Fast Girls Page 10

  “I’m Louise Stokes. From your chemistry class.” She held back from adding that she had been in his physics class the previous year and biology the year before that. During her first year in his class, he had once stopped in front of her desk as she took notes and mused, “Left-handed, eh? They used to burn women like you at the stake for being witches.” Louise’s mouth had gone dry as she felt everyone staring at her, but she held her pencil even tighter in her left hand.

  She cleared her throat and continued. “I failed the last chemistry test and am concerned about my overall grade.”

  He made no move toward the leather-bound grade book on the corner of his desk, but drummed his fingers on his desk as he considered her. His shoulders hunched, giving him the posture of a vulture. “This is your final year?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve done well to make it this far.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She kept her eyes lowered to the ground so he couldn’t see the anger she knew to be written all over her face. For her first three years of high school, Louise had been an exemplary student, and it was only recently that her grades had begun to suffer. In December, she set a national record in the broad jump, and everyone had been talking about it. Even The Boston Globe had written an article about it that Louise had clipped out and sent to her uncle Freddie in California. Despite all of these successes, every new accomplishment in track and field seemed to lead to less time for her to study. And since more paid sewing work was coming Emily’s way, Louise had been taking on more work around the house. Ever since Mrs. Grandaway’s death in the fall, Mama continued helping the family ready the house for sale, but no one had said a word to her about how much longer she would have a job. The uncertainty was stressful and wearying Mama and Papa.

  Mr. Callahan picked at his ear. “Tell me, what do your parents do?”

  “My father’s a gardener and my mother’s a housekeeper.”

  He opened the top drawer of his desk to retrieve a cigarette and lit it, placing it between his thin, chapped lips and letting it dangle out of the corner of his mouth. “Chemistry is a difficult subject. Perhaps this isn’t the class for you.”

  “But, sir, I need it to graduate.”

  “Ahh, graduation.” He rubbed his thin lips together. “A high school diploma isn’t meant for everyone.”

  Hot shame filled Louise. At that moment, the sound of throat clearing interrupted their conversation and they turned to see Norm Northam, one of her classmates, lean into the room and grin as he ran a hand along the part of his chestnut-colored hair, held perfectly in place by a shiny pomade. He entered with the easy confidence of a boy whose yearbook page listed a lengthy column of clubs, office positions, and sports teams. “Mr. Callahan, may I have a word?”

  “Of course, of course, Mr. Northam. We’re just finishing up.” He beckoned Norm to come in and then reversed the motion as if nudging Louise away from him. “All right, then, Miss . . .”

  But Louise didn’t answer. She bolted for the door and hurried out into the hallway. Only once she could no longer hear the teacher and Norm talking did she stop to lean against the wall of lockers and collect herself.

  Directly across the hall from her were some large framed class photos. In the photos, it was clear the number of black students diminished each year that the class progressed, but in the last couple of years, fewer students, white and black, had returned to classes at Malden High. More young people were looking for work, even though jobs were harder to come by. She let out a shuddering sigh. Cutting back on expenses seemed to be the goal of every household in Malden, both among the well-off and the less so, but this last year had been exceptionally lean and the results were trickling down to the families teetering on the fine line between “scraping by” and “flat-out broke” with calamitous results.

  Mama always said to keep her head down and keep focused on the end result: a high school diploma. But now Louise wasn’t so sure. What would come next? What was the point of enduring all of these daily humiliations? She dropped her chin to her chest and inspected the toes of her scuffed brown shoes. Small, careful repair seams were visible on her gray knee socks upon close inspection. Her family needed more money and if she stopped going to school, she could do something to help.

  Her parents had been insistent that she stay in school, saying they didn’t want Louise to take a job away from someone who really needed it, but Louise was getting impatient. A loose sheet of paper covered in quadratic equations lay on the ground by her toe and she kicked it away.

  AFTER WASHING AND drying the dinner dishes that evening, Louise and Emily settled in at the kitchen table to work on their homework. Mama sat alongside them, mending in hand. When Louise looked at the long line of computations to be calculated, she took a deep breath. “I’m not going to school anymore.”

  Mama continued slipping her needle in and out of the skirt she was hemming, but Emily’s pencil stopped moving across her composition book as she stole a look at her sister. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Louise’s heart hitched in her chest as she forced herself to look at Mama. “I’m failing chemistry and possibly a couple of other classes, all because of my teachers. They don’t want me to graduate.”

  Without lifting her gaze from her needle, Mama said, “Since when does what they want dictate what you want?”

  “It’s just starting to feel like I’m wasting time in school. Ever since I set that new national record in the broad jump in December, Coach Quain says my Olympic prospects are looking better and better. I could end up going to Los Angeles to compete. Why do I need to know how to solve equations or analyze Shakespeare?” She spoke quickly, pointing at her battered copy of Hamlet. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Papa had come back inside now, the sweet smell of his pipe trailing behind him. He leaned against the door, his face lost in the shadows. “You think your mama has wanted to clean other people’s houses for the last twenty years?” His voice sounded tired but firm. “You think I want to tend to other people’s lawns, weed their flowerbeds? You’ve been going to school all this time so you can do better than us.”

  Louise shuddered and licked her lips, steeling herself for what she needed to say. “The best thing I can do for myself is compete in the Olympics.”

  Sorrow flashed across Mama’s face and she sighed. “But what makes you so sure you’ll qualify?”

  “I can do it. I know I can.”

  Papa shook his head. “That’s an awful big bet. Stick with school. Get that diploma and you can go on to become a teacher, a nurse. You’re almost done. Why quit now?”

  Exasperation ballooned inside Louise’s chest. There were no options for a black girl like her in nearby colleges, and she had no desire to leave her family and move away to attend a farther one. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I’m not going to be able to go to college. We simply can’t afford it.”

  At that, her parents quieted and shame filled Louise. “I can make it to Los Angeles,” she whispered. “I’ll make you all proud of me.”

  Mama rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. “We’ve been proud of you. Being a good daughter and sister is enough.”

  “Well, it’s not enough for me.” Louise pushed her chair back and headed for her bedroom, leaving a silent kitchen in her wake.

  THE NEXT MORNING Louise rose and dressed in a clean navy-blue skirt and matching knee socks, a cream-colored midi blouse, and a light gray wool cardigan that her grandmother had knitted for her. While her brother and sisters scrambled around the house, washing themselves, dressing, and eating, she made a pot of oatmeal and doled out bowls of it for each of them. After Mama and Papa left for work, she called goodbye to her siblings, cleaned the breakfast dishes, straightened the kitchen, and then made her way over to Dr. Conway’s house late enough that the household would be up and running, but early enough so that she could catch Mrs. Conway before she left the house on any errands or social calls. When she reached their house she
paused, checking to see if Papa was anywhere nearby, but there was no sign of him so she circled around to the kitchen door at the back of the house and knocked.

  Miss June, the housekeeper, opened the door. “Why aren’t you at school?”

  “I need a job.”

  Miss June harrumphed. “Your parents know about this?”

  “Mama’s job could go away any day now. I need to line something up.”

  “Louise Stokes, you’ve always been a stubborn girl. Why, I remember you in Sunday school when you drew that picture of the nativity scene. You remember what I’m talking about?” Miss June chuckled. “You drew that little round man in the corner of your nativity scene picture and when Miss Hayes asked you who it was, you said, ‘Round John Virgin, ma’am.’ She tried to correct you and sang you the correct lyrics of ‘Silent Night,’ but you refused to budge. Not until the reverend came down and showed you the lines in the hymnbook and explained to you what ‘Round yon virgin mother and child’ meant did you back down.” She laughed and shook her head, repeating, “Round John Virgin.”

  Louise gave a grudging nod. “I still think it’s strange that everyone cared so much about what was in my nativity scene.”

  Miss June’s chest stopped heaving with silent laughter and she became serious. “Miss Hayes wanted to make sure you understood that scene. She didn’t want you going about your life with such a mistake and embarrassing yourself in school. She knew every opportunity to teach a colored student the correct way to say something was important for when you would be out in the real world someday. She didn’t want you to look ignorant when you went off to school with white students.”

  “But I was just a little kid.”

  Miss June shook her head. “Still stubborn as always, I see. Well, c’mon, let me take you in to see Mrs. Conway, but don’t you go telling either of your parents that I had anything to do with this scheme of yours.”

  They found Mrs. Conway perched at her walnut desk, several letters fanned in front of her. If she thought it odd that Louise wasn’t at school, her kind face gave away nothing. “Why, Louise, what a treat to see you this morning. What can I do for you?”

  After Louise explained that she was looking for work, Mrs. Conway tapped her perfectly rounded fingernails on her address book for a moment as she thought. “You could try Mrs. Clark, over on Fairview Avenue. I believe she mentioned needing a girl when I saw her at a Women’s Club meeting last Tuesday. Her young daughters will keep you busy. Tell her I sent you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “If Mrs. Clark has found a new situation, try Mrs. Mason over on Stone Street.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” As Miss June led Louise through the kitchen to the back door, the older woman said, “Mrs. Clark could be good, but don’t even think about Mrs. Mason. She’s mean and her husband’s even worse. If Mrs. Clark don’t work out, come back here, I got more suggestions, though the pay won’t be so good. It’s tough out there.”

  “Thank you, Miss June.”

  “Now hold up a moment. All that running has you looking too thin.” She reached to a cutting board on the counter, cut a slice of cinnamon raisin bread, then handed it to Louise. “See you at church on Sunday.”

  “You won’t say anything to my father, will you?”

  “Do you plan to tell him about this tonight?” When Louise nodded, Miss June said, “Good, because I’ve got no plans to lie for you.”

  Louise bobbed her chin in gratitude and closed the door behind her. Cupping the still-warm fresh bread in her hand, she slunk around the side of the house to be sure Papa wouldn’t catch a glimpse of her. She made it to the sidewalk and took off at a run to escape any notice. Only when she was a few blocks away did she stop and eat the bread.

  BY LUNCHTIME, SHE had a job with Mrs. Clark tending to her two young daughters and helping the main housekeeper. Mrs. Clark, a small-waisted woman with a precisely marcel-waved coiffure, had presented Louise with a long, detailed list of her daily tasks, but her young daughter and baby seemed sweet and the house bright and clean. After work, Louise would still be able to attend track practice in the late afternoon. Louise had no illusions about the work. She had seen Mama’s exhaustion every night. The days would be long and tiring, but she would be helping her family, and her parents wouldn’t be able to object to her working once she announced she had a job.

  17.

  February 1932

  Fulton, Missouri

  WHEN HELEN PINNED THE LAST SECTION OF HAIR into place against her scalp, Mildred, one of the other girls who boarded at Miss Humphries’s, took a step away and studied her. “Good, you’ve got the hang of it. Your hair will look pretty in the morning when you take the pins out.” She sat back down and huddled toward Helen. “Now listen, we never get much homework on Thursday nights. What do you say about coming to the movies with us? Mata Hari’s playing and Garbo’s supposed to be sensational.”

  Helen placed the remaining hairpins in a tin and glanced at Mildred to see if she was serious. Since her talk with Miss Schultz, she had become friendly with the three other girls who boarded with her. She often helped them with their homework by editing their writing assignments and they had reciprocated by helping her with styling her hair and selecting what clothes to wear, but this invitation from Mildred marked the first invitation to do something social. As the other two boarders leaned in the doorway and joined in with Mildred’s urging, Helen beamed, not quite believing her good fortune. “I like the idea of a story about a lady spy. I just read a letter to the editor in the newspaper complaining that the cinema has hit a new low by showing a film featuring such skimpy costumes and a racy plot. Do your parents know you’re seeing films like this?”

  Mildred giggled. “If my parents knew I was even thinking about it, they’d probably lock me up.”

  “Well then, let’s go before the cinema stops showing it!”

  The date was sealed and when the following Thursday evening arrived, all the girls traipsed along the brick sidewalks to the cinema to take their seats in the crowded theater. Helen inhaled the smells of soap, powder, damp wool, and cigarettes and absorbed the sighs and breathless giggling of the other girls as she settled into the dark, delighted to be in such proximity to the group. When the film began, Helen could hardly focus on the screen. Instead, she watched the girls around her, the way the light flickered across the smooth skin of their faces, but then Greta Garbo appeared and everything else was forgotten. Each time Mata Hari danced, Helen could barely breathe. The slinkiness of her sparkly gown, her bare back . . . Helen was transfixed. She’d never seen anything like it.

  That evening as she lay in the dark in her narrow twin bed, images of Mata Hari returned to her, setting off a contraction deep inside her core, a fluttering in her chest—sensations she’d never felt before. With visions of Greta Garbo filling her mind, she allowed her fingers to travel down to between her legs and lost herself in the sensation of pleasure that she was able to summon all by herself. This was nothing like what had happened with Jimmy in the outbuilding. He had been rough and smelly and everything he had done had hurt. But this feeling she could conjure herself? This was something entirely different. After several minutes of being lost in her arousal, she jolted as if an electrical current had zapped through her and gasped. What was she doing? Even in the dark by herself, she felt her cheeks flush with mortification. She was not supposed to be doing anything like this, especially as a girl. Thinking about—much less touching—that part of her body was wrong—she had gotten that message loud and clear. From school, from church, from home—everywhere. What was wrong with her?

  But . . .

  Why was it wrong? What was so wrong about pleasure? She was by herself, not hurting anyone. Was she hurting herself somehow? The shame that suffused her felt confusing.

  Did any of the other girls feel this way too? Did Mildred? Did they ever do this to themselves? She straightened in her bed, stared at the ceiling, and wished she could stop her mi
nd from spinning with questions. But even more, she wished she didn’t always feel so different from everyone else.

  THURSDAYS AT THE cinema became a regular pastime for Helen and her roommates, and Frankenstein became a favorite. No matter how many times they watched it, when the thunder clapped and the monster’s hand first moved, they never failed to shriek and reach for each other. Every time one of the girls buried her head in Helen’s shoulder, she held her breath. Every time one of them squeezed her hand, she studied her face for any sign of attraction, but as far as she could tell, there was nothing but camaraderie in anyone’s gestures. And while these new friendships felt wonderful—she realized she’d been hungering for this laughter, the easy conversations, and even the simple pleasure of sharing silly jokes—what would it be like to discover something more? Something like what she saw happening between Marlene Dietrich and Clive Brook when she watched Shanghai Express. The problem was that she couldn’t really picture exactly what she wanted to discover. The lead actors never excited her the way they did everyone else.

  When the other girls sighed over men like Charles Farrell and Clark Gable, Helen nodded and agreed that the movie stars were dreamy and handsome, but she didn’t really feel the collective excitement that engulfed the other girls. How she wished she did! The palpable longing in the girls’ voices when they described how they imagined their future husbands elicited something akin to pain in Helen. Getting married, having babies, tending to her future house? She couldn’t picture herself doing any of these things. She’d contemplate her future, her mind straining to come up with a picture of what it looked like, but nothing materialized and this left her in a cold sweat.

  After all, what could be more terrifying and lonelier than a blank future?

  AS SPRING APPROACHED, boys began meeting Helen and her roommates in the lobby, and when it came time to file into the theater, all the girls jockeyed for position to pair with the boys. All except for Helen. Each of the scenes that—before the boys had started joining them—had caused the girls to link arms with each other and scream now prompted them to quiver with glee-filled terror and nestle closer to the boys. All except Helen. No boy ever leapt for a seat next to her, and she didn’t want them to. Their chapped lips, square jaws, dungarees—none of it appealed to her. She missed the warmth of her friends’ whispers in her ears and the tight grasp of their soft hands. Now, the girls leaned into the shoulders of the boys at their sides.