Authors: Melody Carlson
Emily tried not to flinch as Morgan’s grandma gently cleansed the dirt from her knee. More than anything, she was determined not to cry. She’d already shamed herself once by crying when those stupid boys knocked her off her bike. Then to meet these three girls while she was blubbering like a baby … It was just like the nightmares she’d had about moving here. They probably thought she was a real dork.
She studied Mrs. Evans’s wrinkled face as she carefully dabbed some ointment on the wound. Emily had never been this close to a black person before. Suddenly, she wondered why people called them
blacks
. This woman’s skin was actually light brown, just about the same shade as a copper penny that had darkened with age. And her hair was white and soft looking, pulled back away from her face and knotted into a bun. But it was her eyes that drew Emily’s attention. The color of a Hershey bar, they had a look of kindness in them. Emily instinctively liked Morgan’s grandma, but at the same time she felt cautious too. Where she came from, blacks and whites didn’t mix much. Her mother had always told her that everyone was “the same beneath the skin,” but her dad had said it wasn’t so.
Her dad said a lot of other things that she’d rather forget, but he was far away now. Even so, she felt relieved that he didn’t know about Morgan and her grandma, or the other girls for that matter.
“There’s some peanut brittle in the pantry, Morgan,” Mrs. Evans called over her shoulder as she taped a square of gauze over Emily’s wounded knee. Morgan had loaned her a pair of shorts to wear while her knee was being bandaged, but now Emily felt slightly embarrassed as she looked down at her pale, skinny legs.
“Why don’t you pour yourself and your friends some milk to go with it?” Mrs. Evans finished securely taping the bandage then smiled at Emily. “There now, sugar. How’s that?”
“Good. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Evans.”
“Oh, why don’t you just call me Grandma,” she said. “
Mrs. Evans
sounds so formal to me. When I was a little girl all my friends called my grandmother
Grandma
, and I liked that. You don’t mind sharing me, do you, Morgan?”
Morgan shook her head as she poured four glasses of milk. “Fine with me.” Emily liked how Morgan’s long, narrow braids swung when she moved her head.
“I’ll give your trousers a quick rinse-off, Emily,” Grandma said as Emily slid off the stool. “Then I’ll toss them in the dryer for a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Emily whispered as she pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears.
“Here’s a place for you,” said Morgan, pulling out a chair for Emily. Emily felt even more self-conscious as she joined the other girls at the small dinette table. The three of them quietly munched and sipped their milk, casting quick glances at one another. Emily wondered if it was because of her. Maybe she shouldn’t be sticking around.
Suddenly, she felt like an intruder. Maybe these three had been friends for a long time, and maybe they didn’t want her to be here with them. She watched Amy delicately nibbling on a small piece of peanut brittle. She didn’t know if Amy was Chinese or Japanese or what, but she thought she had the most beautiful skin she’d ever seen. It looked as smooth as a porcelain doll. And her shiny black hair was cut as straight as a knife’s edge right across her forehead. The sides were just as even, as if each hair had been carefully measured and cut to perfection.
Across the table from her, Carlie set down her empty milk glass and leaned forward. “We need to do something about this gang,” she said in a hushed tone. “Should we tell our parents about them, report them to the authorities, or what?”
No one said anything, and Emily felt certain that
she
didn’t want to be the one to tell on them or report them. Mostly, she just wanted to forget the whole stupid thing. But what if Carlie was a tattletale kind of girl? She studied Carlie’s neat white blouse with pink flowers embroidered
on the collar. It looked as if someone had just ironed it. Her long, thick curls fell over her shoulders, almost like a cape. Yes, thought Emily, she might be the type to tattle.
“No, we don’t want to tell,” stated Morgan, glancing over to where Grandma had settled back into the living room, intently watching the
Oprah
show on TV. To Emily’s relief, Carlie nodded in agreement and Morgan continued. “Tattling will just get them really mad at us. And then they might try and get revenge. We don’t need that.”
“Maybe not,” said Amy, “but it’s not fair that we can’t walk down the street without being
accosted
.” Emily wondered if Amy was trying to impress them with her big vocabulary.
“That’s right,” said Carlie, “we shouldn’t worry about being safe in our own neighborhood. That’s just wrong.”
“Maybe we should try walking to and from school together,” suggested Morgan. “You know what they say, ‘There’s safety in numbers.’”
“Yeah,” said Carlie. “That’s a great idea!”
“We could even have some sort of a battle plan,” continued Morgan. “I mean, in case the thugs still come after us. We could stand up to them and tell them that we won’t take it anymore. We could tell them to go get a life!” She pounded the table for emphasis, and everyone nodded in what appeared to be agreement. Including Emily. She liked this plan for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it would
allow her to continue to hang with these girls. Besides that, she realized she’d be walking to school now that her bike was messed up.
“Well, I have to go home now,” announced Amy. “But if we’re really going to do this thing—I mean, if we’re going to walk to school together—I suggest that we meet at 7:45 at the park entrance.”
“Ugh,” groaned Morgan. “Why do you go to school so early?”
“I happen to
like
being early.” Amy frowned at her.
“Man, I never leave before eight,” said Morgan.
“And I don’t usually walk to school,” admitted Carlie. “Tia Maria drops me off on her way to work. But I can walk with you guys if that’d help.”
“Yeah,” said Morgan. “We need to stick together. Four girls will look a lot stronger than just three.” She turned back to Amy. “Okay, how about a compromise? How about if we leave at
five
‘til eight?”
“Seven fifty,” said Amy in a stubborn voice. Morgan scowled, but then she agreed. So it seemed to be settled. But then Amy and Carlie said good-bye and left, and suddenly Emily felt even more uncomfortable. Was she supposed to go home now too? She knew she could sit on the little front porch and wait for Mom and Adam to get home. Or maybe she could try to break in through a window …
“When does your family usually get home?” asked Morgan, as if reading Emily’s thoughts.
“It’s just my mom and brother,” she explained. “And they don’t get home until around six, but I could go wait on the porch—”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, you can stay here as long as you like. No problem.”
“Thanks,” said Emily. “Do you think I should put my jeans back on now?”
“Let’s go see if they’re dry yet,” said Morgan, leading her out past the kitchen to a tiny laundry room. Morgan opened the dryer and pulled out the jeans, giving them a shake then handing them to Emily.
“Thanks,” said Emily. “And thanks for letting me wear your shorts. They’re really cute. They look just like real bandanna handkerchiefs; just like the ones my grandpa used to blow his nose on.” She wished she hadn’t said that.
Morgan laughed, a rich, deep laugh that was full of warmth. “That’s because I made them out of real bandannas. Of course, no one actually blew their nose on them … at least not that I know of.”
“That’s amazing.” Emily looked down at the shorts she was still wearing. “You actually made these yourself? Can you really sew? Like real clothes and everything?”
“Sure. I love to just make things up right out of my head. Usually I draw the design first, and then I cut it out and sew it. Come to my room, and I’ll show you my latest.”
Emily followed Morgan to a small bedroom just off the kitchen, and Morgan opened her closet, pulling out a
colorful dress. “My latest creation,” she said proudly.
“Wow! That is really cool! I like this fabric. It looks different.”
“It’s called batik. They use wax and dye to make these patterns on the cloth. My mom got it for me. It’s from Indonesia.” Morgan held the unfinished dress up, and Emily could just imagine how it would look on. Morgan was tall and thin, and the dress would be perfect against her golden-brown skin.
“I wish I knew how to sew.” Emily looked at her jeans and the torn knee. “Then at least I could fix this stupid hole.”
“Hey, let me patch it for you.” Morgan snatched the jeans out of her hands and pulled out a brightly colored sewing basket, then she flopped onto her bed, which was really a futon covered with a zebra-print fabric. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and studied the tear from several angles. “And how ‘bout I make your jeans a little more interesting while I’m at it?”
“That’d be great.” Emily sank into a furry beanbag chair and looked around Morgan’s room. Like Morgan, it was interesting. Really interesting. Lots of beaded necklaces and bracelets hung over her dresser mirror. Interesting pieces of fabric seemed to be draped everywhere. Emily wasn’t sure if they were decorations or just sewing projects in process. But Morgan’s room felt good to her. And fun.
“I like your room, Morgan.”
Morgan nodded without looking up. “Thanks, I like it too. But what I really want to do is paint some murals on the walls. Mom says I shouldn’t since this is really Grandma’s house, but I don’t think Grandma would mind. I want to paint a big tiger coming out of the jungle by the closet and maybe a zebra over there by the door.”
Emily tried to imagine it and smiled. “That would be so cool. I wish I could do something like that to my room. It’s pretty boring. Just plain white walls and an ugly brown carpet with a stain shaped like Texas in the middle.”
“So why don’t you paint a mural on your walls?” Morgan bit a thread with her teeth and looked up.
“Oh, I don’t know … I’m not that artistic. I wouldn’t even know where to—”
“I could help,” offered Morgan. She held the jeans up. Emily couldn’t believe it. Morgan had already sewn a little piece of fabric—along with a ribbon and matching purple button—right over the tear, and now the jeans looked really cool.
“Morgan, you are totally amazing! That looks really great. Thank you so much. I thought my jeans were ruined, and now they look better than before.” She almost admitted that these were the only jeans she’d been able to bring with her on this move. But she didn’t. How could she explain to Morgan that they’d left their previous home
with only the clothes on their backs? She wasn’t about to admit that.
“No problem, Em. I’m glad I could help.” Morgan set her sewing basket aside. “Want to listen to some music? I have a new Newsboys CD.”
“Sure, I’ve never heard of them. Are they good?”
“Pretty good. They’re a Christian group.”
Emily nodded politely like she was interested, but it actually sounded kind of strange.
“Come on over here and you can do the lyrics with me.”
Emily sat down on the futon next to Morgan and peered down at the tiny print on the paper. She tried her best to listen to the music and follow along with the fast-paced lyrics. Morgan knew most of the songs by heart. Emily tried to sing along, but it was like her words were in a blender, being chopped and spun until they were senseless. Finally, she messed up a line so badly that Morgan quit singing and burst into laughter. Soon they were both laughing so hard they had tears running down their cheeks. Emily couldn’t even remember the last time she’d laughed like that.
“You know what?” gasped Morgan.
“No, what?” Emily wiped the tears from her face and tried to catch her breath.
“You sing just like a white girl!”
And they both exploded into fits of laughter all over again.
“You live in America now,” Amy yelled. “Just speak English!” She slammed the front door behind her, but not quickly enough to avoid hearing her mother say, “Don’t speak ill of your elders,” only she said it in Vietnamese—
not
English, naturally! Amy couldn’t understand her parents at all. Sure, they wanted
her
to act and talk and look just like an American girl, but it seemed
they
hardly tried to fit into this country at all. And they’d been here for years and years. Sometimes Amy wondered why they even bothered moving here in the first place. Oh, she wasn’t stupid. She knew it had to do with “hard times after the war,” but that meant little to her since she’d spent her whole life as an American.
Sometimes her family was so humiliating. Okay, not her older brother and sisters so much. At least they spoke English—even if it wasn’t perfect. And for the most part they tried to fit in. But sometimes her parents were so old-fashioned and just plain weird that she actually pretended she didn’t even know them. She knew that was a horrible way for a daughter to act, but sometimes they just made her crazy!
She checked her watch. It was already 7:48, and she did not like going to school even three minutes later than usual. She liked to be early and prepared and ready. Miss Thurman liked it too. She always smiled and treated Amy special when she was the first one to arrive. Sometimes she even gave her small jobs to do. Otherwise, Amy would carefully sort through her desk, sharpen her pencils, and then read until school finally began at eight thirty. Leaving even five minutes later than usual might really mess up her day. As she walked toward the entrance, she peered over at the street outside the trailer park, looking over to where the gang of mean boys liked to hang out, but no one was there. For a split second she considered heading off to school without the other three girls.
“Hey, Amy,” yelled Carlie from her front porch just a few feet away. Carlie had a toddler balanced on one hip. “This is my little brother, Pedro.” The small boy smiled and waved at her, then Carlie set him back inside the house. “
Adios, mijo
,” she called as she closed the door. Then she grabbed up her backpack and ran over to where Amy was waiting for her.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” asked Carlie as she slipped her backpack over her shoulder.
“Yes, I have two sisters and a brother, but they’re a
lot
older than me.” She pointed to a mobile home across the street. “They live in their own house right there. They’re
all still single and in their twenties. They work at our restaurant part-time and go to college part-time.”
“Wow, they have their own house to live in. That must be so neat.”
“Yeah, but believe me, it can be a real pigpen too. Still, I guess they have fun together.” Of course, Amy wished they would include her in their fun, but sometimes the gulf between her and her siblings seemed wider than the whole Pacific Harbor. She glanced at her watch again as they waited by the entrance to the trailer park, tapping her foot with impatience. Where were the other two girls?
Amy watched as Carlie tried several times to put a barrette in her hair, but it kept popping back open. “Amy,” she finally said, “can you snap this stupid thing shut for me?”
Amy set down her book bag to help. “The barrette’s too small, I think. Or maybe your hair’s too big.” She struggled to push the mane of black curls into the barrette, then finally she pushed so hard that it broke into three pieces. “I’m so sorry, Carlie.” She handed over the broken pieces and looked down at her feet. She felt foolish for not being able to do such a simple task. Carlie probably thought she was really dumb.
“Oh, it’s okay, Amy. It was just a crummy old barrette anyway. I only wanted to get my hair back away from my face. I wish I could cut this mop-top off. I’d love to have hair like yours, Amy.”
“Really?” Amy patted her bobbed hair as she studied Carlie’s long curls. “I think your hair is pretty, Carlie. I don’t know why you’d want to cut it.”
“Because it would feel so good not to have it hanging all over the place. And it makes me too hot. Plus it takes forever to dry it after I wash it. But my parents think girls should have long hair. Period. No argument.”
Amy nodded. “My parents have some strange ideas too,” she admitted. “I sort of know what you mean.”
“Hey there!” called Morgan as she and Emily jogged over to meet them. “Sorry we’re late. It was my fault. My mom wanted to meet Emily, and I made Emily come in for a minute … well … it was supposed to be just a minute. But then you don’t know my mom.”
“She’s really nice,” chimed in Emily. Amy looked at Emily. She seemed happier today. Her blue eyes seemed brighter. Amy looked at Emily’s pants and was surprised to see that they were the same jeans from yesterday, only with some weird kind of patch on the knee.
“So, you fixed that hole in your jeans,” said Amy in what she knew was her snippy tone of voice. The words were barely out before she regretted saying them. Still, that’s just how it was with her: sometimes things popped out of her mouth that sounded all wrong. It was like she couldn’t stop it even if she tried. And then sometimes she just didn’t bother to try.
“Morgan fixed them for me,” said Emily. “Didn’t she do a good job?”
Amy nodded slightly then started walking. “Come on, you slowpokes, we need to get going. I’ve never been this late for school. Not ever!” She wondered if Miss Thurman missed her.
Carlie quickly caught up with her. “Boy, Amy, sometimes you act like such a snob.” Amy looked at her from the corner of her eye. Fortunately, Carlie was smiling, and so Amy decided not to get mad.
“I know,” she admitted. “It’s like I can’t help it. Sometimes the words just come out wrong. And then it’s too late.”
“Well, you can always apologize.”
“I suppose. But that’s kind of like saying that I’m wrong.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Maybe, but I don’t
like
being wrong.” Carlie shook her head and muttered something in Spanish.
“Hey, this is America.
Speak English!
” demanded Amy. Carlie just laughed.
“Don’t look now,” said Morgan from behind. “But I think our friend Derrick’s up ahead.”
Amy peered up the street to see the edge of a bike tire and a flash of red hair protruding from the corner of a fence. “Do you think he’s alone?” whispered Amy, wishing
she and Carlie weren’t the ones walking in front just now.
“Hey, I thought I told you trailer trash to stay off our turf!” he yelled as he popped out from behind the fence just a few feet in front of them.
Amy froze in her tracks. She wanted to move, but her feet felt superglued to the sidewalk. Carlie tugged on her sleeve to continue.
“Come on, Amy,” encouraged Morgan as she and Emily kept walking, moving right past Amy. “We need to get to school. We’re late, remember?”
Amy took one step and then another. Carlie was still holding on to her sleeve, actually pulling her along. Amy knew she shouldn’t let Derrick see that he was getting to her, but she couldn’t help it. She looked down, deciding to distract herself by counting the cracks in the sidewalk as she put one foot in front of the other. Maybe after a few hundred cracks they’d all be safely at school. Then a tire screech in front of her made her look up—right into the sneering face of Derrick Smith. He was so close she could almost count the freckles on his pudgy face.
“I
said
, I don’t want no dumb trailer-park kids walking on my turf. Are you deaf or something, girlie? What’s wrong? Are you like your parents—can’t speak English?”
Amy really wanted to say something hurtful and mean, but it felt like someone had locked her lips shut. She looked into his mean face again. How dare he say that
about her family? She actually wanted to hit him. Instead, she began to cry.
All three girls gathered around Amy now. They stood in a half circle as if to hold the bully off. But at this point, Amy no longer cared. She was too humiliated to care.
“Derrick Smith, you are such a complete idiot!” yelled Morgan. “You don’t own this street, and if you don’t get out of our way, you’re going to be sorry.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Beat me up?”
“You’d be the laughingstock of town if you got beat up by a bunch of sixth-grade girls, now, wouldn’t you?” said Carlie as she took a step closer. Emily followed on the left, and Morgan closed in from the right. They had nearly surrounded him now. Then Carlie started swinging her backpack slowly back and forth, almost as if it were a weapon. And then Emily did the same. All Amy could do was stand there and stare like a total coward. She wished that the sidewalk would open up and swallow her whole. And then an amazing thing happened—Derrick Smith backed off.
“Just you watch out, you trailer-park hicks. I’m not finished with you yet.”
They all cheered as he rode off. Everyone except for Amy. She still had tears streaming down her cheeks and was searching her book bag for her little plastic package of Kleenex that didn’t seem to be there.
“Here, Amy.” Emily quietly handed her a slightly rumpled tissue from her own pocket.
Amy wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder without saying anything. Amy was glad Emily didn’t speak. The whole incident was so embarrassing. How ridiculous she must look, crying over some creepy boy’s stupid comments. Just because he made fun of her or her family or where she lived. How totally ignorant she must seem!
And yet, how words could hurt. Words could really hurt.