Lies We Tell Ourselves: Shortlisted for the 2016 Carnegie Medal. Robin Talley
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football games, like everyone else. And maybe later, when the white people thought about it some more, they’d stop trying to tell us we can’t do other things, too.”
“What kind of other things?”
Ruth shrugs and looks down. “You know. Other places. Like at the Sugar Castle.”
The Sugar Castle is the candy store downtown. We always walk past it when Mama takes us to shop for school clothes and Christmas presents. Through the windows you can see dozens of white children filling little bags with Bazooka gum and Red Hots and candy cigarettes. They dig their dirty little hands right down into the candy bins to pick the best pieces and plop them in their bags.
Bobby always begs to go in. He doesn’t read well enough yet to understand the sign on the door that says White Only. So Mama and Ruth and I always tell him we’re running late and can’t go in the store. Then we stop by Food Town on the way home and pick him up a Tootsie Roll.
When we first moved down here Ruth would gaze in the Sugar Castle windows, too. She was big enough by then to know the rules. She could read the sign, and besides, she knew no white parents would want their children putting their hands in candy bins where black children’s fingers had been. But Chick-O-Sticks were always Ruth’s favorites when we lived in Chicago, and the Sugar Castle was the only store in Davisburg where you could get them.
For her eleventh birthday Mama gave Ruth a whole bag of Chick-O-Sticks. I’ve always wondered how she got them. She must have paid someone to go in the store for her.
“I used to think that, too,” I tell Ruth. “When they first started the lawsuit.”
“Did you think it would make the white people be nice to us?”
“No.” I almost laugh. “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”
“Well, maybe some of the white people at school could be—”
“No. They won’t.”
I think about the girl who smiled at me this morning before she spit on my good skirt. And the one who shrieked at Ennis in the cafeteria. And Judy, who acted nice at first, then got all her friends to make honking noises whenever I passed by.
“No,” I say again. “We can’t ever trust any of them. We have to stick together, like Mrs. Mullins says.”
Ruth bows her head. “All right.”
I want to say something to make her feel better, but I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to do any of this.
All I really want to do is go to sleep. Lie down in my room at home and stay there, and keep Ruth there, too. Forever.
It feels like there’s a giant hole opening inside me. My future, sliding into a gaping black pit.
I don’t want this to be my life. My sister’s, either.
It’s too late for that now.
The door behind us opens. I swallow and try to smile again. It doesn’t work.
“Sorry, this was all Helen had.” Miss Freeman holds out a hideous pink high-collared blouse. “Let’s see if it fits.”
I take off my stained white blouse.
“Ooh, the milk went all the way through your slip, too,” Ruth says. “Mama’s going to be so upset.”
“No, she won’t,” Miss Freeman says. “She’ll know it wasn’t your fault, Sarah.”
That’s right. Mama will know. Because it’s not my fault.
It’s hers. And Daddy’s. They were the ones who wanted this.
If it hadn’t been for them we could’ve stayed at Johns. I’d be president of the choir and taking college prep classes. I wouldn’t have to worry about Howard revoking my scholarship once they hear I’m in Remedial. I wouldn’t have to worry about Ruth getting her arm broken on her way to Homeroom.
I shouldn’t be thinking this way. It’s disrespectful. Besides, it’s my own fault. I never said I didn’t want this. Our parents asked Ruth and me years ago if we wanted to register at Jefferson—to get the best education we could, and to do our part for the movement. We said yes right away. Why wouldn’t we? Adults had been telling us all our lives that it was up to us to make sure we got a good education. Besides, back then, it seemed impossible that integration would ever really happen here.
But I still said yes.
I have no one to blame but myself. Anything that happens now is my own fault.
I close my eyes and say a quick prayer for God to forgive me for thinking disrespectfully. This time, it does make me feel a little better.
Mrs. Mullins’s blouse comes close enough to fitting me. I do up the buttons on the sleeves while Ruth finishes picking the biggest white flakes out of my hair.
“Remember what I said,” I whisper to her when we’re leaving the house an hour later. “The white people aren’t like us. They’ll turn on you without any warning. You have to be careful, Ruthie. You can’t trust them.”
“I’ll remember.” She huffs, the same way she does when I tell her not to mess with the stuff on my desk at home.
I pray she takes this seriously. I pray she really will remember.
Not one of us can afford to forget.
“THIS IS DUMB.” Ruth yanks a needle through the old brown skirt she’s sewing a patch onto and bites down on a piece of bacon at the same time. “You can’t follow me around all day.”
“I won’t be following you.” I’m hunting through Mama’s sewing box for gray thread. All I can find is garish pinks and blues. “And stop chewing with your mouth open.”
“I’m not a little kid. It’s not your job to tell me what to do.” Ruth puts down her sewing and grabs the biggest piece of bacon on the plate. She takes a huge bite, chewing with her mouth open so wide pieces of bacon fall out.
“Girls, hush,” Mama says. “Your father needs to concentrate.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” Ruth and I murmur toward where our father is perched on the ledge of the living room window.
There’s a loud bang. “Dang it,” Daddy says. He hammered his finger again.
“We still need to close the gap on this end, Bob.” Mr. Mullins hefts up the other end of the last piece of plywood. It’s barely light out yet, but already they’ve nearly finished covering all the first-floor windows on the front of the house. For the first ten minutes they were working Bobby kept wandering around asking why they were making so much noise, and could he help Daddy play workshop. Mama finally told him to go to his room until it was time for school.
Ruth and I didn’t ask why they were putting the boards up. We didn’t ask why Mama brought down the basket of old clothes from the attic and told us to mend them, either. We knew we’d be wearing our old clothes to school from now on in case they get ruined. We knew Daddy and Mr. Mullins were putting boards on the windows in case the white people threw rocks when they drove by the house.
There’s no use talking about these things. These things just are.
Mama snips a piece of thread, then looks at the map I’ve laid out on the breakfast table next to our sewing. “You’re sure this is necessary, Sarah?” she says.
I look at her. She looks back, then lowers her eyes.
I don’t know if this will work, but I’ve got to try.
School is worse than I thought it would be, but I can survive