Free The Taste of Salt by Martha Southgate Page A

while he was at work.
    I didn’t keep everything from him, though. I did tell him that I had started volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club that summer a couple of times a week. He was at work and the house was as kept as it was going to get and Josie was gone to Florida for the summer—she’d gotten herself into a high school oceanography/marine biology program. Judging from her occasional letters, she was as happy as could be. Tick? Well, God only knew what Tick was doing. He came home occasionally to get food and wash his clothes, but that was about it. He barely spoke to me, and he didn’t say a mumblin’ word to Ray. It was like we were his not allthat comfortable boarding house. The family of one of his new white friends with money had a membership to a golf club and Tick got a job working in the concession stand there. At first, it seemed that getting a job would be good for him—get him out of the house, teach him some responsibility. But I didn’t realize that he’d use it as a way to get free of us. He would come home from work, eat something, some of the time, standing in front of the refrigerator, foot tapping, and then he’d be gone again. Never a proper meal. Never a proper conversation. A stranger.
    So that’s what made me decide to start volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club. The days were so full of hours and so empty of affection or pleasure. I had a few friends but no one that I felt I could tell the truth of my life to. So after a while, the cups of coffee turned stale and bitter in my mouth. How many times can you shine a table that already shines, sweep a floor that’s free of dust? No. I had to do something else. No one ever touched me anymore. No one seemed happy to see me anymore. No one wanted me anymore.
    I loved watching the kids pelting around outside or helping them inside as they wriggled, working on craft projects, glue and Popsicle sticks everywhere. They reminded me of Tick and Josie, years ago, even though these kids tried to be tough: Some of them used rough language and swaggereda little bit. But mostly they were young and sweet and the street hadn’t gotten to them yet. Even the ones who tried to act so hard weren’t—not really. They weren’t rude or disrespectful. Some of them would be later. But they weren’t yet. They hadn’t learned what the world was going to think of them, a bunch of black kids without a lot of money.
    One of my favorites was a little girl named Ayesha. She had two puffy braids (just the way I used to do Josie’s hair) with those rubber-band holders that end with plastic balls. She had a serious, thoughtful air, and she carried a notebook shoved under her arm. Her glasses were always sliding down her nose. She wore the same faded red sweatshirt every day. And she sat in the corner of the playground, writing and writing. I watched her for days. Finally, I got up the nerve to go over and talk to her. “What are you working on so hard?” I asked.
    â€œMy notebook,” she said, her eyes clear and sure.
    â€œMy daughter used to like to keep a notebook that had a list of all the plants and fish and things that she found outside and at the beach. What do you put in your notebook?” I found myself sliding down to sit next to her, even though it had been many years since I’d sat on the ground like that myself. I remembered getting up with dusty knees and never worrying about what people would say. It was a long time ago that I was that free. Ayesha looked at meas though she was considering whether or not I was to be trusted. She decided I was. “I write down stuff I see. Stuff I think about. I got the idea from this book
Harriet the Spy’”
    â€œI don’t know that book. What’s it about?”
    Ayesha looked uncertain if she should tell. Then she kept talking, getting more and more excited. “Well, it’s about this girl Harriet. She’s a white girl