Coffee Will Make You Black (16 page)

James started to choke on his beer. Carla's eyes opened wide. Miss Humphrey had a strange smile on her face. I stared down at my cider.

“You've really shown your behind now.” James grunted.

“No, I haven't,” Miss Humphrey shot back. “Not yet, I haven't. You wanted to get real, well, I got real,” she added.

“You got vulgar,” James said.

“So tell me in nice language what you see when you see me, James.”

James cleared his throat, “I see … I see a dizzy, insecure person, that's what I see.”

“Does that rate higher or lower than a piece of white pussy?” Miss Humphrey asked calmly.

“No comment,” James said angrily.

The air seemed full of electricity.

“You know I don't care if you see me as insecure or dizzy,” Miss Humphrey said, taking a drag off her cigarette.

“You don't?” Carla sounded surprised.

“No, because you can still care about an insecure person, in fact you can care about a dizzy person,” Miss Humphrey explained. “So, James, do you care about this dizzy, insecure person, as you put it, or not?”

“What do you mean by ‘care'?” James asked, staring at his beer bottle.

“You know, like when you care about somebody,” Carla chimed in.

“Just liking somebody,” I explained.

“Yeah, do you like me?” Miss Humphrey bit her bottom lip.

“This is too heavy. I mean, next you'll be wanting us to sign papers.” James pretended to laugh.

“Do you care?” Miss Humphrey laid on each word.

“I care about everybody,” James said, gulping his beer.

“Okay, so you don't care, and you don't have the guts to admit it, or else you do care, and you don't have the guts to admit that, either.” Miss Humphrey sounded mad.

“I've got all kinds of guts. I ain't scared to say nothing!” James insisted, scratching at the beer-bottle label.

“Well, then, say it!” Miss Humphrey shouted.

“Maybe he's trying to be nice,” I blurted out.

“What do you know about it?” Miss Humphrey turned toward me, ready to attack.

“Nothing,” I said, feeling scared.

“Rose, don't you know what time it is?” Carla asked.

“What's time got to do with it?” Miss Humphrey said. She sounded irritated.

“She means like wake up and smell the coffee,” I explained. Yikes, Miss Humphrey looked at me again.

“Yeah, he's just a brother trying to get over. Look how the white man used black women during slavery,” Carla said. James let out a sigh like he wanted to shut Carla up.

“How do you know this?” Miss Humphrey looked dead at Carla.

“I know my history.” Carla smiled.

“I mean about him, he told you this, didn't he?” Miss Humphrey looked at James.

“She's just speaking in generalities.” James continued scratching away at the label.

“He's been talking about me, hasn't he?” Miss Humphrey turned toward me again.

“I didn't say anything.” I stuck my mouth out.

“You've got ears. Did he say he was using me or not?”

I looked at Carla; her lips were sealed. I looked at James; his mouth was open.

“Answer me, young lady!” Miss Humphrey sounded like we were in school. I remembered she was still my teacher.

“Look, he ain't said nothing really,” Carla cut in. “She just don't want to get in y'all's business.”

“Look at me, young lady, and answer my question.” Miss Humphrey stared at me.

It was scary looking at Miss Humphrey, although she wasn't a bad-looking person. Her green eyes looked watery like a river, and I felt sorry for her. But I still didn't say anything. I glanced at James and he put a finger to his lips.

“I saw that. Don't play me for a fool!” Miss Humphrey yelled at him.

“Stop pressuring the girl,” James said.

All eyes were on him now. I was glad to be out of the hot seat.

“If you want to know the truth, I guess I
don't
really care about you. Is that so terrible? So what if I am a brother trying to get over? I thought all you wanted was a good time too.” James sighed.

It was so quiet at our table you could've heard a rat piss on cotton. Then the jukebox started playing “When a Man Loves a Woman,” which I thought was kind of bad timing. Still nobody said anything. Miss Humphrey stared into her empty glass. Carla glanced around the bar. James was rolling the shredded label between his fingers. I thought this was a good time to go. But I was afraid to move, so I just held my hand above the lit candle inside the fishnet-covered glass container.

“Happy Hour is now over,” C.C. announced from the bar.

Miss Humphrey stood up. “Girls, we'd better go. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We have to paint our masks, remember. Goodbye, Mr. Robinson.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said automatically.

“Bye, James,” Carla smiled.

“Sure, bye y'all.” James belched and started toward the bathroom.

I blew out the candle and dipped my finger into the soft, hot wax.

“Be careful, sweetheart.” Miss Humphrey pulled my hand out gently.

“You can't take her anywhere,” Carla teased.

“Forget you,” I said as we walked toward the door.

“Forget you, forgot you, never thought about you!” Carla answered.

“Look, let's keep this between us,” Miss Humphrey said once we were outside.

I nodded and Carla half nodded. I wasn't about to tell Mama, I thought.

“Miss Humphrey, I liked the part about the warm sand and …”

“Yeah, it's cold out here,” Carla interrupted.

“… the blue sky and smelling the ocean,” I continued.

“Really, well, I'm glad somebody did.” She sighed.

Miss Humphrey went to call a cab, and me and Carla headed for home.

“You and that stupid-ass ocean,” Carla groaned. “Now you'll probably get a ‘A,' and you can't even draw.”

“I don't have to be able to draw; I've got the soul of an artist.” I stuck my tongue out at her.

“You better just bring your butt on.” Carla ran ahead.

I was still thinking about Miss Humphrey and James and smelling the ocean, but I brought my butt on anyway.

chapter 14

I was headed for the canteen in the back of the cafeteria to buy my usual Friday lunch of potato chips and a Coke.

Carla called to me as I passed the line of students who were buying hot lunches.

“Girl, come get in line. It's sloppy-joe time.”

I looked surprised. Carla and I never had enough money left to buy hot lunches on Friday. “Carla, I don't have sloppy-joe money.”

“Just come get in line, girl. I got you covered.”

I was still confused, but I grabbed a tray and butted in front of Carla.

“So where did you get the moolah?” I asked as we navigated our full trays through the crowded lunchroom.

“Rose.” Carla smiled.

“Rose who?” I asked, sitting down across from Patrice and Tanya.

“You know, Rose Humphrey.”

“Miss Humphrey?”

Carla nodded.

“You got lunch money from Miss Humphrey!”

“I got over like a big dog.” Carla stretched her hand out for me to give her five.

I barely tapped her palm. Patrice and Tanya looked interested.

“You just told Miss Humphrey to give up some cash?” Patrice wanted to know.

“Carla, I just hope you didn't mention my name.”

“Stevie, Miss Humphrey's crazy about you; you were my ace in the hole.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“When Miss Humphrey heard that you couldn't afford a decent lunch today, she took pity on your poor black ass and dug deep in her heart as well as her pocketbook and gave it up for you.”

“Wow, so you used Stevie to get over,” Tanya said, crunching on potato chips.

Carla nodded.

“I don't appreciate what you did. I don't want some white person feeling sorry for me, behind a sloppy joe and french fries,” I said angrily.

“Don't forget the lime jello.”

I ignored Carla. “Getting over isn't everything to me. My pride is more important.”

“Stevie, pride ain't got nothing to do with it. It's all about getting over, am I right, y'all?”

“I heard that,” Tanya agreed. “Pride don't pay no bills.”

“Shit, if Carla can get over on a honky, ain't no sweat off your nose,” Patrice insisted. “Help that white chick work off some of her guilt,” she added.

“Probably thinks she's a revolutionary now.” Tanya laughed.

“Black folks got to get over any way they can,” Patrice insisted, stealing one of my French fries.

“Yeah, Stevie, so enjoy your sloppy joe. It's free.”

I bit into the greasy sandwich. “Carla, there's no such thing as a free sloppy joe.”

Mama said she couldn't understand why anyone would want to celebrate a slave past. I tried to explain to her that we weren't celebrating it, we were commemorating it.

But, despite Mama's strong objections, I'd made it out of the house with my hair in a zillion braids and wearing a potato sack for a dress. Carla stood next to me in the hallway with her hair tied up in a handkerchief. She wore a raggedy cotton dress and an apron. I pointed at a girl walking by, with a sign on her big stomach that read: “The master done it!” Carla giggled and ran off to catch up with Tyrone.

“What's happening, Stevie!” It was Roland, dressed in patched pants with suspenders. He turned around and showed me the rips in his shirt. It looked like they had been made by a whip.

I nodded approvingly.

“Plantation Day looks like it's gonna be a big success!”

“Yeah,” I agreed, noticing that most of the students in the hallway were dressed like slaves.

“Stevie, the natives are restless. It's time to tell the truth about our history. We weren't a bunch of happy darkies down on the plantation.”

“No, we weren't,” I agreed.

“Well, what did you think of the Afro-American Club?”

“That was only my first meeting, Roland. You see I'm supporting Plantation Day, don't you?”

“Stevie, the Afro-American Club is really talking about changing things. We're on the move!”

“What if you don't get the things you want?”

“The head brother, Brother Jamar, says we'll use ‘any means necessary'!”

“Wow!”

“That's a quote from Malcolm X.”

“Oh.”

“Stevie, you should check out the
Autobiography of Malcolm X
. I'm reading it now.”

“I never even heard of that book.”

“You've heard of Malcolm X, haven't you?”

“Of course, I know he was a black Muslim. I remember when he died. My mother said she'd miss hearing him speak on the radio. She didn't agree with anything he said, but she liked the way he pronounced his words.”

“Well, you need to get hip to his message.”

“Dr. King is my hero.”

“You can have more than one hero, you know.”

“Maybe so. Well, lend me the
Autobiography of Malcolm X
when you finish with it.”

“Right on, Stevie! Brother Jamar says, ‘It's time for a new generation of black men to rise up and seize control!'”

“That was the second bell! Where do you two belong this period?” the short matronly hall monitor demanded.

The day after Plantation Day, we were sitting in Art class. “I saw a segment on the news last night about people doing some really groovy ice sculptures up in Minnesota,” Miss Humphrey announced. “Did anyone else see it?”

Some people groaned at hearing her say “groovy.” Me and a couple of other students raised our hands.

“Wasn't it neat?” Miss Humphrey asked.

“Neat,” a girl named Kawanda mimicked Miss Humphrey.

“Hey, Wally, where's the Beaver?” Desmond rubbed it in even more.

Poor Miss Humphrey, I thought. She wanted to be cool so badly.

Everett raised his hand. “Miss Humphrey, how do peoples know how to do sculpture?”

“Everett, someone asked Michelangelo how he knew how to sculpt David.”

“What he say?”

“I cut away at everything that wasn't David. Wasn't that a neat answer?” Miss Humphrey said as the bell rang. “Wait, Jean and Carla, I have something for you.”

Kawanda and Peaches turned around to see what Miss Humphrey was talking about. They stood in the doorway and watched her drag out a cardboard box from underneath her desk.

“What is it?” I asked, not sure whether to be excited or not.

“Yeah, what you got?” Carla looked suspicious.

Miss Humphrey held up a plaid pleated skirt.

“I can't wear these clothes anymore, they're too small. I would normally donate them to Goodwill. But I asked myself, why do that, when I have a couple of students in my classroom who can't even afford lunch?”

“Tell her y'all don't need her funky old clothes,” Kawanda groaned, as she walked into the hallway. “For real,” Peaches agreed as they left me and Carla alone with Miss Humphrey and the box of old clothes.

Carla appeared speechless for once. “Miss Humphrey,” I swallowed, “I know you mean well, but we don't need your clothes.”

“Look, there are some really nice things in here. Some of them have hardly been worn.”

“Is you deaf? She told you we ain't need 'em.”

“Carla, I find that hard to believe. Especially since the two of you can't even afford lunch.”

“That was Carla's idea of ‘getting over.' I tried to pay you back, didn't I?”

“And I told you that I didn't want to be paid back, didn't I?”

“Look, we ain't piss poor, or nothin'. We got money,” Carla insisted.

“Miss Humphrey, the only reason we don't buy a hot lunch on Fridays is so that we can buy a forty-five or fingernail polish or a magazine, stuff like that,” I explained.