In Trouble (4 page)

Dad came over to my end of the couch. He sighed deeply. “It was a federal minimum-security prison, but can we talk about this another time?” Walls.

“Yeah, sure.”

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

“I couldn’t write a letter when all I wanted was to put my arms around you and Stevie and Mom and everybody I love.”

Then he hugged me for all those lost months, and I felt a drop on my cheek. I think he was crying, but I made myself not look. Everybody has something to cry about, I thought, and stiffened.

Run!

He straightened up, leaned back, and put his hands on my shoulders. “Jamie, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

Nobody. You tell nobody. Most of all not your father.

32

APRIL

7.

The
Record
office was empty when I got there early Monday morning. It was only third period, but Paul’s in-box was already filled with next week’s articles. He’s a good editor, but we fight a lot. He says we’re news-hounds and have an obligation to expose anything kept under wraps. “Expose” to him means not letting Mr.

Shishkin, the principal, get away with saying there are no funds for the after-school art club when there’s lots of money in the school budget. I’m okay with a story like that, but after Dad was “exposed” for being a one-time member of the Communist party—what can I say?

For me, if you could taste the word “expose,” it would make sweet seem sour.

Paul says I have to think past my family. But when the real newspapers printed Dad’s name on the front page 34

and said he was fired from his teaching job because of his “alleged Communist Party affiliation,” some of Mom and Dad’s friends crossed the street when they saw me coming. Crossed the street! Like they could get poisoned from something seeping down the sidewalk cracks.

These days I do a roundup of outside-world stories, which means I have to read real newspapers. My lead this week is Elvis Presley. I didn’t know anything about him, but he was on the
Milton Berle Show
, and Kay came in the next day saying nothing in her life would be the same after “Heartbreak Hotel.” Kay gets carried away, but when Georgina, always calm, came bopping into the cafeteria singing about heartbreak and living on lonely streets—well, after that I knew Elvis Presley would be in my roundup. Research meant listening to the record, which was not a bad assignment.

“Hey, Jamie. Finished?”

I whipped around. Paul always opens the door so quietly he could be an FBI spook. “Hey, Paul. No.” He was persistent. “When?”

“Thursday.”

“That’s cutting it too close.”

I sighed. “That’s me. Living on the edge.” What a joke. Except for politics, I’m really conservative. I wear a lipstick called Pale.

“Thursday’s not good enough,” Paul said. “Everything has to be proofed that day. So it’s gotta be Wednesday.”

“Yessir,” I said.

35

“That’s what I like. Fealty.” Paul has a crooked smile that I admit I think is cute.

The best thing about Paul as an editor is that he loves words. He finds new ones every day, like fealty, that he puts on the office blackboard. Today’s was OSCITANT:

“Some of you have been singularly OSCITANT of late. Wake up!” The dictionary was open to the page: 1. Yawning, gaping from drowsiness. 2. Inattentive, dull, negligent.

“See, no yawning,” I said.

Anyway, the last thing in the world I feel right now is inattentive.

“At least give me a rundown of your stories,” he said, tapping his pencil on the notebook he always carries.

“You know that boycott of the buses in Montgomery, Alabama?”

“Where the Negroes have to sit in the back.”

“Right. Well, it started after a Negro lady wouldn’t give up her seat to a white man.”

He nodded.

“But guess what? A teenage girl did it before the lady.” I watched Paul closely to see if he’d known that. His eyebrows rose—Yes! a sweet editorial coup. I checked my notebook. “Claudette Colvin. She’s fifteen, and the court case is in her name and three other people’s,
not
the lady.” I paused to let that interesting fact sink in. “It’s what you always say, Paul. Kids can make a difference.”

“Yeah, yeah. No toadying to the boss!” 36

“And the lead is a piece on Elvis Presley.”

“The new singer?”

“You didn’t watch the
Milton Berle Show
?” Actually I hadn’t either. “Then you’ll have to wait to find out.” He nodded. He’s good that way. If he trusts you, he’s willing to give you a little room to play.

“What happens if I can’t make it Wednesday?” I said.

He scowled. “You won’t have a byline this week, not something any serious writer wants to forego.” He’s right. I like having a byline.

Paul tossed his notebook onto the desk, always a sign he’s finished with
Record
business. “Want to listen to the Dodger game this weekend?”

We have a radio in the office, and we’re allowed to come in on Saturday to work on the paper. Kay asked me if I was dating Paul. I said absolutely not. Besides, no way a radio date is a date.

“Sure,” I said.

“By the way, isn’t your dad supposed to be coming home soon?”

Paul’s been a good friend through all of this, and I trust him, but I can’t help it, it’s not something I want to talk about. I grabbed my books and headed for the door. I tossed an answer so very casually over my shoulder. “Yup.

He’s home. See you later.”

“Wait up, Jamie. Another assignment.” I could walk out on friend Paul, but not editor Paul. I remained by the door.

37

“I’d like an article about what it’s like to be a political prisoner in our system.”

I froze. “You can’t ask me to do that. I’m sorry, you just can’t.”

“Hey, I’m not crazy. I know that.”

I reached for the doorknob.

“
I’d
like to interview him. Will you ask him if he’ll do it?”

I stared at him. “You’re serious?”

He nodded. “Maybe after the Dodger game we could go back to your apartment.”

“I’m going to skip the game.” And I left.

38

8.

Dad had been almost completely silent the first week after our one talk. It was as if he was fighting just to get through each day. He was better, he kept saying, but I wonder if Mom has seen him cry.

For me, it’s back to a little bit of normal, like having tea and cookies with Grandma after school if I don’t stay late. We were in her room, the tray on her night table, Grandma in her rocker, me on her bed, when the phone rang.

“It’s for you,” Grandma said.

She handed me the phone. Before I could say a word, I heard Elaine scream, “Jamie! Where are you!” Even Grandma could hear her. She adjusted a hairpin, nodded, and went into the living room. She’s good that way.

39

“I’m here. What’s up?” I pictured Elaine twisting the lock of hair behind her right ear. She did that whenever she was anxious and didn’t have a napkin to shred.

She talked with an urgency I’d never heard in her voice before.

“It’s not regular putting-on-weight,” she said. “I . . .” her voice shook, “I think I’m pregnant.”

“
Pregnant!
”

“I’m late.”

“Are you sure?”

Silence.

“How late?”

She spoke so softly I had to press the phone against my ear. “I’ve missed it a couple of times.”

“A couple of times!”

We’ve been best friends, but we’d never talked about periods except when we first got it. After that you only said something if you had cramps. Even if you got it at school and needed a pad, you went to the nurse’s office.

The rest was too . . . I don’t know . . . specific.

Her voice sank to a whisper. “Beginning of last year when I had that thyroid thing and my mom took me to the doctor, I’d missed four months in a row. The doctor said I had ‘low thyroid’—whatever that is—and the medi-cine fixed it and I got my period. So this time . . .” now I could
hear
her twisting her hair, “. . . I figured the thyroid thing had come back.”

I don’t know where the thyroid is, and I didn’t ask.

40

“Well,
I’m
never exact,” I said finally. “I can be a week late.”

“This is months, Jamie.” She started to cry.

Months! I was too afraid to ask how many.

“Well maybe when you, you know, after you . . . well, maybe it changes something. Maybe you get less regular.

Maybe . . .” I had no idea what I was talking about. “You said Neil told you about counting days. In the film they showed us, you start counting from the first day of your last period, and two weeks later is when the egg—”

“I don’t know and I don’t care about eggs! I don’t have my period!” She took a deep breath. “And I’ve been wearing a girdle.”

I desperately wanted to hang up.

“What will you do?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Elaine, you have to do something before it’s too late.

You’ve got to think this through.”

“What can I do? My father will kill me. My mother’s face is tighter than usual. She’s working overtime not to guess.”

“Why would she think it?”

“I didn’t want to go to the doctor with her, you know, that exam they do to see if something’s wrong, and then I know he’d tell her, you know what I mean. So I didn’t say anything. I rolled up pads and threw them out a couple of months in a row. She makes me a special tea whenever I get cramps, and this month I forgot to say 41

anything. I forgot everything, cramps, tea, pads, everything. And I saw her checking the Kotex box. I think she was counting.”

I couldn’t decide if counting how many pads were left was nuts or super smart. I pictured Mrs. Reilly’s face.

Very small. Very sad.

“I think I know somebody who could help,” I said.

Elaine coughed.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she moaned.

“Well, I do,” I said with an authority that surprised me. “And my cousin Lois does.” That also surprised me.

I haven’t talked to Lois in a couple of months and don’t want to. But this is an emergency.

We were both silent. “Look, I know you’re trying to help,” she said, “but it’s helpless.”

“You mean hopeless? It isn’t. I’ll call Lois and call you back.”

I hung up.

Pregnant!

I wanted to yell, How could you be so stupid! In class they had told us about counting and that it wasn’t exact, only a way to try to figure the right time to do it if you wanted a baby, and of course the opposite, when you had to be careful. I know it’s ridiculous, but all I could think about was that Elaine was lousy in math.

I dug into my bag for my leather address book with its red cover. I’ve had it since eighth grade and it’s nearly full.

I turned to the
L
’s.

42

Lois. Lois would—must—know what Elaine should do. I dialed and waited through four rings.

“Hi,” Lois said.

“Hi,” I answered, my voice breaking. “It’s Jamie.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been trying to reach you. I don’t want to think you’re avoiding me, but . . . won’t you talk to me? You left so quickly that morning . . . was it something I said? . . . did you get my messages? . . . Jamie, are you still there?”

“Yeah . . . sorry . . . anyway, me and my friend Elaine . . . I think I may have told you about her . . .

and . . . well . . . I’d . . . I mean we’d . . . I mean . . . I don’t know if you’re busy but can we come and see you?” I took a deep breath, “Girl trouble.” Weird how that covered everything.

“Hey, kiddo, I’m here. You’ve got my address.” We agreed we’d see her on Saturday, and I’d call to tell her what time.

I can’t believe I made that call.

Run!

43

9.

The next day in the caf I headed for the table where Kay and Georgina were sitting. Carol was at the back of the line. Everyone usually went around her, for she always asked the hairnet server ladies questions about every dish.

She couldn’t help herself. “Well,” she’d always say when we’d tease her, “don’t you want to know what’s going down your gullet?” When I looked back, she was hovering over the Jell-O and pudding dishes.

“Why are you all whispering?” Carol said in a loud voice when she arrived.

Georgina rolled her eyes. “Don’t you just hate it when people say that, like ‘Why are you kicking me under the table?’”

“Sit down, Carol,” Kay said. “We weren’t whispering.

I just asked Jamie if her dad’s home like the paper said and if she’s heard from Elaine.”

44

“Is he and have you?” Carol asked me.

“Yeah. Elaine’s fine,” I hesitated, “and my dad is too.” Now that’s at least one major lie, possibly two. I stood up.

Time to cut this short. “Have to check up on my assignment from the
Record
office. See you guys later.” Three nods. Last week I was added to the paper’s masthead, so everyone accepts that I have additional responsibilities.

Right now, though, I need to be alone, to stop feeling so rattled.

Nobody knows about Elaine and everybody knows about Dad. Before he went to prison, I never talked about my family. I made up stories. If you took the elevator to the third floor of our building, there’d be no apartment 3C. I made us invisible to the world.

No more.

The bell rang, and kids started to pour into the hallway. Gail Boseman’s locker was near mine. Too near.

There’s always one in your class who makes you feel like all of you is a huge scab that’s been picked at. That’s Gail Boseman.

“So, Jamie, I see you’re now on the
Record
’s masthead.” She held up the latest edition of the paper.

This is when you’d die for a snappy answer.

“I remember in junior high,” she went on, “when some kids thought you should have been kept off the school paper.”