The teacher went on, “Each of you will prepare a piece of writing or art for the contest. I will choose the best from each of the age categories and submit those three to represent Riverside School.”
“What will they be judged on?” Carolyn asked.
“Creativity. Clarity. Cleverness. And penmanship! Poor handwriting can destroy your chances to win,” Mrs. Grayson replied, looking stern.
“Since I can’t do a sport in the competition, do you think it’s all right if I write about sports?” Tony asked.
“I’m sure that will be acceptable,” Mrs. Grayson told him. “So let’s get busy, children. I expect our Riverside School to be wonderfully represented in this contest! We will spend from now until lunch working on ideas and rough drafts. Little ones—grades one, two, three—I will work with you first. Get your pencils out and ready to draw your very best pictures. Older students—I want you to organize your thoughts, take notes, and decide what you will write.”
The room buzzed with activity for the next hour or so. Stella, however, sat slumped in her seat. Everybody else was scribbling away on their papers. Stella stared at her empty, blue-lined sheet, disheartened. She couldn’t think of a thing to write about, or anything that anybody else would even want to read. All that practicing in the middle of the night didn’t do me a lick of good!
Hazel leaned over into the aisle and called out, “Stella? How do you draw a picture of a hole?”
Stella was happy for an excuse to close her notebook. “A hole?”
“Yeah. You know. Like a hidey-place hole. With snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Yep.”
“I’m not sure,” Stella told her, thinking what a strange thing that was for the first grader to draw for the contest. “I reckon it would be round and dark, right? Why do you want to draw a hole?”
Hazel looked at her as if that was the silliest question in the world. “I’ve got twelve brothers and sisters,” she explained patiently. “When you live in my house, you gotta have a hidey-hole. That’s what my story is about. So how do you draw it?”
Stella did the best she could, but she really had no idea how to create the picture that Hazel wanted. When school let out, Hazel thanked Stella and said she’d be able to finish it all by herself the next day.
On the way home, Stella was in no mood to joke or play around with her friends like she usually did. Most of the boys had stayed late to pitch horseshoes in the school yard, but Tony joined her. Jojo trailed not far behind, picking up rocks and pitching them at tree trunks.
It was a perfect October afternoon, with the sun streaming through what remained of the russet leaves of the maple and beech trees that lined the road. But Stella focused on kicking up clouds from the reddish dirt at her feet instead. She hadn’t written a thing for the contest. Not one single word.
“What’s got you all cattywampus?” Tony asked her.
“I’m just missin’ the summer,” Stella replied with a shrug. “Everything gets crunchy and fades away in the fall and winter.”
“Me, I like the fall,” Tony proclaimed, pretending the tree branch he’d swept up from the side of the road was a sword. “And I like the way you say stuff,” he said. “You’re not ordinary. And not crunchy,” he added.
Stella smiled at him hesitantly. “Thanks, I guess,” she said, wondering what being “not crunchy” meant. “I was just thinking about the writing contest and what I can enter.” She hoped she didn’t sound stupid.
“Words fall out of the sky like leaves, girl. Grab a couple and write ’em down.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she said, catching an apricot-colored leaf in midair as Tony whacked the mottled white trunk of a birch tree.
“Quit tryin’ so hard. Just write what you see, what you think. That’s all I do.” He scooped up an armful of leaves and showered them over her head.
“Quit it!” she said, brushing dust and specks from her hair, laughing.
“You’ll think of something,” he said easily, brandishing his stick at an invisible enemy. “But me, I think instead of writing about baseball or football, I’m gonna write about a knight who slays a fire-breathing dragon.” He beheaded the dried blooms of a hydrangea bush.
“Sounds like a great idea,” Stella told him, steering clear of his pretense at knighthood.
“You could write about dragons too,” Tony said, now knighting a small boxwood bush.
“I’m lousy at writing make-believe stories.”
Tony tossed the stick aside, wiped his hands on his pants, and faced Stella directly. “So write a true story!” he challenged. “Write about what you saw by the pond!”
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Stella declared. “It’s too dangerous!”
“Why the heck not? And by the way, did you know the head of the Klan is called a Grand Dragon?”
“He is?” Her palms instantly grew sweaty.
“So write your own dragon story. I dare you!” With that, he turned on his heel and ran ahead.
Stella kicked up red dust the whole rest of the way home, wondering if she dared.
25
Dragons
Stella sat on her back steps. Though the sun was going down over the pond, it wasn’t dark yet, so no one could scold her.
Should she dare? Should she dare write about the Klan? Sometimes people had to be ready for the truth, she decided. She pressed her notebook open flat. Maybe just whispering about the truth at first would be a better idea. She’d be—what did Mrs. Grayson call it? Subtle! She’d be subtle. But she’d do it for the contest.
Three drafts later, most of the scratch-outs and erasures eliminated, she finally put her pencil back in the box.
SLAYING DRAGONS
Dragons are not real. In storybooks, they are usually blood-red, with shiny scales and sharp teeth. They have long necks and tails that swing hard enough to knock down any soldier. And wings. Dragons in books can fly.
Dragons are always fierce. Brave warriors, dressed in thick armor, go out with shiny swords to slay them. In those stories, dragons are never “killed.” They are always “slain” instead—not sure why.
Dragons in fables breathe fire from their mouths. They burn trees and bushes and farmhouses. Castles are harder to burn, I guess, but dragon flames make a really good picture in a storybook.
Knights in armor were real. But dragons—completely made up.
I think the Ku Klux Klan chose the dragon as their symbol because it is scary. The people around here who dress up in bedsheets and call themselves dragons are very real.
But didn’t all the dragons from the fairy tales get slain?
26
Chicken Poop and Store-Bought Clothes
Stella hated cleaning the chicken coop. Sticky, gooey, stinky poop everywhere. Gummed into the straw, ground into the dirt, stuck in the fencing, flung against the slats of the wall of their enclosure. How do those dang birds do that? she wondered, scrunching up her nose.
Her mother’s boots clomped uncomfortably, even though she had stuffed the toes with old rags. The shovel kept slipping from her hands because Mama’s gloves were too big. She hated it all. She entered the fenced area and shooed the thankless chickens to one side, blocking them with a large board Papa kept just for cleaning day. They clucked and squawked in protest, but for all Stella cared, they could be made into chicken soup that very minute.
Every other Saturday, this was her chore. She began by shoveling up all the soiled straw and wood shavings and depositing the stinky mess into Papa’s wooden wheelbarrow. When it was full, she wheeled the load out to the compost pile and added it to the potato peels, onion skins, apple cores, and every other piece of food garbage that was tossed there every night. Disgusting! But Papa used the mess to fertilize everything that grew around the place. And because of that, Mama’s tomatoes were the biggest in Bumblebee.
It took several barrows full to finish. Then she had to spread fresh wood chips and straw so the chickens could fill it with poo
p all over again. Ugh. But at least now it smelled fresh, and the chickens clucked with what she hoped was appreciation when she let them back into that side of the yard.
Mama came out of the house, glanced at the clean chicken area, and told Stella she’d done a nice job.
“Thanks. So do I still have to get all the ripe vegetables from the garden?” she moaned, sagging against the shovel. She was in a mood to trounce Jojo in checkers, not work outside all day. Plus it was cold!
“You do if you plan to eat tonight,” her mother retorted. “The spinach will grow well into December if we keep it pruned, and that cabbage by the fence is big enough to pick. You might even find a few bush beans. And pull me some of them collard greens—they’ll be great with a few potatoes.”
“Aw, Mama,” Stella began.
“Quit with your bellyaching, child. I’ve got fish to clean and fry. You want my job?”
Stella hated touching fish guts even more than coop cleaning. “No, M’am.” As she trudged toward the garden, she suddenly grinned with relief. Carolyn Malone was half running up the road, clutching a large book to her chest.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mills,” Carolyn called out. “We got something really exciting in the mail today! My mother said I could bring it here for a bit to show you.” She held out the book and looked over at Stella with a grin of her own.
“Stella’s got chores, Carolyn,” Stella’s mother replied. “You done with yours already?”
“Yes, M’am,” Carolyn replied. “If I promise to help Stella finish hers, can me and her look at this for a few minutes? Please? I have to return it soon.” The two girls looked at Stella’s mother with pleading eyes.
Mrs. Mills glanced at the treasure in Carolyn’s arms. “Hmm. This year’s Sears and Roebuck catalog,” she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron. “That is truly special. I haven’t seen the fall edition. My, my, my. Well, since it’s here, let’s take a minute to look at it, girls. Or we can clean the windows!” she added, winking. “Stella, go wash your hands first.”
“Thanks, Mama!” Stella tossed the boots and gloves into a corner of the porch and rinsed off in a jiffy. Then she and Carolyn raced inside before Mama could change her mind. Stella pushed three chairs close together while Carolyn carefully placed the catalog on the table.
“Oh, golly,” Stella breathed, gingerly touching the thick book.
The cover showed a painting of a white boy, maybe around twelve or thirteen years old, sitting at a desk doing homework. A desk lamp, brass probably, an inkwell, and various papers were placed around him. Behind the boy, as if it was on his wall or maybe in his mind, was a tall, majestic image of George Washington, standing in some clouds and looking serious and presidential. Mrs. Grayson would love that picture.
“That’s a painting by Mr. Norman Rockwell,” Stella’s mother told the girls.
“Who’s he?” Carolyn asked.
“A famous painter.” Peering closer at the picture, Stella’s mother said, “It looks like the boy is writing an essay on Washington, who was born in 1732. 1932 is the two hundredth anniversary—I guess the folks at Sears and Roebuck are celebrating that.”
“Even fake boys on catalog covers got writing homework,” Stella muttered.
“Did you ever turn in your paper for the contest?” Mama asked.
“Yes, Mama. Yesterday,” Stella said, “but it doesn’t matter, because mine won’t get picked. Now, please, can we turn the page? I want to look at the clothes.”
Mama narrowed her eyes but let the subject drop. The three of them marveled over ladies who sported hair curled tightly into the latest bobs, high-heeled shoes, and dresses made of cotton and crepe. The hemlines stopped exactly halfway between the knee and the ankle, and most of the dresses were cinched tight at the waist with belts.
In the children’s clothing section, the dresses, worn by smiling blond children, had lace collars and patent-leather belts. One dress, in a pale, sea-green color, made Stella trace its outline with longing. “That dress is just plain beautiful,” she whispered.
“A dollar ninety-four for a dress!” Mama exclaimed. “I could buy a whole bolt of cloth for that much.”
“Yes, but look how pretty these are,” Stella said. “They’ve got rickrack and buttons and bows.”
“You think I can’t make a dress that pretty?” her mother asked.
“Oh, I know you can, Mama,” Stella said quickly. “It’s just the ones in this book are store-bought!”
Turning more pages, they came to a full-size sewing machine sitting atop a wooden cabinet with six drawers. “Ahh,” Mama said. “Now that’s a beauty!”
“ ‘Eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents,’ ” Stella read, shaking her head.
They looked at toys for a quarter, shoes for two dollars, rifles for forty-seven dollars, and even plans for a whole house for one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four dollars.
“I gotta be rich when I grow up,” Carolyn said, folding her arms. “I gotta have money!”
“Don’t aim for riches, child,” Mrs. Mills said gently. “Aim for happiness.”
“If I get rich, I will be happy!” Carolyn declared.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Mama turned another page, saying, “Just a few more minutes now, Stella. We have chores to complete.”
“What would you buy right now if you could?” Stella asked her friend.
“Let’s see.” Carolyn turned a couple of more pages, then flipped back to earlier in the catalog. “First a bicycle, so I wouldn’t have to walk to school. That would only cost me twenty dollars.”
“Only.”
“Oh, and I’d get a lot of fancy clothes—like Paulette Packard has.”
At the name, Stella frowned. Paulette probably never had to play the “what would you buy?” game. She just went out and bought it, most likely.
Carolyn nudged Stella. “How about you?”
“Everything you said,” Stella replied slowly, “plus a big, fine house for my family to live in. Then I’d choose books to read—books I can keep. Plus one pretty dress to wear to church. The pale-green one.” She stopped Carolyn at the page with the dress she’d loved.
“Ooh, I’ll take the blue one,” Carolyn added, caressing the dress with her finger.
Stella laughed and paged through the clothing section again, her face slowly growing more serious. Finally she said in a low voice, “Did you notice—I didn’t see even one single person who looks like us in this big old book.”
“Everybody knows colored folks don’t have money to buy the stuff in this catalog,” Carolyn reasoned. “It’s pretty much a book for white people, so that’s who’s in it.”
Stella looked at her friend in frustration. “But colored people need shoes and hammers and nice dresses. They spend their money too.”
“That’s why I’m gonna be rich,” Carolyn asserted. “So it doesn’t matter what color I am.”
“Why don’t you two take your little colored selves outside and get those bush beans and collards in here before it gets dark,” Mama said, edging the book out from under their fingers. “Carolyn, I’m sure Stella would be mighty obliged for the help.”
The two girls scurried outside. Like Mama had said, that cabbage was ripe and ready, and they picked the beans and greens in record time. As soon as they were done, they washed their hands extra carefully at the pump to make sure not a speck of dirt would smudge the catalog.
“All done, Mama. May I walk Carolyn home?” Stella asked as Carolyn fetched the book.
“That will be fine. I tell you what, Stella,” her mother replied, “run this plate of fish down to Mrs. Bates’s place while you’re at it, while it’s still warm. We have more than we can eat, and it won’t keep.”
“Yes, M’am.” Stella took the plate. “Can I visit at Carolyn’s house after I take the fish?”
“For a few minutes. But I want you home before dark. Got that?”
“I will,” Stella replied, hurrying out the door after Carol
yn.
“Oh, it’s getting late,” Carolyn said, looking at the sky. The sun would soon be sinking into a dusky evening, like it, too, had been working all day. “I gotta go milk the cow.”
“Let me get this plate to Mrs. Bates, then I’ll meet you at the barn,” Stella said as both girls picked up speed.
“Well, Stella Mills. How you be, sugar?” Mrs. Bates said as she opened the screen door a few minutes later. She was a thin, tired-looking woman, reminding Stella of a squeezed-out dishrag.
“My daddy caught a huge mess of catfish this morning and we can’t eat it all, so Mama sent you some.” Stella handed her the plate.
“Bless yo’ heart, child. That’s right kindly of your mama,” Mrs. Bates said, her face lighting up. “Tell her I truly appreciate it. So will my boy Randy—can’t seem to keep him filled up these days.”
“Tell Randy I said hello,” Stella said, “and I’ll see him at school on Monday.”
“I sho nuff will. He’s out back in the woods with Tony Hawkins. They told me they’d be lookin’ for coons and snakes and other critters. They best be gettin’ back up here ’fore dark,” she said, scanning the sky, worry crossing her face.
Stella said her good-byes and started strolling back to Carolyn’s when she noticed a strange glow about half a mile ahead. She stopped short—it was like the setting sun, but the bright orange image pulsed and undulated like no sun she’d ever seen. A flicker of fear raced through her as she thought back to the night the Klan had burned the cross. This was a fire, and it seemed a whole lot bigger than that cross. She bit her lip, then realized with a gasp . . . the Spencer house! It was the Spencer house! The Spencer house was on fire!
27
Bucket Brigade
Oh my heavens! The Spencer house. It’s burning! Stella could smell it now as well. She broke into a run. At the same time, riding toward her, away from the fire, were three figures on horseback. Bearing down swiftly, dust pluming around them, the horses pounded in her direction. Stella stopped in her tracks, mouth agape.