Free Belle Teal by Ann Martin Page A

“Vernon,” I say. And then I add, “Chas,” since Chas is hovering behind him. “Clarice and me are friends with Darryl and you better get used to it.”
    â€œYour friend ,” replies Vernon, “doesn’t belong in our school.”
    Chas steps around Vernon, feeling braver. “And we shouldn’t have to associate with his kind,” he says.
    â€œBut it’s okay for them to serve you meals?” I ask, knowing that Chas sometimes eats at the counter in Sherman’s. The heat is rising to my face and I have to take in deep breaths and remember again about Gran and her Lord, and Mama and what she believes in.
    â€œThat’s all they’re good for,” says Chas. “That and cleaning up.”
    My head begins to pound and I am about to forget everything I just tried to remember. I pull back my arm and I really think I am going to sock one of the boys, but then I drop my hand to my side and turn my back on all of them. I just march down the road toward Route 518, even though I can hear Clarice calling after me. When she calls louder, I start to run, and I keep running until I don’t hear anything. Then I slow down.
    Tears have come to my eyes and I blink, blink, blink all furious-like as I stomp along. I don’t bother to wave in at Miss Wanda as I stomp by her beauty salon. I am breathing hard and my chest hurts. I swipe at my tears with my hand, which is none too clean. Chas and Vernon are pigs, I think. And Clarice, I could just wring her neck. How is it that Darryl doesn’t go home from school in this state every single day? I wonder. Or maybe he does, and I just don’t know about it.
    I reach 518, blast across the highway, and hit our dirt road, which is muddy from a rainfall we had yesterday. I look up and see the trees against the sky. The leaves are starting to blow off. And that sky, it is a deep dark blue. The days are so much shorter now. By Halloween, we will have turned our clocks backward and it will be full-on dark by the time we get to school for the party.
    I clomp along in my old boots, which Gran has said I will have to make do with this year if my toes can possibly take it. I hate trudging up our hill in the dark. I’m not even making good use of my thinking time. I have to concentrate so as not to trip over rocks or roots. Even so, I fall twice. The second time I go down on my knee and muddy up the flannel dress Gran just made.
    By the time I fling open our front door I am a mess. I’m all muddy, my knee is bleeding, and I know I look like I’ve been crying.
    â€œMy stars,” murmurs Gran when she sees me. “What on earth?”
    I can’t help myself. I start to sob.
    Gran, she folds me into her arms, hums a tuneless tune.
    Finally I pull away from her, look into her eyes, and say, “I think I put a hole in my dress.”
    â€œWell, never you mind. Tell me what happened, Lyman. Not fighting again, I hope.” Gran has turned away and is sorting through a kitchen cupboard for Band-Aids and the Mercurochrome.
    I can’t answer her. The color glides out of my face, and I begin to shake.
    Gran returns, takes my hand, feels the trembling, and sits me on a kitchen chair to take care of my knee.
    I lean into Gran’s soft, creased face and whisper, “Vernon called me a nigger-lover.”
    But Gran is singing softly about bluebirds and the White Cliffs of Dover and Jimmy sleeping in his own little room again, and I don’t know as she has heard me. When she is satisfied with the state of my knee, she holds my hand for a moment, brushes the hair from my face, then turns to the pots on the stove.
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    Mama comes home late that night, long after I have turned out my light. Sometimes she goes to a study room at the secretarial school to do her homework so’s to be sure she is ready for her next class. I call to her when I hear her pass by my bedroom door.
    â€œPrecious?” Mama replies.