Things Too Huge to Fix by Saying Sorry (21 page)

Leslie sat in the backseat, hair up and fooling with her nails like some shallow, rich White woman. We had to keep up a maid-and-lady show to make it okay for us to be in the same car together.

“Are those students gathering on the sidewalk?” she asked.

“Some of them,” I muttered. But some were way too old to be college kids. And some had on military uniforms, but they didn't look regular. More patched together, or like retired officers putting their colors back on for one last fight.

Everyone I looked at wore grim expressions. Those closest showed slit-eyed, clench-jawed anger. I could almost taste their bitter rage on the evening breeze. And then—

Oh, God help me, those are white hoods and sheets.

“Why are so many people on campus now?” I heard fear in Leslie's voice, which gave me the screaming willies, because Leslie usually didn't have enough sense to be scared when she should have been.

“Those men over there have badges,” she went on,
talking too fast. “The federal marshals are already here. And there are boys with guns in those trees beside them.”

She pointed.

Something popped. Again.
Pop, pop, pop!

And then Leslie screamed.

“CiCi, they're shooting at the marshals!”

“Look at this mess.” The voice cut into my consciousness, making me jump. Dr. Harper jumped almost as high as I did. Indri and Mac started scrambling around outside the carrel, and a few seconds later, Ms. Donalvan, one of the head librarians, filled up the carrel door, glaring at Dr. Harper.

“Fred, what on earth are you letting these children do? They have piles of books spread everywhere—and you—look at you with those newspaper and journal binders! You know the limit is three, not three thousand!”

“I'm sorry, Jessica.” He gave her his best bumbling professor smile. “We're working on a joint project, you see, and—”

“What you're working on is a suspension of your carrel privileges.” Ms. Donalvan wasn't much taller than Dr. Harper, but she seemed to tower over the little space. She had to be about seventy, but like my grandmother, she didn't have a single wrinkle, just crow's feet at the corners of both eyes. She smoothed her hands against the sides of her head, patting down the dark hair she wore in a tight bun. She was dressed in black pants and a black shirt. Red colored both of
her cheeks, and her mouth made a straight line across her face, just like Mom's did when she was about to commit kid-i-cide over something I'd done.

To Mac, Ms. Donalvan said, “Is that a pack of peanuts? I
know
you are not eating in my library stacks.”

“Um” was the best Mac could do. I couldn't see him, but I heard the crinkle as he scooped up his peanuts.

My stomach growled in spite of the ninja librarian scolding all of us. I gripped
Night on Fire
, my grandmother's copy of
Night on Fire
, desperate to see what happened next to CiCi Robinson, Leslie Marks, and Ole Miss.

Ms. Donalvan wasn't having any of it. She pointed at the stacks of books spread around the carrel. “Put those on the cart against the far wall, right now. For future reference, you may have three books out of the stacks at any one time, and no more than five in a carrel.”

“These are my aunt's books,” Mac said, pulling most of his stack toward his legs. “They're from the store. Here, see? They don't have cards to check out.”

Ms. Donalvan gave him a suspicious look and bent to inspect his pile. While she was busy, Dr. Harper quickly picked up the newspapers he had brought into the carrel, scooped up the journals, and started out with them. I closed
Night on Fire
, tucked it under my arm, got up, and helped Indri carry books to the cart Ms. Donalvan had indicated. It didn't take long to fill it.

“Didn't know there were limits, sorry,” Indri managed as we went back for another load.

Ms. Donalvan closed the last book in Mac's stack. “Dr. Harper knew,” she grumbled as he returned to gather more journals. “He brought you all in here, so as far as I'm concerned, this is his responsibility.”

“No worries, Jessica.” He kept trying to sound friendly instead of so completely busted. “I'll take care of it. See? Almost done.”

She followed him as he carried the rest of his journals back to the periodicals section, scolding as she went about courtesy privileges, suspending his carrel agreement for three days until he reviewed policies, why limits were necessary, and how professors, of all people, should respect library rules.

“I'm cleaning that carrel myself,” she told him. “If I find any more food, or any damaged materials, we'll be talking, Fred Harper.”

“So sorry,” he kept repeating.

We barely got out of that basement in one piece. It was all Dr. Harper could do to convince her to let him check out Grandma's copy of
Night on Fire
.

Excerpt from
Night on Fire
(1969), by Avadelle Richardson, page 403

We threw ourselves on the floorboards. I tasted dirt and my own sweat.

“What do we do?” Leslie shrilled from the back.

“Hush!”

Rat-tat. Rat-tat! Pop! Pop!
It sounded like fireworks. People started shrieking. Horns blared. Somebody smashed into us from behind. The car lurched forward and crushed into the bumper ahead of us.

I banged my head on the glove box. Pain shot across my forehead and Leslie started to whimper. The car squealed as the other vehicle moved and towed ours with it. The impact had smashed the metal of the bumpers together.

Trapped!

We wouldn't be driving away from Ole Miss tonight. My heart thundered in my chest, and all I could think about was my boy, my son, my poor, poor little boy about to be without a mother because his mother was a fool.

Outside, the yelling and hollering and popping and chants and slurs and cars revving blended into a mind-numbing roar. Somebody shot out campus lights one at a time, and with each bang, the world got darker.

The car rocked back and forth as people knocked against it. Somebody tried the passenger handle, but the door didn't open. It was only a matter of time before that door did get yanked wide, and Leslie and I would get dragged into the middle of a full-on riot.

“We got to get out of here,” I shouted to Leslie. “Make for the Lyceum and get behind it; try to get to Jim's office!”

“We'll be killed if we go out there!” She sounded like the child she was now, and I cursed myself for being a fool twice over. When I died on this campus tonight, I'd orphan my son and leave this helpless bit of good intentions to her fate. What kind of a person was I?

A rock smashed against the back windshield, and I let out a shriek right along with Leslie. That seemed
to decide things for her. I felt the car shimmy as she leaped toward the door. I pushed myself up and grabbed hold of the passenger handle.

We spilled onto the pavement together on our hands and knees.

Clouds billowed around us, thick and white and burning. Tear gas. I coughed and wheezed. My eyes watered and started to swell. A hand fumbled against mine, and I grabbed Leslie's fingers. We huddled against the car, helping each other pull our shirt necks up around our mouths and noses.

When we got to our feet, tears streaming, a single spotlight illuminated the Circle flag—only it wasn't the stars and bars of the United States, or even Mississippi's standard. A starred blue X stood out against a red background as the Confederate flag flapped wildly above the rising clouds of gas.

“Move,” I told Leslie, and we ran into the clouds and the crowd, heads down, holding hands to stay together.

Bottles and bricks sailed past us. A rock clipped Leslie's forearm. She cried out but kept running. The night turned into dark prisms as I squinted to see through my gas-induced flood of tears, mixed with real tears. I gasped out sobs, so terrified I couldn't take a whole breath, tainted or not.

People jostled against us. Students. Uniforms.
Suits. White T-shirts and jeans. People wrapped in Confederate flags. We ran and we ran and we ran. Bullets pinged off the Lyceum bricks as we ducked to the side, half-falling, half-scrambling toward the bushes and the back of the building.

We pelted around the back corner and I steered toward Bondurant and Jim Devon's office. A minute, maybe two, and we'd be clear—

Leslie stopped dead and jerked my arm so hard my shoulder wrenched. Off balance, I spun into her and we went face-to-face, me swearing from the pain.

“What are you doing?” I yelled, but clamped my mouth shut at her flat, frozen look.

All of a sudden, I didn't want to see what had made her pull us up short. I didn't want to. I didn't want to.

Slowly, keeping my arms flat against my body, ignoring my throbbing shoulder and my pounding head and my thumping heart and my swollen eyes and wheezing breath, I turned.

A line of men and boys faced us, holding bats and clubs and rifles and long, swinging socks crammed with God-only-knew-what.

One of them, a bearded old-timer wearing jeans and a Confederate-flag T-shirt, stepped forward and leveled his shotgun at my chest. He stared at us for a few seconds, then just at me.

“Well, well, well,” he said, deep-South accent heavy enough to make those words two syllables each. He spit tobacco juice to his left without shifting the rifle. “Boys, just look here at what we caught ourselves tonight.”

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME
, M
OM
and Dad didn't seem to know we were all persona non grata in the library system for seventy-two hours, so I wasn't grounded. Yet. In fact, my parents seemed to be impressed that I was finally reading
Night on Fire
. Or maybe they were shocked stupid. It was hard to tell.

After we fed Grandma, I hugged them and went to bed early, without even taking off my clothes. I just wanted to read.

When Leslie stepped in front of me, I was so surprised I almost fell down. I tried to grab the fool girl and pull her back, but she wouldn't budge. Before I could stop her, she held up both hands.

“We don't want any trouble,” Leslie said, doing a fair job of a cultured Southern accent.

“What you want don't matter, girl.” The man with the shotgun kept his aim steady even though he'd have to shoot Leslie to get at me. “You got trouble, right here and right now, comin' onto this campus with the likes of that filth behind you.” He spat again, then drawled a string of racial slurs that made my stomach heave.

Leslie didn't give ground. “I'll thank you to watch your language,” she said, smooth as any high-dollar society lady, with just the right touch of cold Southern politeness. And then, somehow, she lied better than I ever had in my entire life. “We didn't know there would be so much happening tonight. This woman is my maid, and I need her help to carry the books Dr. Devon bought for my Sunday School class.”

A few of the boys behind the gunman shifted uncomfortably and glanced at each other. One of them spoke up to the man with the rifle, saying, “Look here, Curtis—”

“Shut up,” Curtis growled.

I shook all over, waiting for the shotgun blast.

“Sarah Jane,” Leslie said to me, reaching back and grabbing my wrist even as she pulled that made-up name straight out of the air. “Come on with me. We're going to Bondurant right this minute. This is no place for ladies, and I need to wash my face before that horrid gas ruins my complexion.”

Curtis gaped at her. “You seriously think I'm lettin' you pass by me, woman?”

“Oh, you won't shoot me, Curtis.” Leslie walked toward him, dragging me along behind her. “Because if you did, one of these fine young men would tell my husband and the police your name.” She stuck out her chin as she drew almost even with the barrel of
his rifle. “In Oxford, people respect ladies with God's work to do.”

As we passed the dumbfounded Curtis, Leslie pulled me around her so I was in front, and she stayed between me and any aimed guns. “This violence isn't God's work, gentlemen,” she called back over her shoulder, her accent falling away just enough to scare me into next week. “I can't believe you'd tear down our beautiful campus like this. You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

It was later, around midnight, when I finally closed
Night on Fire
. My notepad was pretty empty because I hadn't stopped to take notes. Notes just didn't seem that important when people were getting shot at and firebombed on the Ole Miss campus.

I was so relieved that they got away. Did Avadelle really do that for my grandmother? And if they escaped the mob like that, how did my grandmother get hurt? Answers leading to more questions—so frustrating!

I knew Mac still had books to read, and Dr. Harper was going over Grandma's articles again, and Indri had planned to research Avadelle's short stories online, using her mom's library account. Had they found something I didn't know?

And before we got jumped by the librarian, Dr. Harper had been looking up lockboxes to be sure the key really did go to the one he saw, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Sweat broke across the back of my neck as I jumped all the way out of my bed. My heart hammered as I crammed my hands in my jeans pockets.