“Bullshit!” someone yelled. Tempers were really flaring now.
“Not one rule said anything about something happening to you if you fraternized with an Orange or a White. The Golds saw a chance to feel superior, and they took it,” I agreed.
Mrs. Willis let us go on like this for about twenty minutes, and then, five minutes before the bell, she picked up a box on her desk and started down the aisle, passing out circles again. We couldn’t believe it! We all began to protest.
“For the remainder of the day, everyone who was a Gold before is now a White. Everyone who was a White or an Orange before is now a Gold,” she said.
“All right!” someone yelped, as cheers went up from the former Whites and Oranges. All the Golds looked sheepish.
I met Sam in the hall.
“I got a shot of the faces just after she announced the switch,” he said. “Man, I hope it turns out.”
“I was too surprised to think of my camera,” I confessed. “Where do we go now? Second period? I’ve got to hurry if—”
“Hey, you’re a Gold now,” he said, grinning at me. “You can use any staircase you like.”
There was a lot of laughter and catcalls and hooting in the halls this time; some of the new Golds—the light blondes—were wearing their circles on their foreheads like a badge, swaggering around as though they owned the place. I got a picture of that, and of a guy going up the front staircase giving the finger to one of the new Whites down below.
Lori and Leslie and I walked to the cafeteria together, and I got the first bacon cheeseburger I’d had all week, while Lori had to wait at the back of the line. Leslie and I tried to let her get in front of us, but the other new Golds screeched and protested, and she immediately cut out.
“What are you trying to do, Alice?” someone yelled. “She had it good all week. Let her get a taste of what we went through.”
I faced forward again and felt myself blush. This was crazy! It was also crazy that I’d passed Elizabeth and Gwen in the line and hadn’t spoken to them. I told myself it was because I was talking to Lori and Leslie at the time, but deep down I suspected that any other day I would have stopped to talk. I was “getting even,” and doing exactly what I had accused them of doing all week.
Outside, Pamela was having lunch again with the Bikers. She had come in and gotten a tray of cheeseburgers for all of them and was handing them out flirtatiously, wearing the tightest jeans I’d seen on her yet. Even though she was a Gold now, she seemed to take delight in thumbing her nose at the rules. I took a picture from the hall window, but I wasn’t going to turn it over to the school paper. I wanted to give it to Pamela sometime when we were alone to show her exactly how she looked.
Things got even worse that afternoon. Somebody claimed he was pushed away from the water cooler, and the Bikers developed a sign—a combination “heil” sign and a slash mark across the throat—that they used to greet each other and shock everybody else, I guess. Someone was playing music in the restroom, one of the new Golds, I suppose.
The last period of the day was canceled, and Mr. Ormand announced an assembly. Attendance would be taken at the door.
“Students,” Mr. Ormand said, “we have held an experiment at this school we’ve never tried before. We didn’t know exactly what we were starting with, or what we would have when we finished, so I think it’s a credit to all of you that you were willing to go along with this, to explore both sides of this thing called ‘prejudice,’ and get some idea of how we fall into the patterns that we do—because we have all, this past week, had a taste of power and a taste of prejudice. We had a look at how we ourselves behaved in each situation.”
Then he went on to say that this, the final day of the experiment, would be a tribute to the resiliency of the human spirit, our ability to survive adversity, our capacity for empathy, and our determination to change.
“As a testament to our belief in the Bill of Rights and equal treatment for all people,” he said, “I invite all students to stand together to sing our school song and then, row by row, if you so wish, to come down to the center of the gym and drop your circles into the trash barrel. Here, in this school, we are all equal.”
Several members of the school band started playing the school song. We stood up and began singing, and across the gym I saw some of the students link arms and do the Big Sway, as we call it. It spread from one set of bleachers to the next, until we were all arm in arm, we were all swaying, while row by row, students went down to throw out their circles before they walked silently out of the gym to get their jackets and catch their buses. It was one of the most solemn ceremonies I can remember: dropping our circles in the trash container, as though it could—hoping it could—rid us of prejudice, make us whole again. There was a lump in my throat as big as a lemon.
When Elizabeth came out, I saw tears in her eyes, and realized there were tears in mine, too. Some of the kids were giving each other high fives, but we all noticed how quiet it was when we went outside to the bus. No hooting or laughing. Everyone seemed thoughtful. I felt fresh and new and cleansed, and when Gwen stopped and gave me a hug as she went by, she said she felt just like she did after she attended a church revival service once with her grandmother.
Elizabeth and I got on the bus together and sat side by side, the first time we’d done that all week. It was a brand-new start. A brave new world.
And then I realized that Pamela was missing.
5
NECK TO KNEES
“WHERE’S PAMELA?” I ASKED, LOOKING around.
“Wasn’t she at the assembly?” Patrick called.
“She wasn’t with us. I haven’t seen her since lunch.” I looked at Elizabeth. “Have you?”
She shook her head.
“The blond girl with the short hair, you mean?” a guy said. “I saw her leaving with the Bikers after lunch. I think she skipped.”
Elizabeth and I both shot up out of our seats.
“She skipped school?” I cried. “The assembly and everything?”
“With the Bikers?” Elizabeth squeaked.
The boy looked chagrined. “Yeah. I guess she skipped. I mean, I saw them leave. She was sitting sideways on the bar of a guy’s bike.”
I sank down in the seat again, and Patrick came forward and sat down across from us.
“She’s probably okay. I know some of those guys,” he said. “They’re not too bad.”
“‘Not too bad’ translated means ‘not too good,’ either,” I told him. I wasn’t reassured.
“So what did you think of CRW?” he asked me.
“I didn’t think an experiment could make me feel so much like an outsider, but it did,” I told him.
“Brian heard from Sorringer that a reporter’s writing it up for the Washington Post,” Patrick said. “They had a photographer there today, you know.”
“We’ll be famous,” I said dryly. It had been an interesting experiment, but I was worried about Pamela. When Patrick got off at his stop, Elizabeth and I went into a huddle.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked.
“I think we should go over there and sit on her front steps waiting for her when she gets home,” Elizabeth said.
We both knew that with her mom living in an apartment and her dad at work, Pamela had no one waiting for her, no one who knew where she was.
“We’ve got to be there for her,” Elizabeth said determinedly, and I agreed.
I dropped my backpack off at my house, Elizabeth stopped off at hers, and then we set out for Pamela’s. Just as we thought, she wasn’t home. We sat down on her front steps and stared out at the street.
“Today,” said Elizabeth, “was one of the most … most moving days of my life. This past week has been so weird, Alice!”
“I know,” I said.
“I mean, I didn’t know how something as stupid as a dumb circle could change me so much.”
“Me either.”
We sat quietly for a while, not
saying anything.
Then Elizabeth said, “What if … what if the week changed Pamela too much?”
“Changed her how?”
“What if she decided that if she’s going to be treated like dirt, it doesn’t matter what she does? She never skipped school before.”
“I know. She never went off with the Bikers, either,” I said.
“What if … she felt more kinds of feelings than we know about, Alice?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if she rode off with the Bleached Bike Boys and they took her to their den?”
“Den?”
“Their hideout.”
“Hideout?”
“Well, their hangout, then. Wherever it is they do what they do.”
“They ride bikes, Elizabeth. They probably ride on the street.”
“Okay, then. What if they take her to a backstreet somewhere and … and rape her?”
“Don’t say that, Elizabeth! I’m worried enough about her already.”
“So am I. But what if they do?”
I was miserable. “I guess we won’t know till she gets here,” I said.
“You don’t think we ought to call the police?”
“And tell them what? That a friend of ours is riding around somewhere on a bike? She went willingly, didn’t she? Nobody reported them carrying her off kicking and screaming.”
“But what if she does get raped, Alice, and doesn’t tell anybody?”
I hugged my knees and tried not to think about it, but Elizabeth went barreling on.
“What if she gets pregnant and stays inside all summer and never goes over to Mark’s pool and goes around in baggy clothes till September, and then she keeps skipping gym? And around Christmas, when everyone else is singing carols, what if Pamela goes out in the garage and has a baby in the backseat of her dad’s Chevrolet, and it’s a little boy, only she can’t stand the thought that he might grow up to be a rapist too like his father, so she—”
“Elizabeth, shut up,” I said.
“But she’d go to prison for murder, Alice! You and I would have to go visit her every Sunday and take her fruit, and—”
At that very moment we saw Pamela coming up the street, her backpack hanging from one shoulder, her jacket unbuttoned, her hair sort of wild.
“Pamela?” we said together when she reached the gate.
Pamela stared at us, then unlatched the gate. “What are you guys doing here?” she asked.
“Where have you been?” Elizabeth demanded.
“We were worried about you!” I told her.
“Okay, so I skipped, but it’s not a felony,” Pamela said. “You thought I met up with the Boston Strangler or something?”
“We didn’t know what might have happened to you. An accident or something,” I said.
“We thought you were raped,” said Elizabeth.
“What?” Pamela cried.
“You’ve never skipped school before, Pamela,” I told her.
“And you’ve never hung around the Bikers, either,” said Elizabeth.
Pamela put her key in the lock, and we followed her inside.
“Well, for your information,” she said, “I’m just fine. We went to John’s house and listened to a new CD and kidded around, and then went out for pizza.” She dropped her backpack on the couch. “Anyone want a Diet Coke?”
Elizabeth didn’t budge. “What do you mean, ‘kidded around’?” she asked.
“Joked! Laughed! Cut up! Don’t look at me that way, Elizabeth,” Pamela said, but I noticed she was avoiding our eyes. “Nothing happened that wasn’t by mutual consent.”
“I guess that’s what’s worrying us, Pamela,” I said quietly.
She still didn’t look at me. “Well, don’t!” she snapped. “I can take care of myself.”
“Pamela, just tell me one thing,” said Elizabeth. “Are you still a virgin?”
“What?” cried Pamela. “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Do I have to tell you every time a guy touches me?”
“They touched you? Where?” Elizabeth wanted to know.
“For Pete’s sake! None of your business!” Pamela said.
All the closeness and friendship I’d felt during assembly that afternoon seemed to evaporate like steam on a mirror. Pamela and Elizabeth and I had been through so much together, ever since sixth grade. We’d told each other everything, practically. And now I realized that where boys were concerned, we’d probably start holding stuff back. Keeping secrets. Sharing things with our boyfriends instead. Maybe this was normal, the way things were supposed to be, but I didn’t think I liked it.
Elizabeth sat as stiff as a broom on the sofa, arms at her sides. I think we both felt awkward, like we were in the presence of a woman, maybe, and we didn’t know what to say.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Pamela said finally. “One of the guys slipped his hands under my sweater, that’s all.” And then, looking right at Elizabeth, she added, “Yes, he touched my breasts. He got a three-second feel through my bra, and then I pushed him away, okay?”
We still didn’t say anything. I don’t know what Elizabeth was thinking, but I was remembering the time in Patrick’s basement when he was giving me a drum lesson. How he’d sat close behind me, holding me in his arms. He didn’t touch my breasts—he almost did—but I’ll have to admit I sort of wanted him to. I mean, that’s what sex is all about, isn’t it? You’re supposed to want to caress each other. It’s supposed to feel good. It’s natural. It’s normal. So when are you supposed to stop saying no and start saying yes?
Elizabeth answered for me. “You’re supposed to do that after you’re married, Pamela. At least after you’re engaged.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my mom,” Pamela said bitterly. “She’s married, only she’s doing it with someone else. And I’ll bet she’s letting him do a lot more than that.”
I guess I acted on instinct. I went over, sat down by Pamela, and put my arms around her. “I’m glad you’re back,” I said. “I’m glad the week’s over. We missed you.”
I held her tight, like I’d hold a little sister, and the crazy, surprising thing was, she started crying, very quietly. I could feel a tear on my neck. At the same time, though, I think she was embarrassed about it.
“I am just so mad at my mother!” she said, fumbling for a tissue finally.
“Well, don’t take it out on yourself,” I said. “You’re too wonderful, Pamela, to throw yourself away on somebody who doesn’t deserve you.”
“Who says I was throwing myself away?” she asked, sniffling a little.
“All I know is you can do a lot better than those bleached-blond Bikers who make a point of looking funky—like it’s the only thing they’ve got going for them,” I said.
Then Elizabeth got into the act. “You know that time we went to Chicago on the train, the three of us, and that man came in your compartment and kissed you and touched your breasts, Pamela?” she said. “I think that started all this. I think it set up cravings in you that you just can’t control.”
We stared at her.
“The thing is, Pamela,” she continued, “if you let a boy get to first base, he’ll try to get to second, and if he gets to second, he’ll steal third, and …”
“Ye gods, Elizabeth, I’m not playing baseball, I’m making out!” Pamela said. “And you know what? It feels good! People act so surprised when you say that. Like, boys make out because it feels good, and girls just do it to please the boys.”
She got some Diet Coke from the fridge and we put all the sofa cushions on the rug, then sprawled on the floor.
“You’re right, you know,” said Elizabeth. “At church, Sister Madeline never talks about how we might do something like that because we want to. She’s never ever once said that it might be fun.”
“Of course! How would she know, she’s a nun!” I said.
Elizabeth sighed. “You know what I wish? I wish that we could just go to sleep some night and wake up mar
ried. Then we could do anything with our husbands that we wanted, and we wouldn’t go to hell and we wouldn’t have to confess anything to the priest, because it would all be legal.”
We thought about that awhile. It certainly had its attractions.
“You wouldn’t have to worry about who to marry,” I said. “The decision would have been made already, and you could get on with your life.”
“But think of all the fun you’d miss!” Pamela said mischievously. “The flirtation, the courtship, the first kiss, the first … well, whatever you do before you’re married.”
“Grope,” said Elizabeth.
“What?” I asked.
“Grope. It’s when a boy touches any part of you that your bathing suit is supposed to cover,” Elizabeth informed us.
I could see Pamela’s face beginning to crinkle a little around the eyes.
“That’s what Sister Madeline told us,” Elizabeth continued. “She said that’s all we have to remember when we’re out on a date. Never let the boy grope.”
“Wow! I like that!” said Pamela. “That means he could caress your back, and the top of your leg along your inner thigh …” She faked a shiver.
“And how about those thong bathing suits, where both cheeks are open to the public?” I put in.
“Not those kinds of suits!” said Elizabeth.
“Maybe Sister Madeline needs to get to the beach more often and see what women are wearing,” said Pamela.
“Maybe she should have said ‘nothing between the neck and the knees,’” said Elizabeth, thinking it over.
“From wrists to elbows on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays only,” joked Pamela.
“Feet and calves on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,” I added.
“But nothing on Sunday!” said Elizabeth, and we all started to laugh.
Pamela was back, and it was like old times.
“You know what?” I said. “I’m just going to take it slow and easy and see what happens. But, like Carol told me, I’m going to make sure I know a guy really, really well, and like him an awful lot before I … uh …” I couldn’t find the right word.
“Grope,” said Elizabeth.
“Whatever,” I told her.