ARCOLA TOOK OFF HER BRAID AND PUT IT IN A DRAWER. She checked her face for any sign of a pimple: none. She checked her nails, painted plum, for any sign of a chip: none. That Charles, so tall and good-looking. She wondered how long he’d been out of school; he might be just about her age, even if he was a dropout student. He looked like he’d worked—long flat arm muscles like a man. Somebody like that, a hard worker like her father, if Charles could get some education—that wouldn’t be bad. He’d have to have an education though. Her daddy insisted on that. I ain’t been twenty years at TCI saving for you, then you marry some bum. Pretty don’t count. You learn, and you marry somebody what wants to learn.
Arcola thought she had the most wonderful parents in the world. One time when they were doing the dishes together, her mother told her they weren’t ever going to have any more children. Everything is for you, her mother said. We wanted to provide right for you so we stopped when you came along.
She, Arcola Anderson, had taught in the same room with white teachers. It was easy. Arcola looked in the mirror and smiled at herself. She liked them.
She reached for the dark blue glass cologne bottle—Evening in Paris—and dabbed a little fluid behind each ear. The spots of cologne felt cool. Now she had some scent to dream on. She picked up her comb, held it close to her ear, turned her head a bit to the side. Then quickly, she slid her thumb down the teeth. The sound was magical, like fairy music. In the mirror, she watched her eyes light up.