Millersville, GA - Fall, 1988
CHARLENE
“Change can be a good thing,” Nana said.
Charlene turned her attention away from counting mile markers along the rural road to glance at her grandmother’s profile, a heavyset black woman she couldn’t remember seeing more than twice in her past seventeen years.
It was clear to Charlene that change was bad—evil, in fact. Change ripped her from the only home she’d ever known in Detroit, Michigan, and dumped her in a backwater town in who-knows-where, Georgia.
As if reading her thoughts, Nana gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Honey, it ain’t so bad. A little fresh air and country living gonna do you right good. You’ll see.”
Yeah, right! She thought. The smell of horseshit and being bored out of my skull is the miracle cure for fixing my fucked up life. Here, Charlene, take two whiffs of horseshit and call me when you forget about your brother dying and being forced to leave behind everyone and everything you care about.
The old woman was so wrong, it was almost funny. Too bad she didn’t feel like laughing. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and glared out the passenger window of Nana’s old pickup truck.
“Your daddy’s trying to do right by you. He hoped sending you here would give you a chance at a normal life until things get better for you back home.”
Charlene wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to believe that. Darnell was gone. Things would never get better.
It should’ve been me, the little voice in her head screamed.
She thought of her fourteen-year-old brother, in a cold, dark grave with only his Chicago Bulls jersey and a sketch pad to keep him company. A flood of tears threatened to spill over, but she fought them back. She refused to cry at his funeral and would not do it now. Crying would not bring Darnell back or change her current situation. It would only make her feel weak.
Green fields finally gave way to a line of small, one-level-ranch houses and manicured lawns. Further down the road, there was a corner grocery store, a dry cleaner, a boutique shop, and a 1950s themed diner with a sign that read Cheesy’s.
What kind of name is Cheesy’s? She mused defiantly. Haven’t they ever heard of McDonald’s?
When Nana turned onto the two-lane street named Springhill, it was like entering a technicolored Mayberry. Historic looking brick and limestone buildings, some of which had huge storefront windows, set a few feet away from perfectly spaced trees that lined the cement sidewalks.
This had to be the cleanest street in America. There wasn’t a speck of dirt or trash anywhere and no winos hanging out on any of the street corners.
After five more minutes of driving, Nana finally pulled into the crowded school parking lot. A three-story, box-shaped building made of limestone and red brick loomed before them. It was connected to a smaller building, also brick and stone, with the word Gymnasium sprawled across the top in large white letters. Adjacent to the school’s gym was a football field, encircled by a narrow eight-lane track along with rows of tall bleachers.
Charlene squinted to make out the sign over the scoreboard. It read, Home of the Cougars—State Champion Track Team in bold green letters, and beside it was a logo of a big yellow cat with brown spots, which she assumed to be a poor interpretation of a cougar, baring its claws and fangs.
She frowned in disappointment. Her high school back in Detroit was ten times this school’s size and could accommodate nearly 4,600 students. By the looks of things, she couldn’t imagine there being a quarter of that many kids here.
Suddenly, her stomach fluttered with trepidation. It would be hard to become invisible in a small school where everyone knew everyone’s business.
Nana maneuvered her small, faded green pickup truck into an empty parking space and turned off the engine.
“We’re here,” she said, announcing the obvious. “Come on, let’s get you settled in. I gotta get to work. Mr. Humphrey is expecting me by ten.”
It irked Charlene that her grandmother made a living as a housekeeper. It was 1988 for godsakes. Reverend Jesse Jackson, a black man, was running for president and her poor grandmother was still picking up after ‘Massa’.
Mr. Humphrey should pick up his own shit.
Charlene watched Nana’s large frame struggling out of her seat. It was now 8:50 am. Most of the buses had cleared out, and only a few students were still in the parking lot. She observed a group of students entering the building just as she and her grandmother made their way towards the school entrance.
There wasn’t a single black or brown face among them, except for the old black man wearing a janitor uniform sweeping the sidewalk.
She looked up at the name etched in stone over the wide double doors that read, General Robert E. Lee Public High School. At least there wasn’t a confederate flag hanging outside for the world to see. If she had to take a guess, it was probably out being cleaned.
Nana walked up the stone steps ahead of her.
“Hurry now. Don’t want to be late on your first day. It’s bad enough you had to come so late in the semester.” She paused on the step, looking back expectantly. “You gonna have to work hard to catch on and keep your grades up. I don’t know how you did things back in Detroit, but I expect you to do your best here. I didn’t tolerate bad grades or foolishness from your daddy, so I ain’t gonna allow it from you. You hear me?”
Charlene had been on the honor roll since grade school and doubted a hick school in the boonies could teach her anything she didn’t already know.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered begrudgingly.
Nana’s watery brown eyes softened, and she reached out to caress her granddaughter’s cheek with one warm, beefy hand.
“You’ll be fine here. Just remember what I told you. And never let nobody make you feel you don’t belong. Your daddy had a hard time making friends, but you’ll do better. You’re smart, pretty, just like your mama was, and got that beautiful singing voice. Can’t nothing or nobody hold you back, except you. You got that?”
Charlene nodded to show she was listening, though Nana’s pep talk did little to dispel her sour mood.
Nana turned back around and continued up the wide steps leading to the entrance doors. Charlene took a deep breath, resigned to her fate as she followed Nana inside.
As she expected, it looked like any other typical high school. Nothing held her interest until she came across the glass trophy case setting outside the principal’s office. While Nana was busy signing the registration papers and talking with the office secretary, Charlene examined the trophies and the blown-up black and white photos encased inside.
Her lips quirked into a brief grin at finding the school was integrated after all—at least the track team was. She read the impressive display of gold-plated plaques and large trophies that lined the glass shelves. The team had won state titles for the past three years. Not bad.
She looked over the photos more carefully. One of them showed a close-up of a white guy with a mop of dark curls with the sides shaved close around his ears. He had the lean, muscled body associated with most runners. The camera caught him in a winning pose, raising his arms high above his head as he passed over the finish line. Another showed him jumping over a hurdle with a sharp look of concentration on his boyishly handsome face. There were photos of other boys in similar poses, but the intensity in the first one’s dark eyes drew her back, making her want to look deeper. Who was he? What was he thinking as he crossed that finish line?
Her mother had once told her that the eyes were a window to the soul and could reveal a person’s true nature, even if they tried to hide it. She reached out to touch the glass and stared at her reflection. If what her mother said was true, could people see she wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be? That she was a coward who stayed up most nights staring at the ceiling, too afraid from fear of any sound that even remotely resembled a gunshot.
Charlene frowned and snatched her hand from the glass. The thought of strangers seeing pass her facade and reading her like an open book put a knot in her stomach and made her dread her predicament even more. She would just have to remember to keep her guard up.
The principal’s door opened and an attractive young woman wearing black-rimmed glasses with bleach-blonde hair tied back in a tight bun poked her head out.
“Principal McAfee will see you now.”
Nana turned and waved impatiently for Charlene to follow.
No use in stalling. This was her new school, whether she liked it or not. Charlene glanced at the runner’s photo in the trophy case one last time. How many more changes would she have to endure before her life was under control again?
RYAN
Coach is gonna kill me, Ryan thought, staring down at the F handwritten in big red ink on his latest test. That made three for three in Mr. Heizel’s class and the first semester wasn’t even over yet. The vein in his temple throbbed and his fist clenched, wrinkling the paper in his hands.
What the fuck. He’d actually studied for this one. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He felt like banging his head against the nearest wall. Except for running, nothing he did lately turned out right. Not at school and definitely not at home. His father made a point of reminding him of that fact before he left for school this morning.
It’s time to get your shit together, Ryan. Stop dicking around with your loser friends and focus on your future.
Ryan was focus, but not on the future his father had planned for him. Five minutes after graduation, he planned to escape the chains of this backwoods town to pursue bigger dreams. All he needed was a scholarship to the University of California, and then on to the Olympics. But that dream felt further away the longer he glared down at the offending F.
Muted chatter filled his ears from the students surrounding him. Jenny St. Clair, a pretty, petite blonde who was on the cheerleading squad, bit the tip of her pencil eraser, crossed her bare legs and tried to catch Ryan’s attention with a salacious grin. He ignored her as usual. His jaw tensed as he stared at Mr. Heizel, a short, toupee wearing weasel of a man whose wardrobe consisted of itchy looking blazers with patches on the elbows and wrinkled slacks. The man’s glasses were so thick he could probably see planets beyond their solar system. Ryan’s frustration grew as Mr. Heizel nonchalantly continued on with the lesson, as if he hadn’t struck another nail into the coffin of Ryan’s future. He wanted to punch something and probably would if he didn’t get out of this stifling classroom soon.
The dismissal bell rang. As if hearing the fire from a starter pistol, Ryan launched from his seat and out the door. He gripped the handle of his backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the lockers of his friends, Danny and Wes.
I’ll just get Coach to talk to him, he thought, and then quickly decided against it. Coach will just lay into me more for being a dumbshit and not handling things on my own. Maybe I can get Heizel to let me retake the test. He shook his head. Fat chance and who am I freaking kidding? I’ll just flunk it twice.
Panic burned in the pit of his stomach. The feeling multiplied when he rounded the corner and took in the chaotic scene in the hallway. His heart plummeted. He didn’t have to guess who was at the center of it all.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
A group of rowdy teens chanted in unison as Ryan pushed his way through the crowd to find Danny brutally kicking and punching in the face of some black kid.
Shit! Not again.
For a second, he thought about turning the opposite direction. After the morning he had, who would blame him? But for Danny’s sake, he knew he needed to break this up fast before a teacher showed up. His best friend, Wes, broke through the group and came to stand beside him. They exchanged a wary look.
“I’ll grab Danny,” Ryan said.
Wes nodded. “I got the other guy.”
They moved their bodies between the two combatants and forced them apart. Ryan planted his feet, gripping Danny’s shoulders to hold him back. Danny’s eyes were wild with bloodlust, his face red and sweaty. His nose flared, and he practically foamed at the mouth to get at his target. He kicked and squirmed as Ryan strained against him.
Danny wasn’t a big guy. At five-eleven, Ryan was four inches taller, but Danny outweighed him by at least fifteen pounds. It took all of Ryan’s strength to restrain him.
Instead of helping, the surrounding spectators hissed and booed at them. But Ryan, unfazed by the noise, ignored them and focused on getting his friend to calm down.
“You wanna get suspended again or worse?”
“I don’t give a shit. That motherfucker needs to know his place.”
“Fuck you!” the other guy yelled.
Ryan looked over his shoulder at Wes, who was having an equally difficult time restraining the black kid whose face was bloodied and swollen.
“C’mon, you want some more, you stupid fuckin’ ni--”
“Danny, STOP!” Ryan grabbed the collar of Danny’s denim jacket and forced him further back, away from the circle of onlookers. Danny jerked and flailed his arms, struggling to get loose, but Ryan held him in a vice hold. He could feel his anger rising to a boil, ready to explode.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ryan hissed.
“Those black motherfuckers make me sick! I hate every last one of ‘em.”
“This shit is getting old, Danny.”
“Get off me!”
“You can’t keep doing this. They’re gonna kick you out of school for good, man.”
“You think I give a shit about that?”
Ryan gave his friend a serious look. “Yeah, I think you do. What’s your pa gonna say if you get thrown out?”
Pausing momentarily, Danny's eyes glinted, and he shoved Ryan with enough force to make him stumble back a step. “I couldn’t give a drop of piss about what that dried up fucker thinks.”
He spun away from Ryan and charged down the hall. Just then, a black girl rounded the corner. Danny nearly knocked her over with his shoulder as he passed her by.
“Hey!” the girl shouted as her books and papers went flying. Danny didn’t give her a second glance as he continued down the hall.
The girl looked stunned for a moment and then she scowled, her hands clenched at her sides. Still a little winded from breaking up the fight, Ryan crouched to pick up one of her textbooks.
“Sorry. My friend is—“
“An asshole.”
There was no debating that.
“Yeah, sorry he ran into you like that.” He handed her the book.
“He should be the one apologizing, not you,” she snapped, her face pointed in the direction Danny had gone.
Ryan chuckled silently. Pigs would fly before that ever happened.
He reached to pick up more of her stuff, and as she bent down next to him, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was something sweet and addictive like what you find in a bakery. The girl stood upright, clutching her notebook and a red, leather-bound journal in her arms. And finally, Ryan raised his head to see her face more clearly. His mouth went dry.
Whoa! Black girls had never been on his radar, not that he hadn’t looked, he was a guy after all, but this girl who he was certain he’d never laid eyes on before, had him speechless. She wasn’t just pretty; she was a knockout.
"Can I get my other book back, please?" One corner of her full lips lifted and her eyes --the color of cinnamon with flecks of gold—sparked with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
"Oh, sorry," Ryan stammered clumsily, standing up and handing the book to her.”
She was tall, nearly his height. Ryan wasn’t used to girls who could look him directly in the eye without lifting their heads.
He must have been staring too long because the girl abruptly broke eye contact and pushed a dark curl behind her ear. “Thanks,” she murmured under her breath.
“No, problem. I..um...”
He wanted to keep her in front of him longer. His mind scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a creep, but he came up blank. Ryan felt a tap on his left shoulder breaking his trance, and looked back to find Wes standing behind him.
“Hey, bro, you coming? The bell's about to ring.”
As if on cue the bell rang, and a rush of students flooded the hallway surrounding them.
Ryan cleared his throat and turned back to the girl. “So what’s your name?”
And just like that she was gone.
Hoisting his backpack over his shoulders, Ryan strained to see her mass of black curls and the striped pink and white top she wore among the crowd of students passing to their next classes. Who was this girl? Why had he never seen her before? Was she new here?
“Ryan?” Wes called again.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he said, his mind still on the beautiful mystery girl.
----
The next day, Ryan stood in the hallway begging Ms. Terry, the school counselor, to transfer him out of Mr. Heizel’s Social Studies class. Thanks to his failing grade in Heizel's class, Ryan’s grade point average was in the toilet. He needed to do something drastic or he could forget about going to University of Southern California.
“Ryan, there’s nothing I can do. You’ve got until the end of the fall semester to bring your GPA up. If you apply yourself, that’s more than enough time to turn things around.”
Ryan dodged two girls who giggled and waved at him as he followed Ms. Terry into the main office.
"How am I supposed to do that, Ms. Terry? I've been working my as—butt off. I have to get into USC."
She paused, pushing her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, and giving him a deadpan look. "Then work harder."
"But I-"
"No buts, Ryan." She continued walking towards her office where a male student was waiting outside her door. "You are an amazing athlete, but your grades are important too. I suggest you try studying more or get someone to tutor you after school?"
"Between practice, track meets and working, when do I have time for a tutor?"
Ms. Terry opened her door and motioned for the student to enter the office ahead of her. "If you want to qualify for a scholarship and get into USC, you're going to have to figure something out."
She closed the door before Ryan could utter another word.
He sighed. “That went well.”
Frustrated, he turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he saw the mystery girl from yesterday morning standing in the main office. Her back was turned so she didn’t see him taking her in from head to toe. The front view was spectacular, but seeing her from behind sapped the air from his lungs.
She must have sensed his presence because she turned her head and their eyes locked. Ryan felt his face grow hot. It was the second time he'd been caught staring at her for too long.
“Where is everybody?” she asked.
Ryan cleared his throat. “The secretary is on break, I think.”
“Do you know where I can find Ms. Terry? I was told she could fix my schedule.”
He glanced down at the paper in her hand before meeting her gaze again. "What's wrong with your schedule?"
"Some idiot put me in two study halls back to back."
“I’m not surprised,” Ryan chuckled nervously, “The same thing happened to me last year.”
"For real?" She said, arching a brow. “They make it a habit, screwing up schedules around here?"
"I don't think so, but Mrs. Holland handles most of that stuff and she's pretty old. She doesn't see too well either."
"That's messed up.”
Her Midwestern accent had a certain rhythm about it that flowed, not too slow and not too fast, but just right. The fact that it was so different from the southern drawl he'd been accustomed to made it even more appealing... and sexy as hell.
“So whatcha do about it?” She asked.
“I slept," he said, trying hard not to be mesmerized by her big brown eyes.
The left side of her mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. Getting that tiny response out of her made him feel like he’d won a 300-meter dash. He wanted to make her smile more. Now that he'd seen a hint of her light, he was desperate to have it shine on him again.
"I know you probably don't have much going on here, but damn, it can't be that bad," she said, shaking her head. Her thick, corkscrew curls bounced enticingly around her shoulders. Ryan took a chance and moved closer, shortening the space between them.
"Nah, it ain't so bad, once you get to know folks 'round here."
"I bet that's easy in a town this small."
"You'll get used to it."
"Not if I can help it." For a second, the sparkle in her eyes dimmed, and then she looked towards the row of offices to their right. "So...which one’s Ms. Terry's office?"
"The one in the middle.” He pointed to the student counselor's closed door. "She’s busy with another student right now."
“Then I guess I’ll wait.”
He thought she’d walk away from him then, but she stood there studying him like a complicated puzzle she wanted to solve.
"What?" He asked, rubbing the tip of his nose self-consciously.
"Your eyes, they're blue." She sounded both pleased, and a little surprised. "I couldn't tell from the black and white photos. They look a lot darker in the picture."
Ryan frowned, and then realized she was referring to the photos in the trophy case outside the principal's office.
"Yeah... I-uh... got 'em from my pa, the color, I mean." I sound like an idiot! He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She was making him self-conscious. Ryan was never self-conscious around girls, at least not since he reached puberty and made out with Sarah-Jane Michaels in the sixth grade behind her father’s tool shed.
An awkward silence fell between them as he grappled for something more to say, which was another new experience for him. This girl was throwing him off his game, big time.
Before he could open his mouth to speak again, she abruptly turned and walked away, dismissing him as though she hadn't just turned his world upside down. If he wasn’t careful, this girl could get him in a lot of trouble.
She sat down on a bench on the opposite side of the closed office door and began thumbing through a magazine that had been left there. Ryan shoved his hands in his jean pockets. He knew he should leave, but found himself saying in a hesitant voice, "If you have any trouble finding your other classes, I don't mind showing you around." After a beat, he added, "Since you're new and all."
She looked up then, her head tilting slightly and lips curving upward at the edges. "What are you, like, the welcoming committee?"
"Not exactly. I was just thinking..."
What was he thinking? He could just imagine the looks he would get from Danny and his other friends, but none of that mattered. He wanted to know this girl. Everything about her intrigued him, though he couldn't understand why.
"Is that a good idea?" She asked as if reading his thoughts.
"Haven't you ever heard of Southern hospitality?"
"I’ve heard a lot of things about the South, especially for people like me," she said with a raised brow, "And yesterday I got a hint of that so-called hospitality from your friend."
Guilt crept over him, though he wasn't sure why. He wasn’t like Danny. He had black friends on and off the track team and never once used the N-word. He even agreed with some of Jesse Jackson's political views, though he would never admit that to his father who was an ultra-conservative, card-carrying Republican. He changed the subject before things got even more awkward between them.
“You don't talk like most folks 'round here. Where you from?"
"Detroit."
"Motor City? That's in Michigan, right?"
She looked down, thumbing through the magazine again. "Last time I checked."
"So what's it like living there?"
"Bigger with a lot more black people. Why?"
"Just curious, is all."
She lifted her head, giving him a sharp look. Had he said something wrong?
"Look, whatever your name is—"
"It's Ryan. Ryan Quinn."
"Well, Ryan, I don't like people all up in my business."
"Sorry, I was just trying to be friendly."
She tilted her head again and narrowed her eyes at him. "Why?"
He raked a hand through his hair. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. "What's the big deal? Folks ain't friendly where you come from?"
"Sometimes. Mostly when they want something. So, Ryan, what is it you want?"
"I'm not like that." Or maybe he was. It wouldn't be the first time, but this was different, she was different, and it had nothing to do with the color of her skin.
She scoffed. "Sure you're not. You're just curious, right? I hear most white boys are."
His jaw tensed. "What's that's supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just forget I said it."
He wasn’t ready to let it drop, but Ms. Terry's door opened suddenly, stopping him from pressing the issue any further.
"Ryan! What are you still doing out here? You're supposed to be in class."
“I was trying to help our new student.” He nodded innocently at the girl on the bench. "Mrs. Holland scheduled her for two study halls."
Ms. Terry shot him an annoyed look then held her hand out towards the girl. "Let me see your schedule."
She stood up and handed it to the older woman. Ryan studied the girl's profile as she waited patiently for the student counselor to read over her schedule. He still fumed over her earlier comment. It felt like she was judging him for things he hadn't done. If it had been any other girl, he might not have cared what she thought. But her words had gotten under his skin, irritating him like a splinter he couldn't dig out.
Ms. Terry handed the schedule back to her. "Sorry, there's nothing I can do about it right now. It's late in the semester and all our other classes are filled up."
"What am I supposed to do with two study halls?"
Ms. Terry put a finger to her chin and looked thoughtful. "Hmm, I don't know... study?"
“Now get back to class, both of you." Ms. Terry went into her office, slamming the door in their faces.
She shook her head. “That was a total waste of time.”
“Yeah, Ms. Terry can be kind of...”
“A bitch?”
Ryan chuckled, liking her bluntness. “Sometimes, yeah.” She smiled back at him and something in his chest warmed.
“See you around, Ryan.”
He watched as she walked out of the main office and into the empty hallway. Then an idea popped into his head.
“Hey,” he called after her.
She glanced over her shoulder, but continued walking. Ryan fell into step beside her.
“Can I ask you a question?” He asked.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Nothing too personal, I promise.”
“Alright then, shoot.”
“Did you get good grades at your old school?”
She gave him a side eye. “Yeah, I’m an honor student. Why?”
He gently grabbed her arm to stop her. The warmth of her soft skin transferred into his palm. For a moment, he was transfixed by the contrast of his tan skin against her smooth caramel complexion. She looked down at his hand too, then up at him. Her eyes widened as if in shock. He quickly removed his hand, hoping he hadn’t offended her.
“Sorry. I just wanted to ask if you’d tutor me.”
“Tutor you?” Her brows lifted.
“I’m failing Social Studies. If I don’t pass finals this semester, I can kiss my scholarship to USC goodbye, not to mention my coach will kill me.”
“What makes you think I have time to tutor you?”
“You got two study halls, right? Might as well make the most of it.”
“Not interested.” She began walking again. Ryan quickly moved in front of her.
“I can pay you.”
She looked him up and down. “How much?”
“I only work part time after school, so not much, but we can negotiate.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, considering his offer. “I’ll think about it.”
Ryan couldn’t suppress his smile. “Really?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’ll let you know when I decide.”
He nodded, willing to agree to anything if it would increase his chances.
“Goodbye, Ryan,” she said pointedly.
Taking the hint, he stepped aside. She continued down the hall, leaving him staring after her. It was then he realized he still didn’t know her name, but was now more determined than ever to find out anything he could about her.
