The Girl on the Outside Read online

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  Praise for the Writing of Mildred Pitts Walter

  Because We Are

  A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

  A Parents’ Choice Award Book for Literature

  “Walter draws readers into a complex situation with finely paced writing, good integration of themes, and an understanding of the feelings of young men and women.” —School Library Journal

  The Girl on the Outside

  A Christian Science MonitorBest Book

  A Notable Children’s Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies

  “[Walter] re-creates the tenor of the times from both black and white perspectives and gives the incident immediacy for today’s younger teens …” —Booklist

  “We are moved … by the courage required of these children and their parents …” —School Library Journal

  “A moving, dramatic re-creation of the 1957 integration of a Little Rock high school as seen through the eyes of a black girl and a white girl.” —Booklist

  “A vivid story … written with insight and compassion, its characters fully developed, its converging lines nicely controlled.” —Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Second Daughter

  “Based on a real case, this admirable historical novel is unique for the perspective it lends to the Revolution and its profound impact on the lives of all Americans.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Trouble’s Child

  A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

  “Walter immerses readers in Martha’s internal struggle, holding their attention to the last page. The quickly paced text utilizes the native dialect, further adding to the aura of the isolated island setting as Walter shows how ritual and superstition dominate.… While Martha's particular problems are unique, adolescent readers will easily empathize with her predicament of feeling confused by the pull from so many different directions at this stage of life.” —School Library Journal

  The Girl on the Outside

  Mildred Pitts Walter

  Dedicated to the memory of Earl

  It is lonesome, yes. For we are the last of the loud.

  Nevertheless, live.

  Conduct your blooming in the noise and whip of the whirlwind.

  —Gwendolyn Brooks

  Chapter 1

  “I’ll freeze the ice cream, but I’ll have to get a bath first,” Sophia shouted as she dashed up the stairs. It would be good to get out of those sticky churchgoing clothes. She felt wilted.

  As she turned on the water for her bath, she was flooded with happiness: Arnold Armstrong had asked for an evening visit. This happiness, without worry and anxiety, could not have been imagined when she first knew Arnold was coming home for a brief summer visit. Her excitement had been overshadowed with doubts. Would he even remember her? Or would he still think of her as a special friend? Arnold was the oldest son of the minister at First Methodist, Sophia’s church. At nineteen, he was two years older than Sophia, and he had already finished his freshman year at Yale.

  Quickly Sophia set the small clock near her bed to alarm at six-thirty, just to remind her not to be late. Then she wrapped her head in a thick towel in final preparation for her bath.

  Lying limp in the cool water, Sophia believed this had to be the hottest day ever in Mossville. She let the water ripple over her as she settled farther into the tub, folding her long legs to accommodate her body. There was a surge of relief. The coolness numbed her.

  How pleased she was with herself. She was liked. She flushed, remembering the brief encounter with Arnold in the crush of people after the morning service. He was still in his choir robe, his dark hair damp from the hot, moist air.

  “Is it all right if I come by this evening?” he had asked.

  She had wanted to shout that it would be super, but she’d only smiled and said quietly, “Yes.”

  “At seven?”

  “At seven.” He had looked her in the eyes. She tried to stop the rush of color to her cheeks, but it spread, making her heart feel squeezed in her chest. She turned away abruptly, made her way through the crowd, and waited for the rest of her family near their car.

  Now she turned over onto her stomach, bending her legs at the knee, her feet in the air. The movement made small waves that washed over her back. How wonderful—a bath. What if she could stay right there always? But there was ice cream to freeze; and finally there would be school. Yes, summer was over. No more work at Woolworth’s; Arnold would be going back to Connecticut; only two more days before school. Could it be possible that on Tuesday, September 4, 1957, things as she knew them might give way to something terribly new?

  Why do they have to come to our school? The thought of Negroes at Chatman brought resentment. Why did things have to change now? This was Sophia’s last year at Chatman High. She had dreamed of being a senior, doing all the fun things: homecoming, senior day, the senior prom, and, at last, graduation. What would the year be like with them there?

  She now saw the faces of the nine Negroes scheduled to enroll at Chatman as they had appeared on local television and in the newspaper. Three boys and six girls. Only yesterday one of them had shopped at the counter where she worked.

  The girl had come in when there were few customers. Sophia watched her hurriedly select bobbie pins, a small comb, and a band of elastic. However, when the girl was ready to purchase the items, Sophia ignored her. The girl waited. A white customer came in. Sophia rushed to help her. Several times Sophia ignored the girl while she waited upon whites who had come in later.

  Now Sophia ducked her face under the water and came up smiling. That girl. What patience! Or was she mocking me? Suddenly Sophia felt angry. She fought the feeling but it spread. She became confused. Was she angry at the girl or at herself?

  “Sophia, are you going to freeze the ice cream?” Burt, her older brother, called up to her.

  “Yeah, I’m coming,” she said, regretting she had promised. Why had Ida been given two days off, anyway? She should be there to freeze that ice cream.

  Slowly Sophia pulled herself up out of the water. The hot air of the room made sweat pour off her. She carefully dried only between her toes, then ran, naked, down the hall to her room.

  The sound of voices spiraled up the stairs and Sophia knew her older sister, May, and her husband, Ken, had arrived. She dressed hurriedly in white shorts and white shirt, still tying the shirt in a knot at the waist as she rushed down the stairs.

  Everybody had gathered in the backyard where plants, trees, and flowers were cultivated almost to perfection. The trees offered shade, and the flowers gave off their spicy fragrance in the humid air. In spite of the shady loveliness, it was still sticky hot in the backyard. Yet, it was cooler than inside.

  Her mother, Molly, was showing May a beautiful yellow rose. The rose, her mother, and May shared a similar beauty, Sophia realized. She both admired and envied their fair creamy skin, light hair, and light eyes … the way they looked: fresh, crisp, cool even in that hot weather. She would love to have those qualities, but like her father, Alex Stuart, she was freckled, had red hair, and lively brown eyes. No matter how she tried to be beautiful, she managed always to look like the milkmaid, scrubbed clean.

  Burt helped her chip the ice and pile it around the can in the wooden bucket of the freezer. As he concentrated on the task, Sophia marvelled at how well he did things with only one hand. Here he was twenty-five, and he had gone to the Korean War to return with one arm missing. Nevertheless, he typed his own stories for the Daily Star.

  A calm, collected kind of peace registered on Burt�
�s face as he chipped away at the ice. He was the male image of Molly and May. Sophia liked how his well-shaped nose and mouth and his fair coloring all added up to a look of distinction. If only she had one tenth of their mother’s beauty!

  As she turned the handle of the freezer, the conversation between Ken, a member of the state legislature, and her father caught her interest. Their discussion of school integration reminded Sophia of the morning service at First Methodist Church.

  The pews had been almost full when they arrived. Sophia sensed a somber, hushed atmosphere. Was it the heat—or fear—that had the congregation in its grip? There were not the usual smiles and howdies. Everyone appeared to be repressing joy, withholding. Still, they seemed expectant.

  Her father, tall, straight, his red hair and freckles giving him a boyish look, led them to their seats with long strides. Sophia sat next to him with Burt between her and their mother. She loved singing with her father’s baritone on one side, and Burt’s bass on the other. Her father’s singing was as impressive as his speaking. Sophia often wondered what he would have become if he were not Mossville’s busiest attorney.

  Right then, her father and Ken were talking about legal ways to keep those Negroes out of Chatman. Burt left her alone near the back steps to finish the job of freezing the ice cream, in order to join their conversation. Sophia knew that the heat in their backyard would now intensify.

  Ken and her father were allies against Burt. Her brother had the unusual gift of speaking up and saying things that few people in Mossville were apt to say. More than once Sophia had heard her father angrily denounce Burt as a communist. Of course, all her father meant was that Burt liked Negroes a bit too much.

  Sophia admired Burt more than anyone she knew, but she, too, often felt that he was “way out.”

  The slowly turning crank of the freezer brought to mind the monotonous twirling of the big fans overhead at church. The service had progressed from songs to prayer, to collecting the offering, and then to the choral selection before the sermon. Burt sat back, relaxed, soothed by the singing. Their father was on edge, upright in the pew, dissatisfied.

  Finally, the Reverend Armstrong rose in his black robes.

  Sophia now recalled the minor heat wave she had felt just looking at him.

  Without his usual preliminary humor, the minister proceeded in his humble yet impressive way to announce his text reading from Nehemiah, chapter 4, verse 14:

  And I looked, and rose up, and said unto the nobles, and to the rulers, and to the rest of the people, be not ye afraid of them: remember the Lord which is great and terrible, and fight for your brethren, your sons, and your daughters, your wives, and your houses.…

  At the reading of the words her father relaxed, sat back in the pew. Burt’s back stiffened, his jaw quivered. What was Burt thinking, Sophia wondered.

  Burt’s real voice now startled Sophia. “It is the duty of a minister to comfort the people and show them peaceful ways to solutions,” he said. “That sermon this morning declared war in Mossville against Negroes in the name of the Lord.”

  “War was declared when the courts said we must let Negroes into our schools,” her father said.

  “Our schools,” Burt shouted. “What do you mean? Our schools?”

  Has he lost his mind? Sophia asked herself. How could he expect to remain in the discussion if he shouted foolish statements.

  Everyone knows the Negroes have their own schools. Chatman High is ours.

  “They damned well are our schools,” Ken said, “and we have just passed three major pieces of legislation to tighten our control over them.”

  “They certainly are not,” Burt said. “Public schools belong to the public, to the people who pay taxes. Negroes pay taxes in this state. So they have every right to claim Chatman High and any other public school in this state as theirs.”

  “Oh, don’t be an ass, Burt,” May said. May seldom spoke. When she did it was either to reprimand Burt or to soothe Ken.

  Her mother headed for the kitchen. Sophia knew that the pained look on her face was because of Burt. Her mother felt that Burt had lost his way since he came back from the war.

  What Burt said was moral and right, Sophia knew; yet she resented his saying it. But in spite of her resentment, she could not help yielding to the strange curiosity, the wondering: What would it be like in the same classroom with Negroes? Heaven forbid such a thought! Her parents would die. Still, the thought brought a rush of excitement. It might not be so bad. The impression lasted only for a moment, but that moment was enough to reveal how free Burt must feel when he took the side of Negroes.

  The crank was now almost impossible to turn. The ice cream was frozen. The argument went on. Sophia moved away from the back steps and sat near Burt, listening to the discussion.

  “We’ll soon see what rights Negroes have. The governor hasn’t given in yet,” her father said. “I’ll wager the courts will call a halt to this nonsense before Tuesday.”

  “I’ll wager that the time for people who think like you is over,” Burt said. “Negroes will be in Chatman when school opens, or Chatman will not open.”

  “But they have their school. Why can’t they leave us alone?” Sophia shouted. She saw the look of surprised pain on Burt’s face. She ran from the yard through the house up the stairs and slammed the door to her room. The noise resounded in the backyard.

  Chapter 2

  Eva Collins did not wait around while the congregation of Shiloh Baptist Church reluctantly separated to make their ways home through the dusty, unpaved streets. She did not even wait for her little sister, Tanya, nor for her mother who chatted with neighbors on the church grounds.

  Eva carefully picked her way through the dry, rutted street to avoid damaging her white sandals. There were too few sycamore and chinaberry trees to blunt the heat. The glare of the broiling afternoon sun hurt her eyes. Sweat poured from her face, around her neck, down her back and bosom. Dampness oozed through to her belt. Eva felt an urgency to get home and undress.

  The heat that met her when she opened her front door was not unexpected, but it was disappointing. She often dreamed of entering a room of her own and finding it as cool as a vault. When would she stop dreaming? Dreaming of being waited upon, in her proper turn, at Woolworth’s; of sitting in any vacant seat on the bus; of walking through Boyle Park; of going to Chatman High … dreams, dreams. But at last one of those dreams was coming true. She would be going to Chatman.

  She went through the house to the back. Roger Collins, her father, sat on the shaded side of the porch, fanning himself to keep cool. Why was he home at this time of day? He always worked overtime, even on Sundays, at the small grocery store owned by the family. Eva was surprised to see him.

  “I’m home,” she shouted, from inside the screen door.

  Her father, more than six feet tall, weighing easily two hundred pounds, was not a church-going man. But he often said he feared the wrath of God, so he loved his neighbors.

  “And what did the preacher have to say so long on this hot day?” her father asked.

  “Same thing everybody else is talking about—us going to Chatman.”

  “Eva, you know I’m proud y’ one of ’em that’s going.”

  Eva’s heart beat faster and for a moment she felt she would cry. She knew that the decision for her to go had not been made lightly. Her mind flashed to the day she and her parents had first heard about the plan to desegregate Chatman High.

  Mrs. Floyd, the president of the Mossville branch of the NAACP, had come into their grocery store with two well-dressed men who were from out of town. It was pouring rain.

  Eva wished it was raining now to cool this scorching day. She thought of how pleasant Mrs. Floyd had been when she said, “Eva, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you can watch the store while we talk to your mom and dad.”

  Eva’s parents led Mrs. Floyd and the men toward the back into a small room that served as an office. They talked for a long time. Finally,
Eva’s father called her into the room.

  With Mrs. Floyd and those distinguished men about, Eva realized for the first time how shabby the room looked. The unshaded light bulb overhead cast shadows on the dingy white-washed walls. Flypaper hung from the ceiling with its catch in full view. But when Eva looked at her father, she knew he could hold his own in any company.

  Looking at her father fanning himself, she now felt the love for him she had felt that day when he said to those men, “This is Eva, my oldest daughter. I think she might be interested in your plan.”

  As she remembered this scene, Eva rushed to her room, stripped down to the skin, and took a shower. The water pelting her body, reminded her so of that rainy day.

  Mrs. Floyd had introduced the two men. “Eva, these men, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Cook, are lawyers from our NAACP national office. They’re here to help get some of us into Chatman High. Think you’d like to go to Chatman?”

  Eva’s heart beat wildly. “Oh, wow! Me … go to Chatman?” she cried.

  Mr. Johnson smiled and said, “It’s not as simple as that, Eva. We want you to think seriously about this.”

  “And, of course, we must tell you it will not be like going to your old school, Carver, at all,” Mr. Cook said. “In fact, as we have been explaining to your parents, there’s possibly some danger involved.”

  Eva could now see her mother as she looked that day, sitting with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes down. Only the sound of the rain beating on the roof and panes could be heard in the room.

  Then her mother said, “Now this danger y’all talkin’ ’bout, I don’t know if our children can handle it. So I don’t know ’bout Eva gittin’ involved.”

  “Audrey,” Mrs. Floyd said to her mother, “we know there’s some risk. But we think there is less risk here. You know our state university was integrated long before the Supreme Court desegregation decision of 1954. I believe if any people in the South are ready for integration, it’s the people in Mossville.”