Into White (20 page)

Afterward one girl broke from the other forty—Deanté's sister. She began stomping and stepping in the center of the stage while the other thirty-nine girls formed a giant G behind her. Their synchronized hand and foot movements were impressive, but everyone's eyes fell on Andrea. She was magnetic. When they completed the formation, all forty girls lined up, again by height.

“We are the fantastic Forty, the phenomenal Forty, the soul-stepping Forty of Gamma Pi,” they said as one. “Now it's time to reveal ourselves.”

“They're about to take off the masks,” said Deanté, barely containing his excitement. “They'll start with the shortest in line, or the Ace.”

As if on cue, the shortest girl stepped forward from the line and ripped her mask off. The exhilarated crowd roared so loudly that I had to strain to hear her introduction. “My name is Carmen Riley from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and I am the Ace of this line!” She stepped back and the second girl marched forward.

“My name is Jasmine Sanders from Atlanta, Georgia!” She flipped her hair and stepped back as well.

The introductions went rather quickly. The variation of black women on that stage was striking. Some light-skinned with long curly hair, some as dark as ebony with stylized buzz cuts, others with micro-braids, even a few were my original color—the color of coffee with a single hit of cream. The girls on that stage were so different from the girls at Edgewood High School. Not just because they were black, but because they were free to express their individuality to the world without fear of judgment. Really, it was more than that: The crowd applauded their uniqueness. No one sniggered at the ones with ethnic names, or unstraightened hair, or thicker bodies. Just then, I understood why fate led Deanté to ASU the night of the party, and in turn, why he'd led me.

Deanté elbowed me. “Andrea's next.”

When Andrea yanked off her mask, the audience went wild. I could tell she was well-known, and well-liked, from the tremendously positive response. A girl standing behind us said, “She's in my biology lab. I love her!”

Deanté turned around and bragged, “She's my sister.”

“My name is Andrea Evans from Montgomery, Alabama, and I am the Tail-Dog of this line!”

When all masks were off, the crowd roared and the Prophytes screeched their last call.

The crowd began to disperse. “You ready?” asked Deanté.

I nodded, but I was not.

On the way to my house, Deanté drove with his left hand and held my hand with his right. I kept playing the probate over and over in my mind. The unity in the auditorium. The beautiful variation of the ladies on the stage. Deanté's undeniable pride for his sister. I needed to tell Alex about it.

*   *   *

When I got home, I shot upstairs to Alex's room and knocked on his door. “Alex!” I shouted. “Can we pause our … our fight for a bit? I have something to tell you.”

The door cracked. He peeked through the opening; his face was creased from sleeping on his side. “What is it?”

“I went to Alabama State today. I actually got out of the car and went into a building. And you won't believe—”

“Not interested.” He eased the door shut. “I'm going back to sleep.”

 

CHURCH ON THE MOUNTAIN

I thought I was dreaming. Then Mom's yelling became more pronounced and I knew that I certainly was not. “Everybody! Get up!”

There was a ferocious pounding on my bedroom door, followed by a knock on Alex's. “Nobody's missing church this morning.”

When I glanced at the clock, it read 6:47. What she actually meant was nobody's missing morning prayer, Sunday school, or church service.

“Jesus, help,” I said to the ceiling.

“With?” He passed my sunglasses.

“How am I supposed to go to church with them?” I inquired, shocked that he even had to ask. “This is Mount Mariah Baptist we're talking about. Everyone knows us, and they'll definitely notice that I don't belong.”

He held his magic index finger in the air. “Wait for it.…”

Another bang on my door. “We're going to that new church everyone's talking about. That big one off the freeway called Church on the Mountain.”

He smiled.

And so did I.

*   *   *

The church was an hour away, and quite literally on the top of a mountain. It was the first megachurch I'd seen in real life. The line of cars exiting the freeway held up the right lane for nearly a mile and a half. As we sat there waiting, Mom and Dad kept looking at each other.

“Your shirt isn't too wrinkled,” Mom said softly.

Dad cheesed in response. “I ironed it.”

“You did an okay job, too.” She reached for the back of his collar and gave it a tug. “There.”

Dad looked away. “I like your crown,” he said into the steering wheel.

Mom flipped down her visor. “It turned out good, didn't it? I tried an under-braid this time. I like it better than over-braid.”

It really did look beautiful. She'd braided her fluffy hair into an uninterrupted hair-crown, leaving two strategically separated tendrils cascading down the back of her neck. If there was a black woman in Greek mythology, my mother would be the physical manifestation.

I leaned into Alex. “Mom told me about Harvard.”

Mom and Dad turned to glare at me, while Alex glowered at Mom. “I told you not to tell her!”

“I couldn't help myself,” Mom said. “She can't just not know that her brother is leaving the state. That's cruel.”

“She's cruel!” he screamed.

“Don't say that, Alex,” Mom and Dad said in unison.

“He's right” was all I could think to say. “He's right.”

The Fiat stalled as the church line began moving, and everyone's attention diverted to the engine. Together, we encouraged it to come alive. It wouldn't, and the horns started blaring. Mom leaped from the car in her flowered tea-length chiffon dress and placed her hands on the trunk, ready to push. I let up the seat and took my place at her flank.

“Sorry for tattling on you,” I said.

She caressed my head and smiled. “I knew you would.”

Then Alex slipped out and scooched between us. It was the first time he'd made contact with me since our fight.

“All right, Dad,” he ordered. “Steer!”

Dad piloted us onto a grassy knoll on the side of the highway. The Christians rolled past us; one pickup truck driver gave us the finger on his way to church. We squished back into the Fiat and Dad tried and tried to turn the engine over. But the car showed no sign of life.

“We should pray,” Mom said. “All heads bowed, eyes closed.”

Alex looked at her, half smiling, before squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, Dear Heavenly Father, touch this Fiat with your loving hands, God. Give it life in the name of Jesus. Bring this car back to life in the mighty name of Jesus.”

Peeking, I saw Alex's shoulders bouncing from silent laughter, Dad embracing the steering wheel like a mother would hug a small child, and Mom asking God to save the car's life. I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it.

“This is serious, child,” Mom said, which only made Alex and me laugh more fiercely. Then she joined in.

Dad was the last to join, and when he did, the tiny car rocked from the force of our united laughter. I can imagine how insane we looked in the broken-down convertible on the side of the street. To the onlookers I didn't belong, but inside the confines of the Fiat, I was an essential piece. We were family, and in that rare moment, none of us cared what anyone outside that car thought. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong, and what else was there to do but laugh?

When we all settled down, Dad clapped his hands and said, “Looks like we're walking.”

“Wait, Dad.” I smiled. “Give it one more try.”

Dad paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and then turned the key.

The Fiat came alive.

“How did you know?” Dad asked.

I shrugged as if I didn't know, but really, Jesus had just removed his hand from the hood of the car.

*   *   *

Walking from the car to the church felt like walking into the mouth of a living organism. Golf carts snaked the parking lot, offering rides from parking spaces to the front door. Greeters waited at every entrance, shaking hands and high-fiving patrons. There were even baristas standing near the coffee stations, offering attendees a cup on the house. Even though everyone was kind and welcoming, the church felt very … mega.

“I don't know, Dad,” whispered Alex.

Dad was pouring himself a cup of free church coffee. “Yeah, I don't know, either, son.”

Mom cupped her hand around Dad's waist. “Golden Corral instead?”

“You read my mind,” Dad replied. “GC it is.” He pointed to the exit.

We loaded back into the Fiat as the worship team began belting “The Great I Am.” The harmony was beautiful, magical even, but we instantly knew the Church on the Mountain wasn't for us. Mount Mariah Baptist certainly had its flaws—an aged preacher, judgmental church mothers, off-key hymns led by the same bogarting showboat soprano who just happened to be the head deacon's granddaughter. But Alex and I were both christened in that tiny church. I'd spilled my first Communion on the crimson carpet—if you squint hard enough, you can still make out the stain. Most important, Mom and Dad were married at the base of the pulpit. There would be no replacing Mount Mariah.

*   *   *

On the way to GC, Mom touched Dad's leg six and a half times—the final time she'd caught me watching and pulled back with a wink. When we arrived, GC was still serving breakfast, which is a few dollars cheaper than lunch and way more delicious. I caught sight of the waitress from our last GC outing. She was a squirrelly woman with stringy, bleached hair and cigarette fingers. She saw my family and then she scrambled to the waitress-keep, I assumed to tell her friends to steer clear of the gratuity-dodging black family that just walked through the door.

I hung back so as not to draw attention from the cashier, but when Dad announced, “Four buffets, please,” the cashier replied with “Three buffets?” And then Dad said, “Four, please.” And again the cashier said, “You mean three.” And Mom interrupted with “The man said four buffets, are you deaf?”

“Mom, will you come with me to the bathroom?” I whispered to her.

The crowd was thick on the way to the ladies' room. When we finally made it, the line twisted out the door.

“Can you hold it?” she asked. “I'm ready to eat.”

“No, Mom,” I replied, glad the line was long. I needed to talk to her. “What's going on with you and Dad?”

“Oh, Lord have mercy, gal.” She flailed her arms around uneasily. “You need to stay out of grown folks' business.”

“I think it's sweet.”

She looked straight into my eyes. “You do?”

“I do.”

“He ironed his shirt,” she said, fiddling with her chiffon dress.

“And he's been better with the coffee.”

“I know!” She jumped and nearly tipped me over.

“He's trying so hard,” I added. “I'm glad you see it.”

“Are you in line?” a woman interrupted. A gap had formed in front of us while we were talking.

“Oh, yeah.” Mom hurried to fill the break in the line. She skipped forward, her feet catching air on every step. My mother reminded me of so many girls in my classes—positively giddy over a boy.

And I thought of Deanté.

*   *   *

Dad and Alex had chosen a booth in the back corner. They'd already fixed their plates, but they hadn't started eating yet.

“Just look at them,” Mom said with pride. “Waiting patiently to pray with us before they take a bite.”

Alex motioned us to come to the table, in the process nearly knocking over his ice water. “Doesn't look too terribly patient to me, Mom.”

We sat down across from them. “Who's praying?” Dad asked.

“Alex,” Mom simply replied.

Alex's face went from hungry impatience to total shock.

Dad placed his hand firmly on Alex's shoulder. “You can do it, kiddo.”

It seemed like a small thing, but in our house, it was not. Prayer around a table of food in the Williams household was done by the adults. For Alex to be asked meant respect.

We held hands over the table and closed our eyes, preparing for Alex's first family prayer. It felt like a monumental moment. Like, after Alex began speaking, he would cross some invisible line into adulthood.

“Dear heavenly—” he started.

“Can I get y'all something else other than water?” asked cigarette hands. “We got orange juice, lemonade, sweet tea, caw-fee…”

I could feel the heat rising from Mom's skin. I sensed a scene. I could tell that Alex sensed it, too.

“No, thank you,” Alex said sweetly. “We're just about to—”

“Well, I'm fixin' to go on break,” she interrupted.

Mom's nostrils flared like an uncontrolled bull.

“If you know what's good for you,” Dad told the waitress, “you'll stop interrupting my son's prayer and leave this family be.”

The waitress locked eyes with me like our mutual blondness made us allies against them. When she didn't find what she was looking for in my eyes, she flipped her stringy hair and stormed off.

Mom's nostrils relaxed and her heat began to cool. “All right, Alex.”

*   *   *

It was the perfect prayer, like Alex had been practicing for years to get it just right. He covered us all—Mom, Dad, Hampton, Aunt Evilyn, and me. Mostly me. The four of us shed many tears together in that GC booth.

The ride home was mostly quiet. Smiling, chuckling, praying Alex had disappeared and melancholy Alex had returned, but at least I knew he was still in there.