CHAPTER TWO

We dumped our bikes in front of Forsyth’s Grocery and hurried inside, where it was cool and smelled like melons. Mr. Forsyth stood behind the counter, and his wife, Cleo, was busy arranging fruit in the produce section.

I called out, “Hey, Mrs. F. Save a kumquat for me.”

A few customers wandered the aisles. Old Mrs. Todd was squeezing the bread. Bubba Jakes, a skinny kid in my class at school, was looking over safety razors, as if he needed one.

When we approached the counter, Mr. Forsyth shot us a tired grin. “So, kids, what’ll it be?”

“The usual,” I told him.

He reached under the counter, pulled out an open box of 45 rpm records, and set it in front of me.

“Have at it,” he said.

The box contained the latest Top 40 hits, shipped in a batch every week so people like me could snap them up. I spent most of my allowance on records, and Daddy didn’t like it.

“Paying for noise,” he would grunt. “That’s all you’re doing.”

At least it was better than Grant, who spent his allowance on bubble gum. Of course, it wasn’t just any bubble gum, as he was quick to point out. It was Topps, and inside every package were baseball cards.

He bought five packages, the way he always did, ripped open the first, and thumbed through the cards inside.

“Frank Robinson!” he exclaimed, stuffing the gum into his mouth and chewing like a cow on caffeine.

Every week, Mr. Forsyth clipped a list of the Top 40 records from Billboard Magazine and taped it to the side of the box. Today the list showed that Elvis Presley had both the #2 and #3 records: “It’s Now or Never” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” I elbowed Grant and showed him.

He snorted. “I can’t believe you listen to that mush.”

“It’s not mush,” I said. I had to admit though, I liked Elvis better when he was singing about jails and hound dogs.

Records cost more than bubble gum, so the most I could afford was one a week. I flipped through the box and found a song I had enjoyed on the radio.

Grant peered over my shoulder and burst out laughing. “‘Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’? I’d like to see you try one of those. You’ve got nothing to hold it up.”

I felt my face get hot, but I didn’t want him to know it. I ducked over to the cash register, reached into my pocket, and paid Mr. Forsyth.

“You kids are my best customers,” he said. “Just spend more, huh?”

He gave me my change, then tore off a row of S&H Green Stamps and handed them to me. “Paste those in your coupon book. If you fill it up, you’ll win something.”

S&H Green Stamps were Mr. Forsyth’s new scheme for promoting the store. You got some with every purchase, and if you filled enough coupon books, you could send off for a prize. He had planted an S&H sign out by the highway, where people would see it and come swarming in.

“Like bees to honey,” he told me.

Or flies. Or mosquitoes. Or ants, like Grant and me.

Across the store, I spotted Janie, the youngest of the Forsyth kids. She was twelve years old and a seventh grader at Wellborn Junior High. Janie had dark hair and glasses and usually could be found in a corner studying. Sometimes I thought she studied because it was the one thing that kept her parents from making her work in the store. But the studying must have paid off, because just a few weeks earlier Janie had won the Calhoun County spelling bee. Tomorrow she would go to Birmingham for the state bee, and half the neighborhood would be there to cheer her on.

I walked over and caught her eye. “Roll Tide,” I said.

It was the state football cheer, but I thought it might be good for spelling too.

Janie flashed a shy grin. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Ready for the big day?”

She showed me the book she was studying. It was a dictionary.

“Problem is, there are too many words,” she said. “Darlene’s been helping me though. I reckon I’ll do all right.”

Darlene was Janie’s older sister. She had won the county spelling bee a few years before at age ten. Those Forsyth girls knew their alphabet. They were spelling fools.

“Janie?” said Grant, who had come up behind me.

She looked up, and Grant snapped her picture.

“Hey,” she said, “I wasn’t ready.”

“That’s the idea,” said Grant. “It’s candid. That means you don’t pose. The picture shows what you’re really like.”

“So, what am I like?” asked Janie.

Grant gazed at her thoughtfully. “Smart. Nice.”

There was a bump and a crash behind us, and Mr. Forsyth strode over toward the canned goods. We followed and saw a young Negro man about my age. I was surprised because we didn’t usually see many Negroes in our neighborhood.

He was kneeling in the soup aisle, with cans on the floor, and I realized immediately what had happened. Mr. Forsyth’s motto was “One-Stop Shopping,” which meant he stuffed his shelves with as many different products as they could hold in hopes that people really would do all their shopping at his store. People didn’t, but they did bump into the overloaded shelves, like I had a dozen times. Obviously that’s what had happened to the young man.

I heard someone behind me and turned to see Bubba Jakes. Behind him, Mrs. Todd squinted through her thick glasses. I had smiled when I’d seen them before, but no one was smiling now.

“What are you doing, boy?” Mr. Forsyth demanded.

I happened to know that Mr. Forsyth was a softy deep down inside, but he sometimes put on a gruff front, especially if he thought it might impress one of his regular customers like Mrs. Todd.

“Sorry, sir,” the young man mumbled. “I’ll get it.”

Janie pushed past us and crouched down beside him. “I can help,” she said.

Mr. Forsyth grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Let him do it.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bubba told the young man. His voice was low and gruff, as if he was trying to act grown up, the way he’d been doing when he shopped for safety razors.

“Why not?” said Grant. “It’s a free country.”

Bubba grunted. The young man looked up at Grant, then gazed at me, as if he had a question but couldn’t ask it. His face was open like a book, full of words and feelings if you knew how to read them. I tried to imagine what he was thinking but couldn’t. It was like there was an invisible wall between us—white on one side, black on the other. It might seem strange to some people, but in Anniston we were used to it. That’s just the way things were.

I wanted to tell him that. Grant was my friend, but part of me agreed with Bubba. Go home, I thought. This is our neighborhood, not yours.

The young man turned back to the pyramid, carefully placing creamed celery on chicken gumbo, old-fashioned tomato on vegetable beef. When he finished, he got to his feet and nodded awkwardly.

“I’ll be careful next time,” he said.

“There won’t be a next time,” said Mr. Forsyth. “Leave, and don’t come back.”

The young man watched Mr. Forsyth. I saw something in his eyes—an impulse, a feeling—but I couldn’t tell what it was. The two of them stared at each other for a long time, and finally the young man looked away. He turned, shoulders slumped, and left the store.

Mr. Forsyth shrugged, almost an apology.

“Personally, I don’t mind them coming here,” he said. “But they might bother some of my customers.”