CHAPTER NINE

Afterward, Jarmaine and I walked inside, where she went back to work. I found Grant leaning against his father’s desk, fooling with his camera. We said good-bye to his dad and headed for our bikes. As we did, I noticed Gurnee Avenue just a block away. I reached for Grant’s hand, squeezed hard, and dragged him up the street.

“Hey!” he croaked.

Halfway up Gurnee was a yellow-brick building with an awning and a sign: Greyhound. It was the Anniston bus station, where buses stopped before heading down the Birmingham Highway, and where Jarmaine planned to come on Sunday to see history being made.

Next to the building was an alley, and in the alley was a bus. Stopping in my tracks, I gazed at the bus.

Where was it going? Who would be on board? What did they dream of?

Beside me, Grant wrenched his hand free.

“Geez,” he muttered. “The grip of death.”

“Poor baby,” I said.

I approached the bus and saw that it was empty. Glancing around, I reached for the door. It was locked. Apparently the bus was between trips. I ran my fingers along the silver stripes under the windshield. For years I’d been watching buses drive past my house. It wasn’t often that I got to see one up close. I wanted to remember what it looked like and how I felt standing beside it.

As I touched the bus, I saw a road, maybe the Birmingham Highway or one of the new interstates they were building. It curved out of sight, and I wondered what was at the other end—hope, happiness, questions, pain? Someday maybe I’d climb on the bus and find out.

Behind me, Grant asked, “What are you doing?”

I turned around to face him. “Take my picture.”

“Here? Now?”

“Yes!”

He stifled a grin. “All I’ve got is color film. I hate to waste it.”

I slugged him.

“Okay, okay.”

The picture seemed important, not just because of what it showed but who took it. I was there. Grant was there. The bus was there. They were all pieces of my future, if I could just figure out how to put them together.

“Take it,” I said.

He shrugged, took the camera from over his shoulder, and peered through the lens. “Say cheese.”

“That’s stupid,” I said. “I’ve got a better word.”

He lined up the shot.

“Freedom,” I said.

Click. And it was done.

The bus station was just a block from Noble Avenue, where people in Anniston went to shop. It reminded me of something.

“You go on home,” I told Grant as he carefully wiped the lens and put a cap over it. “There’s something I need to do.”

We said our good-byes, and I walked back toward the shopping district with one question on my mind.

What should I get Mama for Mother’s Day?

I’d been thinking about it since Daddy had slipped me the money on Friday. I had scanned ads in the paper, but nothing seemed right.

Reaching Noble Avenue, I passed Havertys Furniture, Goold’s Hat Shop, Clark’s Credit Clothiers, and finally came to Wikle’s Rexall Drugs, where they had a little bit of everything. I looked over the products but couldn’t make up my mind. I almost bought some perfume but decided not to. Mama liked things that worked, things that had a function.

Next I tried Charlie’s Lucky Shopping Center, then Mason’s Self-Service Department Store. Finally, in a corner of Mason’s, I found it. They had a big display of straw handbags, and I spotted one with a picture of a duck on the side. I was pretty sure Mama loved ducks, or was it peacocks? Anyway, this was something useful. It could be a present from Royal and me.

I grabbed the bag, then picked out Mother’s Day cards from Royal, Daddy, and me. I went to the counter, where I took Daddy’s five-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to Mrs. Jutson, who had sold me my first Easter bonnet.

“It’s for Mother’s Day,” I told her.

Mrs. Jutson nodded, smiling. “I’m sure your mama will be very happy. Please tell her hello for me.”

“Yes’m, I will.”

I left Mason’s proud of myself, glancing at the bag and imagining what Mama would say. As I did, I bumped into someone.

“Oops! Excuse me,” I said, looking up.

It was Jarmaine, carrying her schoolbooks.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I wasn’t paying attention either. I was just going home.”

“Finished for the day?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I have to do some homework.”

I thought of the times Lavender had helped me do my homework, while Jarmaine had been at home doing her own. It didn’t seem right.

I said, “Hey, Mother’s Day is coming up, right?”

Jarmaine nodded.

“I could help you pick out a present for Lavender.”

“That’s nice of you, Billie, but I already have one.”

“Well, then, here’s an idea. Maybe I could get her a present myself. After all, she takes care of me too. She’s kind of like my mother.”

I thought Jarmaine might smile. Instead she winced as if I had hit her.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

I wondered how often Negroes in my town had said those words when they weren’t fine at all. I wanted it to be different with Jarmaine and me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Jarmaine studied me. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What? Tell me.”

“She’s not your mother. Hearing you call her that makes me feel bad.”

I stepped back, surprised. Talking with Jarmaine was like walking on ice—you never knew when you might fall through and come up shivering.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

Reaching into my pocket, I felt the two dollars in change that Mrs. Jutson had handed me and thought I might be able to use it as a peace offering.

“You want a milk shake?” I asked. “We could get one at Wikle’s.”

She looked at me and shook her head. “Wake up, Billie. Look around. This is your street, not mine. I’m a Negro. I don’t shop around here—look what happened to my friend Bradley. And Wikle’s? If I sat at the lunch counter, they’d arrest me.”

“For having a milk shake?”

“Welcome to Alabama.”

Jarmaine lowered her gaze and started up the sidewalk.

I called after her, “It shouldn’t be like that.”

She hugged the schoolbooks to her chest and kept going.