The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had (17 page)

“Now turn your attention to the death-dying—”

“No,” Emma interrupted. “Now turn your attention to the death-defying . . .”

“Now turn your attention to the death-defying tightrope walkers, who . . .” I stopped.

“Who what?”

“I don’t remember.”

“. . . who will dazzle your eyes with their feats of balance!”

I grabbed the script from Emma and threw it down. “I only wanted to be the lion tamer.” I took a soda from our stash. “Read me some of your essay.”

Emma had finished reading the fat history book and was now working on her essay for Mrs. Seay. It was good. Real good. Course she made it sound all smooth and flowery, but the point was this: during the war, both sides did bad things. Sherman was wrong to burn the homes and businesses of innocent people. But the war also brought freedom to millions of Negras. It forced us to come together as one country. And even though I was from the South, Emma’s essay made me decide that I was glad the Union had won the war.

I clapped when she finished reading the paper. Emma played with a corner of her paper. “Stop teasing me, Dit.”

“I’m not teasing,” I said. “It’s real good.”

Emma smiled. “Tomorrow, I’m going to give it to Mrs. Seay.” Her smile slowly faded. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” I wanted to see Mrs. Seay’s face when she realized how smart Emma was.

“But Chip and Buster . . .”

“What about them?”

“I don’t want you to end up in jail again.”

“How’d you hear about that?” I’d never mentioned it.

“People talk.”

I waved my hand in the air. “I don’t care about them,” I lied.

Emma smiled again. “Thanks, Dit.”

I got up to go home.

“Dit,” Emma called out.

I stopped in the mouth of our cave.

“You’re my very best friend too.”

And just like that, my lie was true. I really didn’t care about Chip or Buster. Who needed them when I had a friend like Emma.

34

 

 

 

THE NEXT DAY MRS. SEAY ASKED EVERYONE to stay after school to rehearse the play. It was almost the end of January, and no one was even close to knowing their lines. “Let’s take it from page five,” she said. Her dress wasn’t quite as crisp as it had been that morning, and even her hat was a little out of shape.

I flipped through my copy of the script. “Where?”

“From the lion tamer’s entrance.” Mrs. Seay tugged at her necklace. I think she was beginning to regret ever having come up with the idea of doing a play in the first place.

“We ain’t got no lion tamer,” said Pearl.

“What?” asked Mrs. Seay.

“Chip’s not here,” Raymond explained.

“Wasn’t he here this morning?” asked Mrs. Seay.

“He went home at lunchtime,” I said. “Said his stomach hurt.”

Mrs. Seay sent Raymond to Chip’s house to find out what was going on. Turned out Chip was in bed with appendicitis. Dr. Griffith told his mama she had better send him down to the hospital in Selma. “They’re gonna cut him open and rip out his appendix,” Raymond reported. “He won’t be back to school for a long time.”

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want him to die or nothing. But I was a little bit glad.

Mrs. Seay took off her hat and put it down on her desk. “So now we need a lion tamer.”

“I can be the lion tamer,” I said. “Watch as I bravely put my head into the ferocious beast’s mouth. I pet his mane and he purrs like a kitten.” That was the one part I could always remember.

“I’m not being the lion if he’s the lion tamer,” said Buster.

“Dit’s the ringmaster,” said Mrs. Seay. She tugged at her necklace again. Must have been a little too hard, because there was a tiny pop and pearls flew everywhere. Mrs. Seay gasped, and her mouth hung open in a small
O
. She looked like she was gonna cry as she knelt down and began to gather up the beads.

Just then, the school door opened and Emma entered. Everyone turned to look at her. She blinked and forced on a brave smile.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Seay snapped from the floor.

“I just wanted to return your book and give you my essay.” Emma pulled the thick book out of her bag and placed it on a desk. Then she held out her essay, her neat black handwriting shiny on the white paper.

Mrs. Seay looked lost. She struggled to her feet, the loose pearls clutched in one hand.

“On the War Between the States,” Emma prompted. “Don’t you remember?”

“You read this entire book?” asked Mrs. Seay, pointing to the desk.

“Of course!” exclaimed Emma. “You told me not to come back until I did.” Emma glanced at me. I didn’t know what to say.

“We’re rehearsing our play now,” said Mrs. Seay.

Buster pointed at Emma and whispered something to Sally. She turned to Jill. They were already gossiping about her. But I didn’t care what they thought, right? Emma was my friend and I was gonna be brave and defend her. If only I could think of something to say.

Mrs. Seay was still talking. “. . . and this is really not a good time to . . .”

Emma was watching me like she was drowning and I had promised to throw her a rope, only I was standing on the riverbank watching her sink into the water.

“. . . come here and think I could stop my lessons with my real students to—”

“She can be my prompter,” I interrupted.

“We don’t have any more scripts,” said Mrs. Seay.

“Oh, I don’t need a script,” said Emma.

“Little girl,” Mrs. Seay said sharply, “it’s not polite to brag.”

“Her name’s Emma,” I said, “and she’s not bragging.” Felt like I was jumping off a cliff as I said that, right in front of everyone. Sure there was gonna be a big splash as Sally and Jill started talking about me. But there wasn’t no splash. They just stopped whispering and looked at Emma.

Mrs. Seay folded her arms. “Then what does the ringmaster say when the clown enters?”

Emma cleared her throat. “Now put your hands together and welcome Hairy Larry to the stage. His nose might be red and his hair blue, but his funny bone is screwed on just right.”

Mrs. Seay looked down at the script. “How about the elephant trainer? What’s his line?”

“When I hit them with my whip, the pachyderms like to dance and dip,” Emma rattled off.

“A pack of worms?” asked Buster. Expected him to say something more, but guess he wasn’t as brave without Chip.

Mrs. Seay uncrossed her arms. “What about when the acrobats make their entrance?”

“The first or second time?” asked Emma.

That’s when Mrs. Seay finally started to smile.

35

 

 

WE RAN ALL THE WAY HOME TO TELL MAMA and Mrs. Walker the good news. The play had been retitled
The Famous African Princess Circus,
and Emma was gonna be the ringmaster. I was gonna be the lion tamer, and Mrs. Seay had told Buster he still had to be the lion.

But Mama and Mrs. Walker were not as pleased as we expected. In fact, Mrs. Walker took Emma’s arm and marched her inside, saying something about it being time for supper. But Mr. Walker didn’t get home till six, and it wasn’t even four thirty. I asked Mama if we were eating early too and she just shook her head. At eight Emma came over and asked me to tell Mrs. Seay her mama didn’t want her in the play.

 

Mrs. Seay frowned when I delivered Emma’s message, but she didn’t say nothing. Didn’t even make us practice the play. I was almost happy to get back to math and reading, long as it meant I didn’t have to struggle through the ringmaster’s lines.

That evening I was at Emma’s writing out my spelling words when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Walker put down her sewing and went to answer it. It was Mrs. Seay. Mrs. Walker led her into the parlor and shut the door. I glanced at Emma and without a word, we both slid off our chairs and put our ears to the door.

Now, I don’t try to listen to other people’s conversations. I know it ain’t polite. But sometimes what they are saying is so dang interesting, it’s not my fault if I accidentally on purpose listen in.

“Did you read the essay Emma wrote?” I heard Mrs. Seay say through the door.

“No,” answered Mrs. Walker.

“You didn’t help her with it at all?”

“I didn’t know she was writing it.”

“It was better than the work of students twice her age. Why, she almost had me convinced that losing the war was a good thing—and I’m a Southern girl, born and bred.”

“Emma’s not going to be in the play. I thought she asked Dit to tell you. I’m sorry you came all this way.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” asked Mrs. Seay.

“Yes. Did you hear me?” Mrs. Walker’s voice was cold. They sat in silence for a long moment.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Mrs. Seay said slowly, “but please let your daughter be in our play.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t you think it’s hard for me to ask a Negra for help?” Mrs. Seay snapped.

We heard Mrs. Walker stand up and march toward the door. Me and Emma scrambled quickly back to the table.

“Mrs. Walker, I don’t always say the right thing,” Mrs. Seay called out. “But most of us in Alabama, we’re not bad people.”

Mrs. Walker must have had her hand on the doorknob, ’cause it started to turn. Me and Emma pretended to concentrate on our homework. “Tell that to the poor Negro who was lynched in Jefferson County last month,” we heard Mrs. Walker call out.

“I said most of us. Not all.”

There was a long pause. “So what are you proposing?” Mrs. Walker said finally.

“I’ve never worked with a Negra child before,” Mrs. Seay said brightly, “but I can’t see how she’s so much different than the rest. The play is supposed to go on in less than a month. No one knows the lines except Emma.”

“No.”

“Fine. Then you tell her she can’t play the role because she’s a Negra.”

Emma grinned and squeezed my hand. That was the one thing Mrs. Walker would never do. And sure enough, the next morning Mrs. Walker told Emma she had changed her mind.

36

 

 

 

WE STARTED HAVING REHEARSALS EVERY day after school. I was excited Emma was gonna be in the play, but a little nervous too. The other kids knew Emma from the baseball field, of course, but there she was just the little Negra girl who couldn’t hit the ball. How would they react when they realized she was so smart? Would they think she was stuck-up? Call her teacher’s pet?

I got real worried that first day when Emma started talking about how easy it was to learn her lines. That’s not too good a way to make people like you. Then she started chatting with Mrs. Seay about reading and books. I knew she was a book-worm, but she didn’t have to tell the whole schoolhouse. Finally, when Emma suggested that maybe one of these days we could do a real play, like
Hamlet,
Buster burst out laughing. “Emma wants to do a play about a ham!” he cried. “Want to fry up some eggs too?” Pretty soon everyone was calling her Egghead.