Fire from the Rock (12 page)

Sylvia looked up, alarm on her face. “You think?”

“I know,” Lou Ann replied matter-of factly. “Look what happened in class today. Is it worth it, Sylvia?”

“I don't know,” Sylvia replied, confused as usual. “It seems like the right thing to do.” Her voice trailed off.

“The right thing for who? For you? For your parents? For Negroes everywhere?” She snorted. “Who will remember, and who will care about the first kids to integrate Central High School? Nobody.”

“I will remember,” Sylvia said quietly.

“Why do you want to go to a school where you can't join in stuff? If you go to Mann, you can be a cheerleader, run the newspaper, go out for track, and still be head of the smart kids' club—whatever that is.” She smiled. “You can go to dances with boys that look like chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla, with boys you can touch, boys who want to touch you back. You'd be giving up so much, Sylvia.”

Sylvia nodded and her shoulders sagged. Just then Reggie walked into the cafeteria, laughing hilariously with a small group of boys and at the girl in the middle of the circle. It was Candy Castle.

“See what I mean?” Lou Ann said. “I wouldn't give up my boyfriend for white folks. I would stay and fight for my man.” Sylvia slumped as she walked with Lou Ann to take their trays back. The bell rang for class, and Reggie left with the rest of the boys, never even noticing Sylvia.

At supper that night, Sylvia, in a grumpy mood, managed to offend everyone at the table.

“Quit hoggin' all the biscuits,” she snapped at her sister.

“What's the matter with you? I only had one,” Donna Jean retorted. “Mama, can I have jelly on my bread?”

“No jelly on dinner biscuits—only at breakfast,” her mother said without looking up.

“That's just dumb!” Sylvia said. She stomped over to the refrigerator, took out the grape jelly, and smeared it all over two of her biscuits. “The biscuits don't know what time of day it is!”

Donna Jean put down her fork. “Ooh, you're gonna get it!” she said to Sylvia.

“What's gotten into you, Sylvia?” her mother asked with concern.

“Nothing but jelly,” Sylvia replied. “Just leave me alone!” Sylvia blinked hard to keep from crying. She didn't even like jelly on her bread. She glared at her mother and stuffed the biscuit into her mouth.

Her mother looked at her strangely, started to speak, but was interrupted by her father. “Don't talk to your mother in that tone, Sylvia Faye,” he said sharply.

“Why is everybody picking on me?” Sylvia shouted with her mouth full. “Can't I just eat my dinner in peace?”

“It seems to me that you are the only person at the table who is disturbing the peace right now,” her mother said quietly. “What's wrong, Sylvia?”

Gary, who had watched the whole scene with detached amusement, finally spoke up. “Mama, Daddy, give her a break. People at her school and folks around town as well have been pulling her in all directions. ‘Be proud! Be black! Be white! Don't turn white on us! Stay with your own kind! Go to Central ! Stay at Mann! Integrate! Segregate!' It's enough to drive anybody crazy.” Gary smiled with surprising understanding at Sylvia, who had started to cry by now. Her shoulders heaved. “Besides, Mama, her boyfriend's got a sweet tooth!”

Sylvia looked up, her face streaked with tears. She swallowed hard, amazed that even Gary knew her problems.

“What boyfriend?” her father asked. “She's too young for such.”

“It's nothing, Daddy,” Sylvia said. “Boyfriends are stupid!” She wiped her eyes then said to her mother, “May I be excused? I'm not very hungry.”

Her mother looked concerned, nodded, and Sylvia ran from the table and up the stairs to her room, her face wet with tears.

Sylvia lay on her bed for a while with the door open so she could hear the ordinary after-dinner sounds. The swish of the well-rounded bristles of her mother's broom on the linoleum floor. The click of the door closing as Gary, like he did every night, left for the evening. Her father's snores as he sat in his favorite chair. The theme music from the show called
The
$64,000 Challenge.
She and Donna Jean watched it every week.

She knew Mama would come up and talk to her before she went to sleep, using all those comforting sayings mothers seem to know. She wondered how her mother had learned all the right words, and if she'd know what to say to her own children in such a messed-up world. Then, feeling sorry for herself, she started crying again, sure she'd never have kids anyway because she was too ugly and stupid to keep a boyfriend.

After Mrs. Patterson made Donna Jean turn off the television, Sylvia listened as DJ tiptoed up the stairs.

“You all right, Sylvia?” the younger girl asked as she entered the darkened room.

“Yeah. I'm sorry I yelled at you, DJ.” Sylvia sat up and turned on the small lamp that stood between their twin beds.

“Please don't get like Gary, Sylvie. I couldn't stand it if you were mad all the time like he is.” Donna Jean looked at the floor.

Sylvia, a little surprised, pulled her little sister next to her on the bed and hugged her. “I promise, Little Bit. And if you see me getting like that, you kick me in my shin, you hear?” She could feel Donna Jean relaxing.

“For real?” DJ said with a grin. “Can I practice?” She stood up and lifted her foot as if to kick.

“Not a chance, kid! Hey, how was our show this week? Anybody win the sixty-four thousand dollars?”

“You should have seen it! A boy named Leonard Ross, who was only eleven years old, won all that money!”

“That's so not fair!”

“Why not?” asked Donna Jean, who looked at her sister like she was crazy.

“I'm as smart as that kid, and older than he is—how come he gets the chance to win so much money?” Sylvia asked glumly.

“You ever see a colored contestant—ever?”

“That's my point. The world is all tilted and I don't know how to make it right.”

“Well, maybe it's not your job to straighten it. You know, you never will see a Negro on one of those shows,” Donna Jean said with certainty. She sounded much older than her eight years.

Sylvia smiled at her sister. “Nat King Cole has a TV show. Does that count?” Their whole family always rushed to watch it, amazed at seeing colored people on the screen.

“Not for long. I heard Daddy say it was going to be canceled because no white company will sponsor the show, and no colored company can afford it. And you can't fix that, either, Sylvie,” she added.

“You know, DJ, all I ever wanted was for people to like me, and maybe have a boyfriend who thought I was cuter than the other girls. I don't want to be a hero. I don't think I can change the world.” Sylvia put her face in her pillow.

“So don't.” DJ put her pajamas on. “Relax a little.”

“Huh?”

“Take your name off the list. Go to school with Reggie and be a cheerleader. Have fun in high school instead of stress.” DJ unbraided her hair and brushed it.

“But I can't,” Sylvia said helplessly.

“Sure you can. It's your life. Live it for yourself.”

“People are depending on me.”

“You're the only one who has to live in your skin. It's up to you, not them.” DJ climbed into her bed.

“How'd you get to be so smart?” Sylvia asked as she watched the younger girl pull her blankets to her chin.

“I watched you.” DJ turned out the light.

Hey, Sylvie, uh, can I talk to you?” Reggie whispered as Sunday school was dismissed and the young people headed upstairs for service. He wore a soft brown button-down shirt. “That is, if you're still talking to me,” he said apologetically.

His face, which to Sylvia looked like a piece of soft milk chocolate, was hard to resist. But he hadn't called all week. She looked away. After all, it was his attraction to Candy that started the whole mess.

“I'm surprised you remember my name,” Sylvia answered stiffly. She turned to face him. “I don't get it, Reggie. Sometimes you act like I'm fried chicken, and sometimes you treat me like I'm the grease in the bottom of the pot. Which one is it today?” Her voice, a mixture of confusion and sadness, was not what she wanted him to hear. She wanted to sound angry and tough like a lion, instead of sorry like a little kitten.

Reggie bowed his head, then looked up with that grin she couldn't resist. “I'm sorry, Sylvie. Really, I am. It's just I'm scared for you, for what might happen.”

“You don't need to be frightened for me. I'm doing just fine being terrified all by myself!” she replied. Sylvia pulled her Sunday school book close to her and continued up the steps.

Reggie grabbed her arm gently and stopped her. Everyone else had gone upstairs. “Please, Sylvie. Don't be mad at me. You know you're the only girl I care about.”

“Coulda fooled me!” But she stopped on the middle step.

“I like you so much I want to keep you close to me at Mann. I'll never see you!”

“I show up at church every Sunday.” She tried to sound haughty and unconcerned.

“That's not the same. Your daddy looks at me here at church like I'm a bug that oughta be squashed with giant army boots.” The image almost made her giggle.

“This isn't about church, and you know it!” Sylvia said, remembering the way he had ignored her all week.

He looked down at his shoes, then back up at her with a look of challenge. “You know, you're right. You want to know the bottom line? I don't want you hangin' around all those white people! Is that a crime?”

She wanted to smack him; she wanted to hug him. But she knew she couldn't let him tell her what to do. “White folks rule the world, Reggie. You better get used to hanging with them if you want to be somebody.”

“See, that's where you and me see things different. I think it's stupid to pretend somebody like Rachel Zucker is really your friend. If you get to Central, she'll stick with the rest of the white folks—just like white on rice.”

“What does Rachel have to do with this?” Sylvia asked, exasperated. “You don't even know her!”

“I've been in the store lots of times. I see her giggling with her little white friends who come in with their parents.”

“So? She's allowed to have friends.”

“Black folks have to stick together to stay strong,” he replied, his face frowning and serious. “You don't need to do this. You need to stay at Mann with me and the rest of your own kind.”

“I don't believe you're saying this! I thought I knew you—understood you!”

He glanced away from her. “Believe it, Sylvie. I want changes to happen around here—I just don't want you to be the one to make it happen.”

“Why not me? And who made you the boss of me anyway?” Her eyes flashed with anger.

His voice softened. “Because I care about you, and I don't want them to hurt you. I'd rather hurt them first.”

“What about Candy Castle?” Sylvia asked. Her stomach started to churn.

“You know I don't care anything about Candy,” he said. “You're the only sweet thing I want ”

“You could have fooled me.” She forced herself to stay calm and not let him see the flip-flops her guts were doing.