Fire from the Rock (15 page)

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Authors: Sharon Draper

BOOK: Fire from the Rock
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“Hurry, girl!”
Sylvia's patent-leather shoes clicked faster on the wooden floor. She reached down to smooth her skirt as she checked her hair with her other hand. She wore a new, neatly ironed, red-and-white candy-striped dress that her mother had made for her, white gloves because her mother had insisted, and her Sunday shoes, which pinched her toes, instead of her comfortable school saddle oxfords.
Sylvia reached the door, found the woman with the voice to be thin, unsmiling, and wearing a pair of cat-eye glasses, and entered the interrogation room slowly. Dimly lit, the dull gray room seemed to be full of shadows. It felt more like a prison than an office. Sylvia took deep breaths, resisting the urge to turn around and run full speed back down that hall. She forced herself to smile pleasantly, refusing to let them see how scared she was.
Six examiners, five men and one woman, sat at a long wooden table. The woman with the harsh voice, Sylvia realized as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, was Eileen Crandall. She glared at Sylvia with thinly veiled animosity.
One straight-back chair sat about five feet away from their table, alone in the center of the room. Sylvia was asked to sit there. Sylvia took off her gloves and waited.
“You are Sylvia Faye Patterson?” It was both a question and a statement.
“Yes, sir,” she responded politely to the first man who asked the question.
“You go to Dunbar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your grades seem to be quite acceptable.”
“Thank you, sir.” I
guess that's a compliment. Who can tell with these people?
“Do you think you're better than white children?” he asked suddenly. Sylvia was stunned by the harshness of the question.
“No, sir. But I think I'm as smart as anyone else.”
“Are you trying to be smart now?”
“No, sir. I just tried to answer your question.”
“Don't try to get sassy with me, now.”
This is not going well—I feel like I'm going to throw up.
“No, sir,” Sylvia started to hang her head, but she lifted it up and stared at them all, directly in their faces.
I don't think they like it when you face them fair and square.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Mrs. Crandall asked.
Should
I
bring Reggie into this? she mused.
Unless you count that football game, we've never been on a real date, never done much more than talk and laugh on the phone.
She replied, “No, ma'am. Not really.”
“Most girls your age are interested in boys. Who would you socialize with in an all-white school? You certainly couldn't date a white boy.” Mrs. Crandall was nervously chewing the wood on her pencil.
Who would want to go out with a white boy? Good grief! I have trouble enough understanding the boys I know.
“I wouldn't want to do that, ma'am,” Sylvia replied to Mrs. Crandall, not really sure how to answer.
“Why not?”
“I don't want to date anyone right now,” Sylvia said honestly. “I'm mostly interested in my studies.”
“Suppose you saw a white boy you found to be attractive. Would you try to encourage a relationship?”
Sylvia thought of Mrs. Crandall's son Johnny and the pasty-faced white boys that beat up her brother. There was no way she could imagine wanting to date one of them. “No, ma'am.” she replied emphatically. “I really just want to go to classes. My parents are very strict with me and do not allow me to court at all. That would not be a problem.”
“How many times a day do you go to the bathroom?” another man asked.
Sylvia looked at him with surprise. “I don't know, sir. I've never counted.”
Mama never lets us talk about bathroom
stuff; especially in public. She says it's just not polite. These people are crazy!
“We'd have to give y'all separate bathroom stalls if we let you use the toilets at all. Could you go all day without going to the bathroom?”
“I don't think so, sir,” Sylvia replied. Then, although she knew she shouldn't have, she added, “Could you?”
The bald-headed man scowled in disapproval and scribbled furiously on the piece of paper in front of him, but he said nothing else.
“You understand you could not participate in any school activities?” the bald man asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“No dances—we wouldn't want none of y'all touching our children.”
“I understand.”
Nobody wants to touch their precious children anyway!
“No clubs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No sports.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can't be in any of the plays—they wouldn't have any parts for Nigras anyway!” He chuckled and seemed pleased with himself as he continued to take notes on the paper in front of him.
“The rules have been explained to me, sir,” Sylvia replied. Then she added, “But I think they are unfair.” They didn't like that one! Sylvia grinned inwardly.
“Nobody asked you what you think,” Mrs. Crandall said haughtily as she peered at Sylvia over her glasses.
“Do you have any white friends?” another man asked suddenly.
Sylvia thought of Callie Crandall, who was most certainly not her friend, then she thought with fondness of Rachel, with whom she felt comfortable and open. So Sylvia replied, “I've known Rachel Zucker most of my life.”
“You mean the grocery man Zucker's daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She's Jewish. She doesn't count. Do you have any real white friends?”
Sylvia's mind reeled. They don't
count Jewish people in with the white population? This was a bombshell to her. “Uh, no, sir. I guess I don't.” I wonder if Rachel and her family know how they are looked upon by the majority of the folks in town. Yeah, considering those swastikas on their door, they do.
The thin, bald-headed man spoke next. “Why do you want to go to Central High School, Sylvia Faye?”
She relaxed a little. “Central High School is the best school in Little Rock, even in Arkansas. I want to go to college when I graduate, and become someone special or famous—someone who makes a difference in the world. I think that Central would best prepare me to do that.”
“Horace Mann is newer than Central—it was just built last year. What's wrong with the schools that have been established for the coloreds?” It was Mrs. Crandall speaking again.
“I think education ought to be the same for all children,” Sylvia said slowly. “I think there is a lot we can learn from each other.”
“What can a white child learn from you?” Mrs. Crandall asked haughtily.
“Patience, maybe. And understanding.”
All of them shuffled their papers then. Finally the fat man at the end of the table who had said nothing yet asked, “Is your brother Gary Patterson?”
Oh, no. Here it comes. “Yes, sir.” “He's got a reputation for being a troublemaker. That kind of stuff runs in families. Are you a troublemaker as well?”
How am I supposed to answer a question like this?
Sylvia took a deep breath and answered. “My brother has never been in trouble with the police,” she answered honestly. At least not yet. “And I have no intention of ever causing any trouble to anyone.”
“Does your mother like teaching the colored children at Stephens Elementary?” the bald-headed man asked.
“Yes, sir. I'm sure she does. Very much.”
I wonder what Mama's job has to do with this.
“We hear she's pretty good at teaching, at least for a Negro.”
“Thank you.” Sylvia tensed.
“Do you think your mama is willing to risk that job?” the fat man on the end of the table asked.
“Risk it? How?” Sylvia looked confused.
“Some members of our community are opposed to integration,” Mrs. Crandall replied with a nasty smile. “I have heard threats of job action against the parents of the children who try to integrate. Are you aware of that?”
“No, ma'am,” was all Sylvia could say. She felt like an animal in the road, about to be smashed by a car. “Our family believes in faith and prayer.”
I think I need a little of both, Sylvia
thought desperately.
“Yes, we're aware of your family's church connections,” the bald man said then. “You know, your father also stands to lose his job at Dimming's Brickyard. We wouldn't do such a thing, of course, but we can't control all of the members of this community.” Mrs. Crandall was smiling broadly. “And wouldn't it be just awful if something happened to that little church y'all go to?”
Would they? Could they? Yeah, I think it might be possible.
Sylvia was amazed at how much they knew about her family and was terrified of their power. She didn't know how to respond, so she said nothing. She refused to look down, however. She stared at each of them boldly, none of the fear she was feeling showing on her face.
“If you are chosen to go to Central, Sylvia Faye, there is no telling what might happen to you in that large school with so many hallways and staircases. You would have nobody to protect you.” The bald man's voice was cold and threatening.
Sylvia waited several moments before answering.
I'm not gonna let these people get to me! She took a deep breath. “I
believe in the goodness of people, sir, and the power of young folks like us to overcome what grown-ups like you might not be able to.”
The committee had no reply to that. Abruptly, the lead questioner said, “We have your application, Sylvia Faye. We will inform you when we have made our decision. Thank you for coming in.”
Sylvia was dismissed like she was minor irritant. None of the members of the committee looked up at her, and none of them smiled. As Sylvia walked out the door, her parents stood expectantly at the end of the hall. She ran to them and let their hugs make her feel whole.
 
 
Friday, April 19, 1957
I still feel like I've been hollowed out
like a Thanksgiving turkey and stuffed with sharp knives instead of soft dressing. When I got home from the interview, I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even sit still. I went outside after leaving my dinner untouched, and just started running. I wanted to run to Canada, to the moon, to someplace so far away that I could forget feeling like the dirt off someone's shoes. Mama stood on the porch and watched me run. She seemed to understand.
When I got back home, sweaty and breathless, Mama sat on the porch swing, waiting. I hugged her, then hurried upstairs to take a bath. I needed to get their breath off me, their dirty looks.
I don't understand why people are so mean to each other, why one group of people can hate another group of people so much. It makes my head hurt to think about it, but I see it everywhere now.
I can see it in the eyes of the bus driver who really doesn't want me on his bus, and the man at the Rexall drugstore, who thinks I'll probably steal something. I can feel it in the whispers of people who walk behind me on the street. I wish I was still young like Donna Jean, who is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, making long necklaces of Pop-it beads and only worrying about whether she'll run out of red ones.
I need to talk to Reggie, but he's gone off with Gary again. He's been spending way too much time with my brother. At first I thought it was cool they were close. But now I just worry. It seems like all I do is worry and stress over stuff. Why can't I just have fun like other kids?
Chuck Berry's new song, “Up in the Morning and Off to School,” is a big hit with all my friends. Even Rachel likes it-last week at the store she was singing the words about the mean teacher and the after-school rock-and-roll party. I don't know what school Chuck Berry was talking about in that song, but Little Rock for sure has no places like that, at least not for colored kids. I don't think it's going to be much fun this school year for white kids, either-the situation is much too tense.
School's gonna be out in another month, but instead of a summer of listening to records with my friends, and giggling about boys, I have to worry about what looms in my future if I get accepted to go to Central High School. Me and Little Rock are gonna need lots more than rock and roll.
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 1957
We're leaving for the library now, Mama.” Sylvia popped her head in the kitchen door. She hoped her mother wouldn't give them a long list of rules and instructions.
“You've got enough change for bus fare?” Her mother, with her arms deep in a pan of warm, sudsy dishwater, looked up and smiled.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Don't waste your money on snacks and foolishness—I'm fixing a good dinner.”
“We won't.”
“And be mindful of your surroundings. Times are rough and not everybody is happy about what's happening in town. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma'am.” Sylvia waited for the proverb that she knew was coming next.
“Malice lurks in the heart of the unbeliever, child. Be careful.”
Sylvia grinned. “I promise, Mama. We'll only be gone for a couple of hours.” Sylvia shifted from one foot to another.
“Hold Donna Jean's hand as you cross the street.”
“I will, Mama. Can we go now?”
“Sure, Sylvia. I'm not holding you back. You're the one wasting your time chitchatting with me.”
Sylvia groaned with exasperation, but managed to smile and wave good-bye. Donna Jean, waiting in the living room, covered her mouth to stifle the giggles. “Let's get out of here before she thinks of something else!”

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