The Mighty Miss Malone (26 page)

And school was making things worse.

Mrs. Scott never asked me to help other students and
never gave me any tougher work. Mrs. Dales in geography, Mrs. Foley in civics, Mr. Alton in history and Mr. Smith in English never called on me when I raised my hand. So I stopped raising it.

The Deza Malone in Gary would have been crushed. Her heart would have withered like grapes left on a vine at the North Pole in the middle of winter.

The Flint Deza didn’t care.

I toughened up so much that I stopped even caring about literature in English class. The less I cared at school, the more I read.

And it wasn’t long before that wasn’t the same either.

When I was in Gary and would read novels I used to put myself right in the middle of the story. I knew it was a great book when it felt like the author was writing about me. Some of the time I’d get snapped out of the book when I read things that I couldn’t pretend were about me, even if I had the imagination of Mr. William Shakespeare.

Words like “her pale, luminescent skin” or “her flowing mane of golden hair” or “her lovely, cornflower-blue eyes” or “the maiden fair.” I would stop and think, No, Deza, none of these books are about you.

I’d decided in Gary that when it came to reading those kinds of words, I had four choices: one, I could pretend I had blond hair and blue eyes. But that didn’t feel right. Two, I could start reading the novels like they were history books, just a bunch of facts put together. But that wasn’t what the authors wanted, they wanted me to enjoy the story the way they wrote it. Three, I could change a word or two here or there and keep
enjoying them by pretending they
were
about me, or four, I could stop reading novels altogether.

Jimmie was right when he said I couldn’t stop reading if I wanted to, and a whole lot of the enjoying comes from imagining it’s you charging at windmills or asking for more gruel or trying to wash invisible blood off of your hands.

I’d decided a long time ago that I’d ignore those interrupting words and keep reading.

I look at my novels the same way Mother looks at buggy oatmeal: there might be a few bad things in them, but if you plugged your nose or sifted them out, there was still something pretty good left.

But some of the books Mr. Smith assigned were just too terrible to pretend that they were anything but stinkers. And the biggest stinkers of all were some of his favorite books, stories about a rich, bratty little white boy named Penrod.

One thing being a student at Whittier did was make me understand, for the first time, how other kids didn’t think waking up to go to school was the most wonderful thing in the world.

I got it now.

October turned into November, then December. Even though we heard nothing from Jimmie I kept sending letters to general delivery.

1937 came and January changed to February. I came home on the twelfth and Mother and the people we share the house with—Mr. Alums, the Wilsons, and the Eppses—gave me a huge surprise!

I walked up to the porch and thought it was strange that no children were playing there. I walked down the hall to our room. It was funny that there wasn’t any noise or talking anywhere in the house. I unlocked our door and eleven people yelled, “Happy birthday!”

I’d forgotten! I was a teenager now!

The Wilsons gave me a pair of their oldest daughter’s shoes! They fit like a glove. The Eppses gave me their son’s coveralls that he’d outgrown, they were practically new!

But the two best gifts came from Mr. Alums and Mother.

He’s the only black teacher in Flint, he teaches at Clark Elementary and has all of the kids terrified of him. But he’s always friendly to us.

He said, “Miss Malone, I’ve noticed the books you’ve been reading, and I think you are quite capable of handling these.”

He handed me
The Quest of the Silver Fleece
, by W. E. B. DuBois, and
Quicksand
, by Nella Larsen.

“Thank you, Mr. Alums!”

Mother said to Ronald Epps, “Go get it, please.”

He came back holding two one-gallon tubs of ice cream! One chocolate and one vanilla!

We ate like pigs and laughed for the longest time. After everyone left and me and Mother cleaned up she smiled. “I’ve got one more gift for you, Deza.”

“Really?”

She reached under the bed and handed me a neatly wrapped package. It was soft, like it had clothes in it. I sat on the bed.

“What style?”

“Whichever.”

I chose Flint style and shredded the wrapping.

It was the kind of blouse worn by the white women at the front desk in the hotel where Mother cleans. It had
HOTEL DURANT
written in fancy letters on a pocket on the chest. It was nicely pressed and starched and crisp.

Mother said, “I bought it from one of the girls who works up front.”

“I love it!” We hugged and she reached under the bed and pulled out another package.

I opened it and was shocked!

Mother had given me the best gift I ever could get.

It was a jumper made from blue gingham!

“Mother! How could we afford this?”

“It was free!”

“
Free
?”

“Free. Remember when we left the camp?”

“Of course.”

“Remember how I went back to get my ring?”

“Yes.”

Mother slapped my arm. “I can’t believe you fell for that! Did you honestly think I’d leave my wedding band anywhere?”

“Well …”

“Deza! You even saw the string around my neck and
still
didn’t catch on!”

“Catch on to what?”

“The curtain, Deza, I went back for the blue gingham curtain!”

“This …”

“Yes, my sweet, naïve darling, yes!”

I felt like such a idiot!

Mother said, “After I’d cut away the worn parts there was only enough material to make a jumper, that’s why I bought the blouse. No one will ever see ‘Hotel Durant’ written on it when you wear the jumper. Try them on.”

They were even more beautiful together.

We laughed and twirled for the longest time.

For two more hours I thought the jumper was the best gift I’d ever get, until …

I was too excited to sleep. Mother fell off and I quietly got out of bed.

I picked up the two books Mr. Alums had given me. They both had nice covers. I’d read about Jason and the golden fleece so I started reading about the silver one.

It started in a swamp. It said something about a boy’s brown cheek and I read it again to make sure. Yes, his brown cheek.

I got a sinking feeling, so many times stories that have people with brown skin turn out terrible, but I read on.

The book grabbed me and shook me like a soon-to-die rat in a terrier’s jaws! It was about black people and they had real problems and thoughts and did real things, not like the black people in so many other books. Nothing like in
Penrod
.

I started to read it a second time.

I was so startled that I screamed at the top of my lungs when the alarm clock rang.

Mother screamed too.

In a heartbeat Mr. Alums banged on the door. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

Mother went to the door. “Sorry, Mr. Alums, we startled each other, we’re fine.”

I yelled, “Mr. Alums! I read
The Silver Fleece
. This book … what a tragedy … a true tragedy it had to end. This is a work of true genius! The people in it are so real and so much like people. This is the best book I have ever read!”

Mr. Alums was my new hero!

Mother had warned me time and time again. But I couldn’t help it.

One day at school Mr. Smith got tired of teaching and gave us assigned reading time halfway through class. I had another horrible Penrod book on my desk, but I was really reading what was in my lap,
The Quest of the Silver Fleece
, for the fifth time.

You can tell you’re reading a really good book when you forget all about everything else and know you’ll die if you don’t get to at least the end of the chapter. That was what Mother had warned me not to do anywhere but home, but Mr. Alums was giving me more and more books that I loved and couldn’t put down.

And that can be dangerous.

I didn’t hear the bell dismissing class.

Mr. Smith said, “Well, Deeza, I suppose Mr. Tarkington and I should be flattered you’re enjoying
Penrod
so much that you don’t want to leave, but I’ve got to lock up.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, I was just—”

“No problem, you’re a real credit to your race. See you tomorrow.”

As I walked from school I still had about ten pages till the end of the chapter. I did what Mother had warned me not to and walked and read at the same time.

When I looked up I’d walked three blocks past the post office!

Maybe I’d just keep walking home, it wouldn’t be a big deal if I came next Friday.

But I turned around.

I didn’t stop reading, though, I knew when I finished the book my hands would shake, my eyes would rim with tears and I’d say, “A masterpiece, a work of true genius! What a tragedy, a true tragedy that it had to end!”

I pushed the post office door open and everything froze.

Mrs. James was holding a envelope over her head and screaming, “Deza! I’ve been waiting! I think this is it!”

My book crashed to the floor. I was dumbstruck.

She came around the little gate waving the letter.

“It was postmarked in Cleveland and it’s to you and your mother!”

I stared at it. This was what I wanted more than anything else in the world and now I couldn’t even move.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Deza, dear, do you want me to open it?” She picked up my book and led me to a chair.

I took the envelope. It was written by a typewriter.

“Deza? Are you all right?”

“Oh. Yes. I … I … I … it’s not from my father, it’s from my brother.”

“How can you tell?”

“If it was from Father he would have put all three of our names on it.”

I turned it over and over.

“Is it against the law for me to open the letter or should both me and Mother do it?”

“Your name is on it so you can open it.” She smiled and patted my hand. “Besides, Miss Malone, I bet it’s an absolute impossibility for you to walk all the way home and get there with that envelope still sealed.”

Father would have been proud of the Flint-style way I ripped the envelope open.

Mrs. James picked up the pieces and said, “Dear me, Deza, I know you’re excited, but this is the U.S. Mail, sweetheart, you have to be respectful!”

I unfolded the page inside. I expected one of Jimmie’s
terrible drawings, but the letter was typed. He must’ve got someone to do it for him.

I looked at the first words over and over, it didn’t make sense, why would Jimmie … then it hit me, this
wasn’t
from Jimmie, it had to be from Father!