Fire from the Rock (9 page)

Yesterday the telephone rang constantly.
Some calls were from other parents whose children are being considered as possible candidates for Central, but many were from friends and family with differing opinions. There were a couple of calls from Miss Daisy Bates, the president of the Arkansas NAACP. Everybody knows her—she lives not far from us on W. 28th Street. I think she's pretty—and such a proud, powerful lady. Daddy says she's pushy. That's probably true, too. Gary thinks that Miss Daisy and her husband, L.C., who publish our local Negro newspaper, are heroes.

Lou Ann called just before supper and told me to wear something red to the game. She said if I show up in beige or brown, she would bop me on the head with a saddle oxford! Reggie finally called just before supper. We didn't talk long, but it seemed like every word was glowing with importance. What's funny is I've known Reggie practically all my life, but all of a sudden he makes my stomach feel like mashed potatoes.

I still haven't gotten used to the idea that we're together, and he asked me again what it will be like when we're apart in the fall. I told him it may not happen and it's so far away I'm not going to worry about it yet. But the truth is, I am worried.

Gary is grumpy and irritable. He's like a balloon that's been blown up too far—all he needs is the pin that will make him pop. He wants to be on the list so bad he can taste it. I'm on the list, but I'm afraid to swallow. I wish I could trade places with him.

Miss Washington seemed very pleased when I handed her Mama's letter, giving permission for me to be considered. Several other students from Dunbar and Horace Mann had also been asked, including, I found out, my friend Melba Patillo.

Since our last names both start with “P,” Melba and I usually ended up sitting near each other when she went to Dunbar last year. She liked to read as much as I do, and we often shared library books. Plus she can sew like no tomorrow. Once, when I admired a skirt she wore, she brought me the pattern the next day. She'll be a great choice to be one of the students to integrate the school.

Even though me and DJ cleaned up the kitchen, I can hear Mama downstairs going behind us, sweeping and wiping the places we missed, softly singing one of her “worry songs,” as she calls them. She has a lovely voice-deep and mellow-and I feel safe when I hear it. Sometimes she just hums, but every once in a while, she really belts it out. I bet she could have been a professional singer if she hadn't married Daddy and had us.

I've read about Marian Anderson, the first colored lady to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. She even sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. I wonder if the opera folks treated her like she was special, or if they made her go in the back door like Aunt Bessie had to do for Mr. Crandall's shirts. I hope not. I'd love to hear her sing, just to compare her voice to Mama's, but colored folks hardly ever show up on television, and if she sang on the radio, I missed it.