Singing Hands (19 page)

"That's right," I called out loudly, twirling my pointer finger in the air, and on cue the girls began to slide and cut around one another like spinning tops. "Weeeaaave!" I shouted. "In and out. Over and under. Weeeeave!" Thank goodness Miss Hinkle was too preoccupied to worry about why her students were circling the pole without a single ribbon clutched in their hands.

I didn't begin to have real misgivings about our performance until dinner that evening, when I looked down our table in the dining hall and saw all the girls sagging over their dinner trays. We had been practicing for hours in the drippy August heat, anxiously swooping into Maypole formation whenever a staff member ventured past and peered too closely. And still we weren't ready.

Then Belinda came back from clearing her tray with disturbing news. "She told," Belinda signed urgently as she squeezed in next to me. "My dumb sister. She told."

"Told who?" I asked, trying to keep my hands low.

Mary Alice leaned forward, almost tipping over her water glass. Hattie thumped her fist on the table. Now all the other girls were watching.

Belinda winced. "Two of her friends," she answered. "They say they want to meet with you. In the janitor's closet along the back hall."

"Meet with me?" I almost exclaimed out loud. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," Belinda signed miserably. "But they want you to be there in five minutes."

I swallowed hard. "Okay," I said, and reluctantly pushed myself up from the table.

"You're going?" Hattie signed.

Mary Alice was wringing her hands between signs. "What do they want? You think they're going to tell on us?"

The words and letters nearly shot to my fingertips.
How in the heck am I supposed to know?
But I forced myself to smile instead. "It will be all right," I signed. "I'll meet you back at the dormitory."

Then I picked up my tray and headed off to find the janitor's closet.

A few minutes later I was almost skipping as I scurried along the back corridor of Manning Hall after my rendezvous with the high schoolers. They were seniors, and they actually wanted to help us—Belinda's sister and a clever boy who ran the broom-making shop, and another girl who had been stuck in the sewing room for three days, tailoring costumes for various numbers in the Jubilee.

All day long I had been stewing over how to re-rig the Maypole for our performance, but I had been too busy with practice to give this and other nagging details much thought. Now, like good fairies, the high school kids had spirited one of my main worries away by promising to transform the Maypole that very night after lights out. As we sat wedged among the smelly jumble of mops and buckets and cleaning supplies, the boy had even thumped me on the back and congratulated me for my idea. "G-U-T-S," he had spelled out happily on his fingers. "I like that. You got G-U-T-S."

I found a side door leading out of Manning Hall and was so elated over the sudden turn of events that I burst outside and almost ran smack-dab into my father. He had been rounding the corner of a boxwood bush, intent on some mission of his own.

"Augusta!" he cried out loud. "I was just coming to see you in the dormitory. Where have you been?"

I gave him a quick hug and then stood back to scold him. "Where have
I
been? Where have
you
been? The only time I've seen you since we got here is up on the stage." I hunched one shoulder like Quasimodo and took a few lurching steps.

Daddy laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, throwing up his hands. "There's so much to do. And so many visitors and old students and important men in education coming for the Jubilee. They all want to talk, talk, talk." He waggled his finger in front of his mouth.

My insides churned queasily at the mention of who would be in the audience the next day watching our surprise performance.

"What about Abe?" I asked anxiously. For two days the thought of how we had left him, so lonely and forlorn at the empty Negro school, had been plaguing me like a toothache or a sharp stone in my shoe. "Have you had a chance to go back and check on him?"

Daddy shook his head. "No. I thought I might get over there today or this evening sometime. But now Mr. Snider and his parents have just arrived, and they want to meet with me over in the chapel."

"Mr. Snider?" I tried not to make a horrible face. "He's here, too?"

"Yes. Remember Mr. Snider? He and his parents have come all the way from Georgia."

I remembered him only too well, with his fawning manners and striped bow tie, bribing Daddy into traveling even more by giving him that darn Packard.

"His parents were students at ASD back in the early days," Daddy was saying. "It's wonderful they could make the trip at their age."

Daddy must have noticed I wasn't paying attention any longer. "How are you coming with the Maypole dance?" he asked. "I heard you've been put in charge. Miss Hinkle says you're doing a fine job."

I forced out a smile and bobbed my head up and down.

"Want me to walk you back to the dormitory?" he asked.

"That's okay," I signed. "You better go meet with Mr. Snider."

Daddy kissed me on my cheek. "See you tomorrow at the Jubilee," he told me.

Somehow I managed to nod again and fight back the urge to grab Daddy's arm and tell him everything.

When I got back to Graves Hall, the girls were all waiting for me, perched on the edges of their beds or lingering near the door. I was glad Miss Hinkle had secluded herself in her room, or she would have seen all the girls dashing over to find out the news.

Their hands fluttered around me. "What?" they signed. "What happened?"

My tale of the secret meeting in the janitor's closet with three seniors was enough to send a fresh current of energy zinging through our group.

"Let's practice tonight in the shower room," Hattie signed. "After lights out."

"Good idea," Belinda said, and a few of the other girls clapped their hands.

Mary Alice cut in with her usual word of warning. "We can't all go at once."

"We can practice in shifts," I suggested. I pointed to Belinda. "You go first with three girls. When Belinda's done, Hattie takes three more. Then Mary Alice with the last three. Okay? I'll stand watch."

By midnight we were ready, with only a few minor bobbles here and there. Yet as I fell, weary and triumphant, into bed, there was still one last worry drifting back and forth like a tiny ghost in my mind.

Abe.

Impulsiveness:
Resulting from or produced by
impulse rather than by reflection;
unpremeditated.

Example: In an act of extreme
impulsiveness
, Gussie Davis set out
for the Alabama School for the Negro
Deaf, hoping to rescue a small boy from
loneliness and despair.

Mrs. Fernley would have been appalled. I could even hear her voice scolding in my head as I sneaked up the steps of the school bus. "Haven't you learned anything?" the voice nagged. "Haven't your past actions taught you anything about the dreadful consequences of
impulsiveness?
"

But how could I resist? The bus was parked like a chariot in the main driveway, with a line of deaf folks dressed in their Sunday finest waiting to board. And as the girls and I passed by on our way across campus that morning, Miss Hinkle had stopped to talk with the bus driver. A jolt of excitement had rushed through me when I heard her mention the Negro school. "Yes, Mr. Lindermeyer has agreed to give any interested visitors a tour of the new buildings over there," she was saying. "I suppose they've been reading about the construction in the newspapers and want to see it for themselves. But bring everyone back here directly. The Jubilee begins right after lunch."

I nudged Belinda, who was walking beside me. "You all go on over to the printing press without me," I signed with my hands close to my chest. "The boys over there will show you how to fold the programs for this afternoon. I'll catch up later, okay?"

"Where are you going?" she asked.

I held my finger to my lips. "Don't worry. I'll be back in plenty of time for the show."

It was surprisingly simple to duck around the high hedge and wait until Miss Hinkle was gone, then fall into line behind the cheerful alumni. They were so eager to greet one another and catch up on old times that I was able to slip into a spot in the back row without attracting the slightest bit of attention. Whenever anyone happened to glance my way, I fixed my face in a casual expression and leaned toward the couple who sat in front of me, pretending I belonged to them.

As the bus rumbled toward the front gates, I sneaked a look out at the Maypole. I could barely keep from cackling at the sight of it. Nothing looked any different, but Belinda's sister had pulled me aside at breakfast that morning and assured me the new rigging was in place. She and her friends had kept their promise, sneaking into the sewing room after lights out to fashion a fresh set of ribbons. I couldn't imagine how they had attached and bound the new ones to the pole so cleverly in the dark. Even Miss Hinkle, unless she inspected closely, would never detect that the colors had mysteriously changed overnight.

Out on the lawn students swarmed like worker bees, setting up rows of folding chairs and welcome banners. By now the intermediate girls would be busy in the printing office, folding the programs that listed each selection of entertainment for the Jubilee.

"Don't forget, you girls will be performing first," Miss Hinkle had reminded us before we set off that morning. "You'll see your names listed right at the top of the program under 'A May Day Tribute.'"

I could tell Hattie was ready to explode with laughter. But she clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. And Mary Alice, looking woozy with fear, had closed her eyes and waited for the moment to pass. So far all of the girls in our group had managed to contain themselves. It was a miracle. Our plan was actually working.

Now there was just one thing left for me to do. I needed to persuade Mr. Vincent to let Abe come with me to the Jubilee. Then, hopefully, Abe would understand how sorry I felt, how he hadn't been abandoned after all.

"Is that you, Miss Davis?" I heard someone call from several rows up. I felt my body go rigid with alarm.

I couldn't believe it. It was
him
—that doggone pest Mr. Snider. Why was he always turning up to catch me in my most difficult situations?

I wanted to slide down in my seat like a lump of melted butter. But Mr. Snider was already lurching toward me in his seersucker suit and bright red bow tie, gripping the seat backs for balance. He dropped into the empty spot across the aisle. "What a pleasant surprise, Miss Davis!" he drawled, practically shouting over the rattle of the bus on the bumpy road. "Your father said you were helping out at the school this week. But I didn't expect to find you here. What are you up to? Off to give another humming concert?"

He belted out a hearty laugh.

I could feel the blood flaming to my cheeks, but somehow I managed to cough out a chuckle. "No, no humming this time," I said.

"Are you along for the tour?"

"Yep. I mean
yes.
That's right," I babbled. "I'm along for the tour."

Mr. Snider was studying me, clearly mystified. What an odd duck, he must have been thinking.

Still, I couldn't tell him the truth. First he had caught me humming in church, and now here I was, the Reverend's daughter, on a mission to bring a colored boy to the Jubilee. Something told me Mr. Snider might not approve of including Abe in the celebration.

But there was no chance for me to find out for sure. Before we had rounded the next corner, Mr. Snider was pointing out his wobbly, gray-haired parents and sending word from one seat to the next that Reverend Davis's daughter had joined the group for a tour of the Negro school. Soon all the passengers on the bus were turning around to beam at me and sign their hellos.

By the time we bumped down the long gravel drive and pulled to a stop, my face ached from smiling so hard. Mr. Vincent was waiting for us on the steps of the main building. Naturally, he looked surprised when he saw me file off the bus behind all those adults.

"Wait a minute," he said in a teasing voice. "I thought I gave you a tour already."

"I wanted to see more," I said.

Mr. Snider was watching too closely for me to ask my real question:
Where's Abe?
I had no choice but to follow along with the group through the silent hallways to one freshly scrubbed classroom after another, each smelling of floor wax and Murphy's oil soap. In every room, as the visitors nodded and murmured their approval, I could hear the wall clocks ticking away the minutes until the Jubilee. Ten thirty-five ... ten forty-three ... ten fifty-two. But there was no sign of Abe anywhere—not along the hallways or stairways, not on the dirt playing field beyond the classroom windows, not even among the maze of bunk beds in the boys' dormitory. At last I spotted a single clue—the corner of his canvas duffel peeking from under a neatly made bottom bunk in the corner.

Abe had to be around somewhere, and I had to find him fast. Mr. Vincent was leading the group out front again while doing his best to humor Mr. Snider, who kept stopping to interrupt with his grand pronouncements. "The state of Alabama has bestowed a marvelous gift!" he bellowed to no one in particular. "What a marvelous gift this school is for the colored folk of Alabama!"

As everyone finally moved toward the foyer, I lagged behind and ducked between two rows of bunk beds, hiding until Mr. Snider's voice had faded. Then I took a deep breath and sprinted back through the dormitory toward a rear exit door we had passed earlier.

I needed to find the school cafeteria again. Mr. Vincent hadn't bothered to show us the kitchen on our tour, but I was sure I had heard running water and the clank of pots when we passed through the small dining hall. And I remembered Mr. Vincent saying that a school cook would be watching over Abe until the other students arrived.

Darting along the back of the buildings like a fugitive from one of my Nancy Drew books, I made my way to the place where I thought the kitchen might be. "Wouldn't you know?" I whispered in exasperation as I leaned against the building for a few seconds to catch my breath. The windows were several inches too high to get a good view inside. I stretched up on my tiptoes, gripping the stone ledge with my fingers. Still I couldn't see a thing through the heavy screen. So I bent my knees and jumped, and jumped again, trying to get a better look.