Leigh Page 4

  Speakers stepped up to the microphone one after the other. Leigh kept sprinkling Frank and herself with water as she felt the two of them baking and melting on the concrete. She finally ripped the cardboard placard off its wooden handle, alternately shading and fanning herself with it.

  At long last, Martin Luther King Jr. took the podium. He looked down at his notes as he began his speech. Leigh felt a jolt of electricity shiver through the mass around her and then the distinctive voice spoke and the shiver went through her, too. She’d heard the cliche “a magnetic speaker,” and Dr. King fit this. His rich voice carried his intense passion clearly across the huge crowd, which began to sway and react to his message. The hair on the back of Leigh’s neck prickled as the contagious response swallowed her up in its power. She leaned forward as if that would help her catch every word, every nuance.

  When Dr. King looked up from his notes, Leigh felt as if he were looking right at her—though she knew that was ridiculous. The sea of faces before him must be impersonal and indistinct. But she couldn’t shake the impression that all of this was meant just for her, that he would have said the same words if she were the only one who’d arrived to hear him. “I have a dream,” he repeated and embellished, gesturing with his hands. Each phrase built on the last until she rose with the rest of the crowd to echo, “Free at last! Thank God Almighty! Free at last!”

  Leigh felt tears streaming down her cheeks. Frank pulled her under his arm and hugged her close. Her ear pressed against his chest, and she felt his heart beating against her cheek. She turned into him and hugged him back, too moved to speak. Her scarf slipped back and she felt him kiss her hair. Then the crowd was applauding, shouting, screaming with fervent joy, giving voice to Leigh’s wildly cascading, ricocheting emotions.

  Driving home was anticlimactic. Night had fallen by the time they edged their way out of the march area, onto the crowded subway, and finally to their car. As Frank drove, they remained silent, listening to Motown over the radio and news reports about the march. Leigh couldn’t have explained in words what she was feeling for a million dollars or a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. Frank’s silence didn’t make her feel rejected. She felt he must be struggling with the same intense reaction to a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  Finally, as they drove down the darkened roads near Ivy Manor, Frank turned to her. “Which grandmother’s house do you want to go to?”

  “I wish,” she said, her voice feeling rusty in her throat, “that I didn’t have to go to any place where I have to talk to anyone.”

  Frank drove off the road and shifted into park. He stared straight ahead for several long moments. “I know what you mean. I feel like I’ve been on a trek to some faraway place and I don’t feel like sharing my photographs back at home.”

  She appreciated his attempt at humor. He understood. He did share the same emotions she did. It was a heady feeling. Until now, only Grandma Chloe had ever appeared to understand how Leigh felt about anything. “Thank you for taking me. You gave me a gift today. You took me a long way from home.”

  He rested his slender, dark hand over hers on the seat between them. “As odd as this might sound—since we only met a few days ago—I’m glad you went with me. I saw it all for myself and also I saw the reflection of everything, all of today, in your eyes. It made the experience richer, deeper…” He fell silent.

  Words failed her. Tears clogged her throat. She squeezed his hand.

  And then he drove her to Grandma Sinclair’s and walked her to the door. He apologized to her grandmother for stealing her for the day. Then he drove away, leaving her half listening to Grandmother Sinclair scolding her as she dialed Leigh’s parents to report her safe return. Leigh felt as if she’d left her old, her former, self here this morning and a new Leigh had walked back inside this familiar place tonight. She felt the pull of Dr. King’s stirring words again and then Frank’s tender lips kissing her hair.

  The next morning, Leigh sat at the small desk in the room she always used when visiting Grandmother Sinclair. Leigh had been grounded for a month, and her mother was livid at her disobedience. But Leigh and Dory would spend the remainder of the week with Grandma Sinclair. This was a relief to Leigh because her mother’s anger and disapproval were easier to bear at a distance. And she wasn’t forced to explain anything.

  Leigh stared down at the open spiral notebook where she intended to write her account of the march. She couldn’t even pick up her special just-for-writing cartridge pen with the turquoise ink she preferred. She closed her eyes, trying to come up with an opening sentence. “My life will never be the same.” Too trite even to jot on paper. “I met a boy… a man I’ll never forget.” Too true, too dangerous to reveal. If she wrote that, people would misunderstand it. Frank was the first person who’d taken her seriously, made her feel grown up. And she didn’t want people twisting their friendship into something it wasn’t. I can’t write about it. I can’t.

  She pushed herself up. Maybe she could settle down tomorrow and write something, but not today. She wanted to go to Grandma Chloe and talk about what she was feeling. But the Dawsons were still staying at Ivy Manor, and Leigh didn’t want to see Frank again. Somehow that would spoil the way Frank had left her. And to see him again would dilute what they’d shared. Did that make sense? It doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel.

  Washington, D.C., September 1963

  At the start of the first day of classes, Leigh sat at a table in the St. Agnes lunchroom where study halls were held. She stared at the first issue of this year’s Scribe.Voices and shrill laughter bounced off the walls, but faded into the background as she looked for the byline of the lead story. She had not written an account of the march. And she’d prepared herself to see the byline read: “Mary Beth Hunninger.” But that wasn’t the name she read on page one. Who is Cherise Langford?

  “Why did you do it?” Mary Beth demanded, appearing suddenly. She stood over Leigh, looking ready to spit.

  Both of them were dressed in the St. Agnes uniform—a white blouse with red kerchief and navy-blue pleated skirt. Leigh studied the other girl’s reddened face. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t. I could stand it if I’d lost out to you. At least you’d have done a good job with the article on the march.”

  “Who’s Cherise Langford?” Leigh read the byline name out loud.

  Mary Beth plumped down beside Leigh with a huff. “You didn’t even come to the meeting last Friday.”

  “I was staying with my grandmother in Maryland.” Leigh didn’t go into any further detail.

  “Oh, so you didn’t get to the march?” Mary Beth’s voice was a curious combination of sympathetic smugness.

  Leigh felt no inclination to agree or deny this question. “What did I miss at the meeting?”

  Mary Beth looked as if Leigh’s nonchalance had taken her by surprise. Her words confirmed this, “I thought you wanted to be the Scribe editor this year.”

  Leigh shrugged. So did I. But that changed and I don’t know why really. “Who’s Langford?” she repeated.

  “Haven’t you seen her?” Mary Beth asked. “She’s our new Negro student.” Mary Beth tried to sound matter of fact, but ended up sounding disgruntled. “St. Agnes is now integrated—with her.”

  Leigh took this in. Ah. “I see.” And she thought she did.

  “Have you read her article yet?”

  “No, I just started—”

  “Well, go ahead. I’ll wait,” Mary Beth said, looking like a teacher about to write out a detention slip.

  Leigh thought this was a strange request, but didn’t see why she should argue since reading the article had been her in tent anyway. She read the brief article and frowned. Lackluster was the word that suggested itself to her. How had Cherise missed all the emotion, the eloquence, the impact? But Leigh merely shrugged again. “You think your article was better?”

  “I know it was better,” Mary Beth barked. “
I was trying to top you.I worked on it practically nonstop from the moment I got home. My dad and mom both proofread it, and they were impressed.”

  Mary Beth’s father was an archeology professor and his wife an English professor, so they should know, Leigh thought. “I’m sorry,” was all she said.

  “It’s not fair. My article was better, but Lance chose hers because she’s Negro. And now she’s the editor,” Mary Beth ended up with a whine.

  “I’m sorry,” Leigh repeated and she realized that she was sorry for Mary Beth. Leigh realized she didn’t feel the same rivalry toward Mary Beth as before. How could I change this much in just one week?She had no answer.

  “I wouldn’t mind just having Lance choose her article, but to have her as editor…” Mary Beth shook her head.

  “Hi.” A Negro girl, also in school uniform, walked up behind Mary Beth. “Someone pointed the two of you out to me. You both wanted to be editor of the Scribe,right?”

  “You must be Cherise. I’m Leigh Sinclair.” Leigh held out her hand, grinning secretly over Mary Beth’s rigid expression. “Welcome to St. Agnes.”

  Not looking Cherise in the eye, Mary Beth muttered, “Hi.”

  “Thanks.” Cherise studied both Leigh and Mary Beth in turn. “I wanted to speak to you two before we got off on the wrong foot. Someone told me that both of you wanted to head up the school paper this year. And I want to make it clear—I do not want to be the editor of the Scribe.”

  Mary Beth’s mouth dropped open.

  “You don’t?” Leigh asked, somehow amused.

  “Yes, I’m going to tell Mr. Pitney today. I dropped in on the Friday Scribe meeting because I was finalizing my registration that day and the principal suggested I stop by and meet Mr. Pitney.”

  Leigh couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.

  Cherise smiled. “I mean, I’m just a sophomore and I haven’t worked on a school paper before. Why would I make a good editor?”

  Mary Beth stared at the new girl. “Then why did you write the article?”

  Cherise grinned. “I only wrote it because Mr. Pitney asked me personally to do so. I mean, I only watched the march on TV—”

  Leigh laughed out loud and then covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry. It’s not you. I’m laughing about—” She stopped because she couldn’t bring herself to say she was laughing at Mr. Pitney.

  Interrupting their conversation, the teacher at the front of the room began to take roll. Mary Beth walked quickly to her appointed seat. At the teacher’s direction, Cherise sat down on the bench beside Leigh. They grinned at each other and Leigh wondered what Mr. Pitney—Lance—would have to say when Cherise gave him the news.

  After school that afternoon, Leigh walked into Mr. Pitney’s classroom. She knew it was naughty of her, but she was eager to hear what he had to say about the editorship of the Scribe.He was sitting at his desk, marking papers. “Hi,” she said softly in the quiet room.

  He looked up, blond, young, handsome. Leigh drew up Frank’s image—dark curly hair, smooth café au lait skin, and large, black eyes. Why am I comparing them? They have nothing to do with each other.

  “I’m glad you stopped in, Leigh.” Lance pushed back his chair and stood up. “Why didn’t you submit an account of King’s march?”

  Why ask me that? You wouldn’t have published it anyway. I’m white.Leigh shrugged. “So you chose the new girl’s article?”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t think it would look right if I chose an account by a white student over a Negro student’s.”

  Leigh nodded. So he’d done it for appearance’s sake just as she’d guessed. Why did she feel like she was on the outside looking into St. Agnes as if she weren’t a part of it? She watched him finger back the thick blond hair that always dipped over his forehead, a gesture he repeated several times an hour. It reminded her of a few guys in surfer movies. It was like he was always calling attention to his hair, himself. Didn’t he realize how that gesture revealed his self-absorption?

  “I know Mary Beth is upset, but I’ll find a way to reward her for her cooperation.” He walked up the aisle between the desks toward her, the sun at his back, his face in shadow. “And I know both of you will help Cherise as she heads up the Scribe.”

  So he didn’t know yet.

  At that moment, Cherise walked in. “Hi. Mr. Pitney, I don’t have—”

  “I told you to call me Lance.” Beaming, the teacher hurried around the desks to Cherise.

  “I came to tell you,” Cherise said, sounding apologetic, “I don’t want to be editor of the Scribe.”

  “You what?” Lance gaped at Cherise.

  As Cherise continued, Leigh turned to leave, hiding a smile. In her mind, she started to describe all this to Frank. But she wouldn’t be seeing Frank again. He was back in New York City with his family, his life, and he’d probably forgotten all about the silly teenager he’d taken pity on.

  But Leigh recalled what he’d said when he’d decided to take her with him to the march. He’d said something about their grandmothers running away together and that it changed their lives. What he’d said next she remembered word for word: “Maybe our running away together today will have a similar effect on our own lives.” Well, that had been true for her. Their day together had changed the way she saw people, Lance, for instance. But she wondered if it had affected Frank in the same way, to the same extent. After all, he was older, and he had more experience. Wasn’t it just wishful thinking that the shared day had forged a tie between them? Make that dangerous, wishful thinking.

  Four days later, Leigh stared at the return address on an envelope from the mail she’d just brought in after school. Dory already sat in front of the TV watching a noisy cartoon and Leigh was about to go into the kitchen to make her little sister a snack. But the letter halted her. It was from Frank.

  He wrote to me.Why? What did it mean? Her hands trembled slightly as she held the unassuming-looking envelope. With the letter opener on the hall table, she slit open the flap, drew out a single sheet of paper, and read:

  Dear Leigh,

  I just wanted to drop you a line or two since I think you may be the only person who will hear my news and not begin squawking. I applied for Officer’s Candidate School with the army yesterday.

  Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you. I “enlisted” yesterday. I don’t have to tell you what attending the march did to me. You were there. I know you were moved and changed by it, too.

  He’d sensed that about me.The words made Leigh’s heart pound. She read on.

  Anyway, I thought over my options. I don’t want to be a lawyer like Frank Dawson One and Two. I also don’t want to get my master’s degree in engineering. I want to go out and live life on the front lines, so to speak. I decided that I was already about to be drafted for my two years of military service and that I would prefer to be an officer.

  The U.S. Army is technically integrated, but Negro officers are scarce. I hope I can change that. I also hope that merit and not my skin color will be what I’m judged by. Signing up for Officer’s Candidate School, of course, means that I had to take qualifying tests and then sign up for four years. But that will give me time to see if I like the military or not. Maybe by the time I’m out, I’ll want to be a lawyer like Dad and Grandad.

  Well, my family is angry with me. Shocked. You name it. Though they should have realized I might do something like this since I was active in ROTC in high school and college. Anyway, I thought of you and knew you’d understand. If you have a kind word to send to a soldier, here is my military address. I leave for camp in three days.

  Yours, Frank Three

  Leigh reread the letter, feeling something inside her expand. He doesn’t think I’m just a kid.

  “I’m hungry,” Dory called from the couch.

  Leigh folded the letter and slipped it into her pleated skirt pocket and headed for the kitchen. Her mind was already composing the first sentence of her reply. But should she even send him an answer? S
uddenly she wished Grandma Chloe were here to talk to. Something warned her that her mother would not want her writing to Frank. Maybe she’d be allowed to visit Ivy Manor this weekend without Dory and she could show Grandma Frank’s letter.

  Or would her mother’s anger keep her at home?

  Sunday afternoon, September 15, 1963

  Call me when you want me to pick you up,” Ted, her stepdad, said as he parked his gray Mercedes sedan to let her off at the curb in front of Cherise’s house.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Leigh leaned over and kissed his cheek. Internally, she sighed. Why couldn’t her mother be more like her stepdad, who was fun, easygoing, and didn’t freak out over every little thing. Her mother hadn’t liked her coming here today—it was like she wanted civil rights to succeed, but some form of separation to continue—but her stepdad had persuaded her to let Leigh go.

  Frank’s letter, concealed in Leigh’s purse, had remained unanswered. What was she going to do about it?

  She’d hoped Grandma Chloe could help her decide. Last weekend, her stepdad had persuaded her mom to let her take the train and stay at Ivy Manor. Sitting in the summer house with her grandmother, Leigh had asked why her mother liked Aunt Jerusha, seemed to admire Minnie Dawson, but wanted to keep her distance from them. Why hadn’t she wanted Leigh to go to the march? Why was she so angry at Frank for taking her? There hadn’t been any violence, and Frank had been a perfect gentleman.

  Her grandmother had been vague at best—she’d told her to discuss it with Bette, not her.

  A red Volkswagen Beetle pulled up near their bumper as Leigh got out and shut the door behind her. She had been a bit surprised when Cherise had invited Leigh’s former rival to her home along with Leigh. But the three of them did share a French class, and Mary Beth was very good at languages. Now, Mary Beth met her on the sidewalk and they walked together up to the strange house in a newer Negro neighborhood in northern Virginia.