I don’t normally say more than one or two sentences to Connie at a time, and I definitely don’t speak out against her. It’s almost like I’m watching someone else, a character in a television program or picture. Like I’m watching someone else be brave enough to speak up. But it’s me. And I’m grateful for Juanita’s arm still around me, squeezing me tight.
Connie exhales, rolls her eyes, and pops up from the splintering park bench. It’s practically impossible for her to sit still for long. She bounces on her heels as she talks.
‘Evie, do you remember what happened that time we went downtown to Foley’s to look at clothes?’ she asks, staring me down. Bounce, bounce, bounce.
I shrug. Connie knows I remember. It was last spring, not long before Connie got sent up to Gainesville. We all thought it would be fun to take the bus and check out the fancy new dresses in pink taffeta and green velveteen that we could never afford to buy and that were too difficult to swipe. When we were trying them on in the fitting room and cracking up over how different we looked, a few high-class girls reported us to the manager, and we were kicked out. Connie made us go back a week later to lift some lipsticks from the makeup counter just to get even.
‘That crowd doesn’t care about us, so why should we care about them?’ she says, her voice firm. ‘So let’s not do anything. Diane can afford a rich lawyer, I’ll bet.’ Connie pauses and looks at us carefully. ‘And here’s another thing. I don’t like her.’ At this final pronouncement, she scowls.
‘But, Connie, you don’t even know her,’ I press, my heart pounding a bit as I push back against our leader, my cheeks pinking up from nerves. I’ve spoken my mind once, and now it’s like I don’t want to give in.
Connie eyes me carefully, then opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, thinks better of it, and snaps it closed again.
‘I know her type,’ she says finally. ‘I know her kind.’
She flicks the butt behind her and draws her arms up wide over her head in a deep stretch, ready to move on to the next topic at hand.
Juanita shifts next to me, uncomfortable but quiet. Sunny chews her bottom lip, looks down at the newspaper.
Connie’s always the boss. Always in charge. Always.
The sensation of that boy’s arms on me, his hand on my mouth. The sound of my feet kicking up gravel. It all comes back to me, and quick, too. A wave of nausea rolls over me, but I push it down.
‘Connie,’ I say, picking my words as carefully as I can, my voice shaking a little, ‘we gotta help Diane. We just do.’ I’m in real new territory here, but I go for it anyway. ‘I’m going to help her no matter what you say.’
Juanita stiffens next to me. Connie’s eyebrows pop up. Then she frowns, confused.
‘Oh, you are, huh?’ she says at last. She crosses her arms in front of her and examines me coolly. Her left foot is tapping like a machine gun, rat-a-tat-tat.
I shrink back into Juanita, but I don’t break eye contact with Connie. I just say, ‘Yeah, I am.’
Connie exhales loudly, uncrosses her arms, and lifts her eyes up to the bright blue Houston sky. I can hear the shouts of the little boys on the playground. Finally, she dips her head back and looks at me again. A soft smirk is on her bright red lips.
‘All right, fine,’ she proclaims at last, and I exhale in relief. ‘But this is how we’re going to do it. We’re nice to this girl tomorrow, I guess. She can sit with us at lunch. We’ll talk. But if the fuzz get mixed up in this, I’m putting my foot down. Evie keeps her trap shut.’
I nod, anxious to agree. I don’t want to get mixed up with the police, either. And while I’m not entirely sure what happens after lunch on Monday, I know that I can’t get caught and Diane can’t get caught. She won’t be and I won’t be, either.
I have to believe this is true.
It’s Monday morning, and Mama has already left for work at the Shamrock, but she did pause on her way out the door to gently shake me awake and wish me a good day. I muttered a ‘You too,’ into my pillow and wished for an extra hour of sleep.
‘Good morning, Evelyn,’ says my grandmother as I enter the kitchen. She’s drinking her coffee with lots of cream and sugar like always. Next to her cup is her weathered daily devotional with the burgundy cover, the words MY UTMOST FOR HIS HIGHEST stamped across the front. She gets up first each morning, slips on a fresh, ironed dress, carefully styles her salt-and-pepper hair, and, while her coffee is brewing, she flips through those onionskin pages, asking God to bless all of us.
This past year or so, I’m pretty sure she’s also been asking Him to get a handle on me.
‘Good morning,’ I say, offering her a smile.
She examines me carefully and sighs loudly. ‘I can’t see your lovely eyes with all that garbage all over them.’
‘Grandma, it’s not garbage, it’s makeup,’ I say, turning away from her to make myself some toast. She exhales again, and it’s like I can hear her frowning at me.
When I was little and Grandma moved in with us after my dad took off, she and Cheryl and I spent hours making sugar cookies and snuggling on the couch, reading out of my big book of fairy tales. The three of us would sing ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low?’ over and over in all sorts of funny voices until I laughed myself silly.
She was my sweet grandmother. Now it’s like she’s my judge and jury, too.
‘A lot of the girls wear it, you know,’ I say, turning back to face her. I don’t want her to be mad at me. I want her to be proud of me, somehow. But like Mama, Grandma thinks girls my age should look presentable. Find the right boy to marry. One who will stick around. They think girls my age should come straight home after school, never leave the house on Saturday, go to church every Sunday, never look at boys, never wear makeup, never smoke, never nothing.
Never have any fun.
My grandmother sighs and shrugs at the mention of other girls. Her lack of a response is the response, I realize.
Almost as if I’ve chosen the worst possible time to mention other girls, there’s a rapping on our front door and Juanita’s voice hollers for me from the porch (‘Eeeee-veeee!’). My grandmother is suspicious of all Mexicans, and she especially doesn’t like the Barajas family, because when they go to church at all, they go to a Catholic one, and Mr and Mrs Barajas are always hollering at each other good-naturedly with the windows wide open. What Grandma hears as noise and chaos has always seemed like love to me, and even though it hurts a little to admit to myself, Juanita’s house sure does seem a lot warmer than mine has been recently. But Grandma blames Juanita for setting me off on the wrong path, and I’ve overheard her telling Mama that I’d still be her good sweet granddaughter if only I hadn’t taken up with her.
‘I have to go to school,’ I say, pecking her on the cheek and taking my toast in hand for the walk.
‘Have a good day,’ she manages.
‘You too.’
And I’m out the door and I’m free.
Juanita and I meet up with Connie and Sunny outside Eastside. Kids are milling around on the lawn in front of the big brick building, huddling in their groups, gossiping about the weekend. The sea of faces is made up of white and Mexican kids milling about, killing time until the first bell rings. I spy the smart kids in the Major Works classes crowded together on the school steps, going over notes and quizzing each other. A few jocks are tossing a football, insulting each other’s throws.