Kizzy Ann Stamps (5 page)

Maybe it’s because of my scar. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a sister. Maybe it’s because of how I spend my time, working with Shag on the farm. I don’t feel comfortable in dresses and fancy wear and anything that’s bringing attention to me. Still, I cannot make my mother’s sacrifice be for nothing. After Labor Day, I will wear clothes that are not me and try as hard as I can to fit into someone else’s dresses, someone else’s school, and someone else’s world.

I don’t think this will be easy.

I hate Frank Charles Feagans. I know that’s not what Jesus wants us to say, but Pastor Moore says God can read our hearts, so there’s no hiding it from the Lord. Frank Charles is entirely too nosy about my dog. And his nosiness cost me a beating.

We went to Bedford City yesterday with our vegetables to sell. Saturdays are market days, and nobody can grow zucchini like Granny Bits. I helped her, just like I’m supposed to — I laid out the green and yellow gourds alternating, so the pretty colors danced together, just the way she likes. Shag lay panting in the shade under the display counter, and when Granny Bits said we could wander, I called Shag to heel and off we went.

Market is one place that is already integrated, you know. My granny has a stall right up front, where the prizewinners stay. She’s won first place on those zucchini three times at the county fair, and her strawberry-rhubarb preserves win the blue ribbon year after year too. She is set up right next to the Right Reverend’s wife, Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge. She is a sweet-voiced lady with the fine, downy jawline old white ladies show. Every week she hints for Granny Bits’s secrets, and every week she leaves with an empty basket but a heart full of hope that she’ll wheedle it out the next Saturday. Daddy says Episcopalians must be a mighty hopeful lot.

Anyhow, Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge always brings a small round bone for Shag to enjoy while we set up. Shag is used to kicks from white people, not treats, so she is wary usually, but Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge’s fresh baby-powder scent is Shag’s cue to peek out and ease her mouth delicately around the offered bone. Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge always exclaims about what a lady Shag is, and my dog, with her perfect manners, stands immobile while the smooth white hands glide over her coat three times.

Three is all Shag allows to folks besides family. Three trips down her fluffy fur. Then she steps back quickly and circles herself around that bone. Her crunching, her crackling, her lip-smacking enjoyment, is the background noise to our vegetable setup.

This Saturday was like any other, until that Frank Charles ran into us. I was looking over the whistles that Old Man Pickerel carves when I heard that sly Frank Charles’s voice, sneaking commands to Shag.

“Come, Shag. Here, Shag. Here, girl.”

Of course she ignored him.

He got a little louder. “Here, Shag.”

“Stop doing that,” I said. I admit, I was right snappy with my tone. I admit that. But he shouldn’a’ been calling her. And then he clicked his tongue at her!

“I told you to stop that, Frank Charles Feagans.”

And at that, I felt hard, tight fingers circle my upper arm. I knew enough to put my left hand up to Shag, who was already snarling. I’d been careless to speak smart to a white boy in a public place — if my dog attacked, we’d have no end of trouble.

It was Mr. Feagans, of course. He said he’d have to make me an example, and I don’t think he ever took a breath, carrying on in front of everybody like I was a sneak thief when all I’d done was let his son know to stop bothering my dog. Remember how I said the ground changes when he’s near me? This time those eggshells cracked under my feet.

“I’ll need a switch,” he said. “One of those forsythia branches,” he suggested, and I knew his heart was a cold, dark thing.

Forsythia is a tricky little shrub. It looks like it’ll be slight, like it won’t hurt, but there is no sting like the strappy sharpness of a smartly snapped forsythia branch. After my first experience with Mrs. Warren’s use of the forsythia for a switch, I gained true understanding of the wild-eyed terror of the horses who feel the whip as they pull wagons through town. And I learned a real respect for the old vet, Dr. Fleck, who abandoned a whip long ago. He refuses to coax with more than the heel of a heavy boot, a click of the tongue, and a polite request for more speed.

I forced my legs to carry me to pluck a forsythia shoot. I refused to give Mr. Feagans the satisfaction of my fear. I refused to cower.

But I cannot lie, Miss Anderson. It is a long, long walk back when you carry a switch. I dreaded what that switch would feel like, and more so, I dreaded the pleasure I knew Mr. Feagans would get from it.

I ignored the stares of the others — I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring looks and the stolen glances that more polite people give me. That I can usually handle. I have to.

But I could feel anger coursing through me, Miss Anderson. Anger like James has been feeling toward that white coach. Anger like I didn’t know if I could control. Anger like I shouldn’t be telling you about, but somehow I can’t hold away from this pencil nub.

Mr. Feagans decided it was beneath him to hold me and actually do the whipping himself. “One of your own kind should dirty their hands with your like,” he said. He pointed to the crowd and singled out a huge black man, muscles coursing and rippling through his clothes. “You there, you look like the man I need.”

“I’d kill the child,” the man murmured. Another voice, a quiet voice, spoke up from the crowd. “I’ll do your dirty work.” Mr. Felix stepped forward. “I’m wiry and strong. I can hold the girl and spank her.”

“’t’isn’t a spanking I want her to get, but a beating.”

Mr. Felix acknowledged the task. “I can do it.” He flexed his forearms, and Mr. Feagans nodded agreement. Mr. Felix grabbed me in one arm and grabbed the whip in the other. He whispered in my ear, “I’ll be as quick as I can, though I can promise a little pain — it’ll hurt, girlie, or he’ll hurt us both worse. No way ’round it. Only way out now is through this.”

He gave me one lashing for each year of age. I kept my gaze down at the dirt and pushed my hand up over and over to signal Shag to stay. She growled and snarled — she is no dumb animal, that’s for sure — but she did as I signaled.

There were folks aplenty by the time he finished — black and white, old and young. Frank Charles paled out (I didn’t know white folks could turn whiter, but he sure did), and I heard a few gasps from the folks gathered — gasps at Mr. Feagans’s enthusiastic insistence that Mr. Felix whip harder. I also heard some nervous talk at the welts already rising on the backs of my legs, but not one being stood or spoke up.

Except Shag.

Thank you for the real journal book. Getting it today, the first day of school, with everyone getting one, is wonderful. This way I can keep writing to you, but letters would be stupid, since I will see you every day. I know I shouldn’t say anything about the cost because that is bad manners, but buying one for each of us is a lot and I really thank you. And putting in our spelling words, for the spelling bees that we will have throughout the year, is a good way to do more than just our journal writing.

I’ve never had a journal of my own before. Even though I’ve learned how much my mama values my writing, she could never justify the cost of so much blank paper. Writing on the back of used paper was always good enough for my schoolwork. Because you made this a gift as well as an assignment, and one that everyone received, not a charity just for the kids like me, it sits well with my folks. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have such a teacher, but I am grateful beyond my words.

I like writing things down, which I’d never done until Mrs. Warren made me write to you. I’m not really expecting you will read all of these — everybody writing will be a lot to keep up with, but I’m still going to write like you’d read it. It helps me feel good at the end of the day. Granny Bits says this is how she feels after her prayers, but I get nervous after I pray — I do lots wrong, and what if Jesus gets tired of forgiving me?

Getting the journal was definitely the best part of the day until after school. I threw up twice on the way to school, which upset Shag no end — she kept trying to herd me to stay on the path. It’s a longer walk here than to my old school, but it only took forty minutes, even with being sick.

Putting on that dress this morning was what first started me to feeling sick to my stomach. Mama picked the white one — why not start as a dream? When she smoothed that frock, her dark fingers framed against the soft white fabric, I knew it just wasn’t right. I didn’t belong in that dress — I didn’t
want
to belong. Trying to be good to family sure can make things hard, huh?

Your building is as grand on the inside as I might have guessed. So much brick and so much beautiful carving work on a building for kids. It looks grander than my church. I’m glad we’re in the first room in the hall. How would I have found us? I would wonder how you recognized me, but then, I’ll bet you knew me by my scar — for once I liked it, because it was so nice to have you call my name, to hear a voice say, “Kizzy Ann,” and it was like I had a friend in a strange place and I knew where to go. You have the room looking so friendly and warm and welcoming. Our names on the desks and pictures on the walls and everything. The big windows make everything sunny, which is not like our building before. Windows are expensive, I know, and the slaves couldn’t do those when they built our school before. Plus, windows let the heat out. For now I like that my desk is beside the window, because I can see Shag where she waits for me sometimes out under the trees, but later I might feel pretty cold. Do you have good heat in this building? You probably do. I don’t mean to start out being a complainer. I’m just nervous.

Things could have been worse, I guess. Nobody spoke to me except when you wished me a good morning. I’d expected some smart remarks, some white kids ordering me around. Of course, only four of us black kids came today, to “their” school. I heard some of the other black kids talking about how they weren’t coming — even after your welcoming letters, they were afraid of what might happen. They’d heard rumors about dogs and police. They were just going to stay in their houses and see what happened.

I knew David Warren would come. He had to. His grandma is Mrs. Warren, and there is
no
way she’d allow him to stay at home.

Then the Stark twins, Ovita and Omera. They are so meek and shy that together they equal only half of a personality.

And me. None of us spoke at all. As soon as I got close enough to the building to see it, close enough to hear the chatter of students, to feel the slap of my lunch pail against my thigh, a bad taste filled my mouth and I felt my throat close tight. No words were getting past. Shoot, I was lucky air squeezed around that throat-blocking lump.

I noticed Laura Westover recognized her dress. She elbowed a blond girl beside her and whispered, then giggled. I kept my eyes lowered and my lips closed, and I was grateful that lump stopped me from saying just how mad I was.

But I was mad, Miss Anderson. I was. Even if this is an opportunity for education, like Mrs. Warren said, or a first step for our people, like Pastor Moore said, I was mad. And I don’t know that I’ll have that lump stopping my voice for long.

I’m not sure I want it to.