“You don’t have to. They already there,” he says simply.
“Still. It’s just somethin’ I like. A hobby.”
We dangle in the swings, kickin’ up small puffs of dust from the ground.
“But? Couldn’t you be like… an astronomer?”
I grin and restrain myself from laughin,’ because he’s bein’ sweet right now, but as soon as he said that, I got this goofy picture in my mind of me in an old-timey observatory takin’ notes from Galileo, who’s wearin’ an old-timey wig and green stockings. I’m sure that’s not really what being an astronomer looks like.
“I can’t do that,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Cuz! You gotta go to school and study for a long time before you can be somethin’ like that!”
“Here’s an idea….” He playfully kicks my foot. “Go to school and study for a long time.”
I can’t even let myself imagine it. How many years would I have to watch Abigail before I could pay for such a thing? By the time I’d have enough saved, she’d be ready for college.
“Clayton, I can’t afford a damn telescope! How you figure I’m gonna pay for college?”
“They got these new things called scholarships. I hear they give ’em out to smart, passionate people, so…” He looks at me expectantly and then adds, “So it’s too bad we don’t know anybody like that.”
I shake my head at his silliness. “You gotta be brilliant for all that,” I tell him.
“I feel like if the want is bad enough, it’s gonna happen.”
Impossible as it is, just the thought makes me smile, and that makes him smile even bigger.
“Excuse me?”
A white girl about our age stands in front of us next to a small boy.
We both hop off the swings so she can push her little brother or whoever she’s got with her.
I ask Clay, “You think we should turn around or keep—”
“I’ve seen you before,” the white girl says to us.
We look at each other, unsure who she’s talkin’ to.
“You.” She points to Clay. “You work at Alexander Auto, doncha?”
“Higher, Betsy! Higher,” the child demands.
This Betsy pushes harder, but her eyes remain on Clay.
“Yeah. It’s my pop’s place.”
“Wow. Good for y’all,” she says. I can’t put my finger on why, but I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’, and I wanna go.
“Clay,” I whisper, “we should go.”
He nods, and we start to head in the other direction. I hear the squeaking of the rusty swing behind us, then the boy whining, then fast footsteps.
“Hold on a second.” Betsy is back.
“You two know where I could find any parties around here? You know, like”—she lowers her voice—“Negro parties?”
I turn my attention to the ground to prevent myself from doin’ somethin’ I’ll regret. She got a lotta nerve.
“We don’t go to parties,” Clay explains. “It’s against our religion.”
I clear my throat and pretend to look for somethin’ in my purse to keep from laughin’.
“Betsy, I’m tellin’ on you! You can’t leave me,” the boy hollers.
“I have to go,” she grumbles. “I’m Betsy, by the way,” she says.
“We know,” I say. Not that she’s noticed my existence. I feel the tiniest hint of a headache, and I try to focus on somethin’ neutral. Swing set: seat, chains, poles.
She looks at Clay. “And your name is…?”
He sighs. “Clayton.”
That red-orange band in my gut starts pulsing. My mind, determined not to jube in this moment, fights for neutrality. Ladder, slide, teeter-totter.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Clayton.” She puts her hand out for a shake, and my blood boils. I can tell he doesn’t want to do it, but Clay lightly shakes her hand.
Like a reflex I didn’t know I had, I dip down into that angry band and touch it. Just a light touch. Betsy suddenly gasps, clutching her stomach. She quickly recovers, but seems different now. Less sure of herself.
“I should go,” she says vaguely.
I didn’t hurt her. It was just a light touch. And nothing terrible happened. Everything is fine. The looming headache dissolves, and I don’t feel sick or anything. Maybe it’s better to embrace it instead of fighting.
“See ya around,” she says, and heads back in the other direction, no longer experiencing any discomfort. “Don’t be a crybaby,” I hear her yell.
When I’m sure she’s out of earshot, I exhale. “I didn’t think she was ever gonna leave,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, but he’s distracted, searching all around us.
“What you lookin’ for?”
“Come on.” He grabs my hand, and we walk, fast. Before I can question our pace, Clay tosses somethin’ in a garbage can.
“What was that?”
He shakes his head. “Betsy’s phone number.”
So that’s what the handshake was about. Christ Jesus, white girls are bold. Cuz they never have no consequences. It’s infuriating.
“I had to make sure nobody saw that,” Clay says. “I ain’t in the mood for no trouble.”
I exhale again. I was close to doing somethin’ regrettable to that girl. Somethin’ to make up for all the years she’s lived without any repercussions for her actions. And I didn’t. I gave her a warning, and it was enough. But I wanted to do more and… I got all this excess energy now. I have to use it. How? On what?
“Evvie? What’s up?”
“Nothin’.” Can I make it go away? Can I ignore it?
“I’m sure nobody saw nothin’, if that’s it,” he says.
“Mmm.” What the hell do I do?
“You actin’ real funny.”
I have to do somethin’ before it takes over. I don’t think I’m angry anymore, but I remember how I settled into my anger at Grammie Atti’s, and I try that again. Instead of a mere touch, I allow my inner self to sit in it. To really feel it. The wind starts to blow, howl, and the howlin’ sounds like strange music notes. Off key. Hundreds of green, yellow, and brown leaves spin toward us forming a funnel, and then they blast into our faces. Clay and I cover our eyes, and in
