Free The Red Rose Box by Brenda Woods

spots of sun with my feet. Then I remembered that I was in a hurry. I washed my face and hands, put on a white sundress, white socks, and new white tennis shoes, brushed and braided my hair, and straightened the bed.
    Ruth opened the door without knocking and said, “Red on Monday, gonna be hot, white on Monday, gotta eat a frog.”
    â€œToday is Tuesday,” I said.
    â€œSo,” she said, “red on Tuesday, still gonna be hot.”

    Aunt Olivia was dressed in navy blue and we looked like the American flag as we walked down the steps and made our way to the dining room.
    Uncle Bill stood when he saw us. A caramel-colored waiter pulled out a chair for Aunt Olivia and then for us. We sat and he handed us menus. Ruth held the menu in front of her face and peeked at me. Smiles sailed around the table.
    There were ten tables in the hotel dining room. The tables were covered with pale blue tablecloths and vases filled with white daisies. Colored men wearing suits and fancy ladies wearing hats sat at the tables, stirring coffee with silver spoons, dabbing the corners of their mouths with white napkins. The waiter came back to the table and we ordered.
    I was cutting my pancakes when Uncle Bill picked up the newspaper and began to read.
    â€œBrown versus Board of Education ... Supreme Court has ruled that separate is not equal....” He paused and explained, “That keeping white and colored children separated in school is against the law. The KKK’s all riled up. More blood’s about to flow.”
    â€œBill, can’t we talk about something pleasant?” Aunt Olivia asked.
    Uncle Bill replied, “Olivia, this is history, pure and simple, history,” and kept reading. “The White Citizens Council has vowed to resist school integration by every lawful means.” Uncle Bill put down the paper, took a sip of coffee, and added, “Gonna be some lynchings, you wait and see.”
    My mind turned to Micah and Nathan Shine, the truck that had stopped that evening, tall trees with branches. I remembered Micah’s words.
    Uncle Bill excused himself from the table, saying he had business to attend to in Harlem, telling us with a smile to have a wonderful day. I wiped my mouth and looked after him as he walked away.
    â€œWhat’s Harlem like?” I asked Olivia as I reached for my glass of cold milk.
    â€œMostly colored. Used to be mixed but white folks got scared, like they do, and started moving out. Landlords rented to more colored, then more, needed someone to rent to. Whites moved out, colored in. That’s Harlem,” Aunt Olivia replied.
    â€œWhy?” I asked. “Why they gotta be afraid of us? They the ones ridin horses at midnight, wearin hoods, hangin people from trees, spittin at us while we walk down the road like we don’t have no souls.”
    â€œLet’s talk about something more pleasant, Leah.” Aunt Olivia took a sip of orange juice.
    â€œYeah, Leah ... more pleasant things than lynchins,” Ruth echoed. She turned to Aunt Olivia and continued, “Leah was bout to drink from the white fountain in Lake Charles last time we was there.” Ruth was talking loudly and a couple seated at a nearby table hung their heads.
    Aunt Olivia put her finger to her lips, the way Mama did. We finished breakfast in silence and left the hotel.
    The streets of New York City were lined with people and I thought of armies of red ants marching toward their hills. A taxi took us to an elegant avenue where there were shops, all kinds. Hats. Dresses. Shoes. Aunt Olivia bought us matching sailor dresses with sailor hats and red patent leather shoes.
    We carried shiny white pocketbooks with nothing in them but a few pennies and bought blue swimming suits with red polka dots. I smiled at my skinny self in the mirror, hoping the suit would still fit when we went to swim in the lake water at home on a hot, sticky day.
    I tugged on Olivia’s sleeveless