As she parked her car, Colleen saw Miguel standing on the dirt road, talking to Jan. Her hand was on one hip as she wagged her finger at him. When he stepped back, she stepped forward. Colleen leaned over the steering wheel and sighed, wishing she had been able to tell Miguel about the day first.
Colleen sat there, exhausted, hoping Jan would go inside. No such luck—Jan strutted to the car and tapped on the window.
“Oh my—you’re late getting back. And it’s your first day in the white school! I’m glad to work in a private school where we don’t have to deal with this nonsense. I don’t know how you can do it—all day in that trailer classroom with those colored kids. You must need to take a shower as soon as you get home.”
How can she say such things? Colleen threw open the car door, narrowly missing Jan.
“It was a long day, and I’m tired. I need to make dinner. Let’s catch up another time.”
Colleen clutched her schoolbag and scrambled to her trailer, leaving Jan standing there. She was grateful that Miguel had arrived home first and cooled the trailer. The drone of the air conditioner muffled the sobs that escaped from her the instant she shut the door.
When Miguel came in, she tried to talk but choked on the words. He held her close, stroking her hair. “Mi amor, lo siento. I’m sorry.”
His tender words only made her cry harder. She pulled away from him, hiding her face in her hands.
“Colleen, we can talk later, whenever you want. Let’s just eat the leftover meat loaf for supper and then see how you feel.”
Lying on their bed, she listened to Miguel as he began busying himself in the kitchen and wondered what she had gotten herself into. In three months at West Hill School, she had adjusted and—aside from some moments of tension with Evelyn—felt welcomed. She’d grown fond of her students. But each night had been an abrupt transfer back into her comfortable white world. Now the white world was foreign, unfamiliar, and judgmental.
Her first day with her students at the new school had gone better than she’d anticipated. The portable classroom was a novelty, and they were excited about the new notebooks and crayons that Colleen had purchased as emergency supplies for the overnight move. The classroom’s tight quarters served as a cocoon, protecting them from the confusion of the schoolyard and the activity on the street across from the high school.
But then there was lunch.
The teachers’ lounge had been crowded. In the front, the tables were decorated with small vases of flowers, napkins, and pairs of salt and pepper shakers, like at Colleen’s favorite pizza parlor back home. But the black teachers all sat at card tables with folding chairs in the back of the room. She had lifted her hand to wave at Lulu and Evelyn but hesitated, remembering Lulu’s coolness earlier in the day. Their table was full anyway.
Spotting an empty place at one of the front tables, she asked if the seat was taken. No one looked up or answered her. So she sat down across from a woman who was busy putting away a small makeup case. Her blond hair was styled in a pageboy, which she had just smoothed down after a look in her compact mirror. Colleen envied the woman’s freckle-free, alabaster complexion.
Colleen said, “Hello.”
The teacher didn’t respond, so Colleen figured she hadn’t heard her and greeted the woman a second time. “Hi, my name is Colleen Rodriguez. What’s yours?”
No reply.
Colleen was seated directly across from the woman, who looked straight into her eyes. How could she not have heard her?
“What grade do you teach?” asked Colleen.
No reply.
Colleen felt a chill creep up her back. The woman looked right through her. She was stone-faced, an unfinished sculpture, devoid of expression.
It was as if the chair Colleen had chosen were still vacant.
A teacher from the end of the table confirmed Colleen’s feeling.
“She won’t waste her time talking to you. Same here, darlin’—don’t think we need Yankees helping us with our coloreds.”
The affront stung as if the teacher had slapped Colleen’s face. As she reached into her brown bag, her hands shook. Her favorite tuna salad on pumpernickel bread was no longer appealing. A knot of anxiety twisted her stomach. She looked at her watch and realized that she had forty minutes before she needed to return to her classroom. The gift of lunch without playground duty had become a penalty.
An older woman retrieved a whistling teakettle. When she returned to her place, she asked if anyone would like a cup of tea. Her cat’s-eye glasses framed her large green eyes. She nodded and smiled when Colleen looked back.
“Thank you, but I don’t have a cup.”
“Well, I’m sure we can rinse one out for you,” the teacher said.
A mutter came from the opposite end of the table. “She wouldn’t mind a dirty cup.”
The older teacher ignored the remark and cleaned a cup for Colleen. That single act of kindness helped her through the rest of the meal.
In the trailer, Miguel called from the kitchen that dinner was ready. Colleen smiled, grateful for the warmth and comfort of his presence. She went to the bathroom sink and rinsed the dried tears from her eyes. She threw her shoulders back and stood tall as she felt a reserve of courage rise and move through her.
She wouldn’t let that alabaster statue keep her out of the lunchroom.