Bent not Broken (160 page)

“Oh my, I’ll have to take a look at that on Saturday. Are you still up for me bringing over my azaleas?”

“I can’t wait.” I take my place on the right side of the bus and take my book out while we stop every other minute on the way to school.

I’m fully engrossed in my Beverly Cleary book by the time Clara Mae gets on and plops down beside me. She immediately starts telling me about a crazy dream she had and once I tear myself away from my book, I’m fully engrossed in her story, laughing at the way she goes on about it. This makes her sit up taller and talk even faster.

I can’t figure it out. Outside my home, in the real world, people like me. I could do jumping jacks all day long in front of my parents and they wouldn’t even blink, but at school and even around town, where I’m horribly shy and would rather just be left alone, people reach out to me. Maybe my shyness disguised as standoffishness makes kids at school try harder. I guess I can just pretend to be mysterious, when really I’m about as bold as a bowl of noodles.

The black girls love my long hair. It falls in soft waves with a halo of frizziness around my scalp. I don’t care for it very much, but they think it’s beautiful and soft. Jackie does six tiny, perfect cornrows on my head before she gets in trouble from the teacher. My hair gets greasy from all the hands, but it doesn’t bother me a bit. When they play with my hair, it makes me feel like I’m one of them, and I like that. I like to take out Jackie and Beck’s braids and arrange their hair in pretty, cottony curls.

My mama used to tell me that if I let all those little black girls play with my hair all the time, I’d turn into one.
Don’t let them touch you too much,
she’d say,
or it’ll wear off on you!

It backfired on her, because I never minded that thought one bit.

Black folks intrigue me. If I was black, then I could be done with the pink foam rollers. I could sing like Sister Bessie. I heard her at a funeral once and the next Sunday I asked if we could go visit the church where Sister Bessie sings.

“That would not be appropriate, Caroline,” my mother sniffed.

To me, not appropriate is not wearing a slip under a white skirt, but I didn’t say this.

My family is not racist. Really.

“We don’t have anything against black people,” my parents say.

I rolled my eyes at my mom for saying that once and got my mouth popped.

“I ain’t got nothin’ agin niggers,” my grandpaw says. “They’s good people, I got lots of nigger friends.”

The n-word is his favorite word. This has always
really
bugged me about him.

“They need to be with their kind; we need to be with our kind.”

Well, that settles it then.

****

The only time my mom seems proud of me is when we’re out in public. When we’re at the store, someone will inevitably stop her to say hello. She’s the teller at Tulma First Bank on Pope and Third Street, so everyone feels like they know her.

“Such a pretty little thing,” they say, sometimes reaching out to touch my hair or pat my cheek.

My deep down shyness rears up and I try not to stiffen. My skin gives me away, turning a mottled red on my neck and cheeks. My mother practically falls over with the big head every time I’m paid a compliment.

She smiles her pageant smile and says, “Thank you,” and then, “What do you say, Caroline Josephine?”

Sometimes I’m even swept up in her beauty when she gives me that smile. If it would only pop out at home—I might be more inclined to believe in it. She will never let me forget she was Miss Tennessee. Or that her waist was only 22 inches when she got married. Or that every man in the county wanted to date her. I do think she’s beautiful, but I’d like to think it on my own without her ever lovin’ constant reminders. And just for once, I’d like for something besides beauty to matter to her, especially
my
beauty.

When I’m feeling a mite bit rebellious, I think dumb thoughts like:

I wish my teeth would all fall out. Then what would Mama say…

Maybe when she’s telling me to quit eating because I’ll get chubby one day, I’ll just stare at her and shove all the food in my mouth. At every meal. Until I do get chubby and then she’ll be so mortified.

If I didn’t wash my hair for two weeks, she wouldn’t puff up with pride every time someone stopped us on the street to compliment me. It would sure save time at the grocery store.

I’m afraid my mama doesn’t bring out the best in me. And I must be a real wimp because I just bite my tongue and do whatever she says.
Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Whatever you say, Mama.

Because that’s what good girls do.

****

Tulma has a population of 6,579. We did have 6,583 until Mr. Jefferson, Jocelyn Sanders, Berlin Smith, and baby Edna passed away. It’s a river town with one bridge leading the way in and out. Tulma Elementary, Tulma Middle School, and Tulma High are all connected with each other, sitting in a row on Main Street. It’s the most impressive structure we’ve got in town, which is kinda sad when you think about it.

Today in gym, we’re learning to waltz. I love to dance but feel nervous at the thought of having to pick a boy partner. There’s only one boy I want to dance with. Ever. My hands start to sweat.

I look over and catch his eye. Isaiah. Isaiah Washington. He walks over.

“Hi, Caroline. Do you have a partner yet?”

“No, do you?” I try to act nonchalant.

“I do now,” he takes my hand, “if it’s okay with you.”

I smile my answer.

As all the other boys in class cut up with their partners, rolling their eyes at how juvenile it is to dance with a girl of all things, Isaiah and I dance the waltz like we were born doing this very thing.

Isaiah has mesmerizing eyes, flecks of gold in green. His hair has soft, short curls. His skin is smooth and clear and the color of milk chocolate. He is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

He smiles at me. “What are you thinking right now, Caroline Josephine Carson?”

“I’m thinking...I hope we don’t get a lot of homework tonight.”

His eyes crinkle. He knows I’m lying.

My heart returns to normal as I walk back to my class. The dance ended way too soon.

****

Isaiah and I had a class together last year. He’s a year ahead of me, but we’ve shared some of the same classes. We became friends while working on a project together in Miss Spain’s history class. While we were supposed to talk, study, and basically breathe everything pyramid-related, we were getting to know each other. Isaiah was a straight A student, possibly the smartest kid in school. I admired that. Any awkwardness flew out with the chickens when he cracked a silly joke about elephants in the refrigerator. He was smart
and
funny. I was in love.

Once our project was completed, I didn’t get to talk to him much, but I’d catch him watching me. Whenever our eyes met, he’d give me that smile of his that seemed like I was the only girl in the world. I thought I might be imagining it, but a month later, he passed a note to me in gym that said:

Caroline, your smile is better than my mama’s chocolate pie, which is one of my favorite things.

I like you.

If you don’t like me the same way, just ignore this... I’ll understand.

If you do, can I call you tonight?

I sent a note back with my phone number. He smiled when he read it and tucked it into his jeans’ pocket. As soon as I walked in the door that afternoon, the phone was ringing. I ran to answer it and we talked for an hour.

And the next day and the next. Nothing was different at school. We didn’t talk, didn’t sit by each other, didn’t do anything to draw attention to ourselves, but in the afternoons, I began walking home from school and so did he. He had always taken his bike to school, but we realized that after everyone else in the group got to their houses, we had fifteen minutes to walk together, just the two of us.

Isaiah was romantic from the very beginning. He knew I liked wildflowers, so he picked them for me as we walked. He wrote poems for me like this one, which I still have in a little box he gave me for Valentine’s Day…

Someday…

I will hold your hand

Dance in the sand

With our favorite band.

Someday…

I will steal a kiss

Little miss,

It will be bliss.

Someday…

I will shout that you’re mine,

Caroline…

Till the end of time.

Someday.

Since that first day he called, he has been my favorite person and I’ve been his.

I still feel empty every day when I turn to go to my house and leave Isaiah for the day. Sometimes I see his mother standing in the doorway of their tiny ramshackle house. He never invites me in, but he waves until I’m out of sight.

“Bye, Miss Caroline,” his mother calls.

She always has a smile for me, but never asks if I want to stay awhile. I always wish she would, but know better than to ask. Today Sadie is wearing a handkerchief around her head and has a bowl in her hand, stirring, as Isaiah goes in the house. Maybe if I rush home, I can talk to him a little longer before my parents get there.

****

We live on the outskirts of town, just a mile or so past Isaiah’s house, but the scenery changes dramatically as soon as I turn the corner. Fields of fruit grow on one side of the road and a pasture for the Talbots’ horses stretches out on the other side. Our house is a little rambler on the far corner of the Talbot’s field. On the edge of town lie beautiful green mountains and we are nestled in the first valley.

Mama says we would be well off if Daddy wouldn’t drink away our money. Daddy says we’d be well off if she’d stuck to pageants and to just shut up. It never goes too far because Mama does bring home the money. She has had her job for fifteen years and even though she’s constantly remembering the good ole days when she didn’t have to do anything but look pretty, I think she actually likes her job. She would never admit it, but I assume she does since she’s there every waking minute. Even Saturdays.

When Daddy is having a good bout, he works construction in Tulma and the neighboring towns. Once he made it a year without taking a drink, but eventually he gave in and went back to the bottle. This time has been three months of solid drinking, and I’m beginning to think the daddy I used to know is gone.

When I was little, Daddy would tell me stories, not just little nursery rhymes, but long, detailed stories that he would add to each night. Clovis the Bunny was one of my favorites and if I was sick, or had a bad dream, or just couldn’t sleep, Daddy would come in and tell me the adventures Clovis had been in that day. Nothing could make me laugh like the thought of Clovis hanging from our curtains or Clovis scaring the postman by talking like an old lady.

I can see my house just a football field ahead. I try to remember all the nice things about my daddy in the time it takes to get to the door. If I think nice things about him, it will stick. He will remember to be strong and will come home sober and happy.

When I finally reach the door, I’m sweating like my Aunt Josephine, who always has wet marks under her armpits. Josh is so happy to see me; he does a little dance around my feet. This is the one time of day that I’m happy to be home. Just me and my dog.

I step in the shower and wash quickly with cold water and get out just in time to hear the phone ringing. Isaiah knows the exact time to call. I run to the phone and we talk for an hour and a half today. I stretch it out until I hear my mom’s car turning in the driveway.

I’ve been preparing supper as I talk to Isaiah. The cornbread is ready to come out of the oven, the black-eyed peas are simmering on the stove, and the pork chops are all ready.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I whisper to Isaiah.

“Sweet dreams, Caroline,” he whispers because I’m whispering.

“Sweet dreams back.”

This is our hanging-up ritual. I know I won’t get a chance to talk to him again for the night. I hang up quickly before my mom can catch me on the phone with him. We’re very careful to not get caught. She would never approve of me loving a black boy.

Chapter 2

Friends & Enemies

Daddy didn’t come home last night and Mama is spittin’ mad. She’s already up when I come out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. There are no pancakes on the table, in case you were wondering.

Mama is pacing the floor, muttering to herself, while Josh tries to keep up with her fast strides. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but there are a few four-letter words flying around that she has always instructed me to never dream of saying, on account of it not being ladylike and all.

I get done with the chores a good ten minutes earlier than usual. I don’t want to stick around any longer than necessary. I shock Miss Greener—she’s used to me running down the road while she holds the bus for me.

Clara Mae invites me to come over to her house the next day and I tell her I have to check with my mother. Lord knows, I don’t need to rile her up any more than she already is.

I barely see Isaiah today. In gym, we take a break from the waltz and are divided into teams for dodge ball. I was hoping to have a little chat with Isaiah, but instead I’m running for my life to avoid the ball. He’s on my team, so we’re in close proximity, but neither of us speaks to the other. It’s hard to not stare at him, but I try to save all my looks for our walk home.

****

My grandma, Nellie, surprises me by picking me up from school. I wish I could let Isaiah know that I’m not walking home with him, but you don’t make Nellie wait around. She’s in an extra hustle-bustle mood.