be our secret.

Saranne didn't waste any time. The drizzle had turned into real rain by recess, so we were stuck inside 6B playing hangman on the chalkboard. While dumb old Leland tried to figure out the word from BIC_CLE, a note flew up and down the aisles. I unfolded the paper triangle and read in Saranne's teeny cursive:

Do you want Coon Girl and her buddies in OUR junior high? Show her who's boss. Send her a mean valentine. Anybody who doesn't is a niggerlover AND WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!!!!!

P.S. No card for Mary Martha Niggerlover either.

I'm sending Valerie a nice card, remember?

AND WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!!!!!

In a fog, I moved on to Miss LeFleur's room for reading.

“Alice, would you read next, please?”

“Huh? I mean, ma'am?” I had no idea where we were.

“You need to pay attention, Alice,” said Miss LeFleur. She leaned over my shoulder, her charm bracelet jingling as she pointed to my place in the reader. What would Miss LeFleur do if she were me? I'll bet
she
had been popular in the sixth grade. Maybe even a cheerleader.

I stewed about valentines all the way home. I leaped off the bus ahead of Jeb. I didn't want to talk to anybody.

“What's the big hurry?” Jeb fell into step with me. “Whaddya think of that stupid note Saranne sent around about Valerie? Not that I like Valerie or anything,” he added quickly. “I wasn't sending valentines nohow.”

“What's everybody else going to do?”

Jeb snorted. “Some of the guys are doing it. Some aren't. Leland isn't.”

“Really?” I couldn't believe that.

“Yeah. Said he ain't wastin' valentines on no nigger.”

That
I could believe.

“Hey, there's Andy. See ya.” And Jeb took off after his friend.

Wait a minute! Wasn't Jeb the one who told me to just go along? Not to stand up for anybody coloured?

I was all mixed up. Again.

Why do you care what Saranne Russell thinks?

Because she can turn me back into Yankee Girl, that's why.

I couldn't send Valerie an ugly valentine. And I couldn't send a nice one. I just wouldn't send one at all.

Okay! All decided!

Then why did I wake up every hour all night long? Midnight, said my clock radio. One o'clock, two. I flipped my pillow looking for a cool spot. Three o'clock, four. The clock radio popped on at six-thirty. The Beatles sang “I Feel Fine”.

I sure didn't.

Friday, the day of the party, the Cheerleaders bounced in their bus seats, full of the Plan.

Saranne shook her grocery sack of valentines. “I can't wait to see you-know-who's face.”

I could wait.

There was an empty spot on the backseat.

“Where's Carrie?” I asked.

Saranne rolled her eyes and frowned. “Sitting down front. She's in mourning.”

“Mourning? Gee, who died?”

“Nobody. Ringo got married yesterday.” Debbie smacked her lime Fruit Stripe and rolled her eyes.

Carrie got off the bus with the rest of us, head down, feet dragging. Everyone else was all keyed up. The girls giggled and pretended to ignore the boys.

The boys didn't have to pretend; they
were
ignoring the girls. Most of them were empty-handed, except Andy, who lugged a Kennington's shopping bag.

“That's a lot of valentines,” Debbie hinted, trying to peek in the bag.

“No fair looking.” Andy hefted the bag out of Debbie's reach.

“Where are your valentines?” I asked Jeb as we marched in.

“Told you I wasn't giving any,” he said. He wasn't kidding.

Chicken hips!

Miss Gruen made us put our cards in our cubbies. “I don't want y'all fiddling with those cards all morning,” she said.

Lined up on the wide windowsill were our valentine mailboxes – foil-covered shoe boxes. My head hurt just looking at them. I wished the day was over.

I wish I were in Cuba. I'll bet they don't even have Valentine's Day.