BSC in the USA

  What happens, you may ask, if one of our officers is sick? The alternate officer takes charge. That was Dawn’s job before she moved. Dawn (who, by the way, has long, light blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles) is a real individualist. If you want to hear strong opinions, start her talking about the environment or nutrition.

  We missed Dawn after she moved — as a friend and as a baby-sitter. We tried to survive shorthanded, but it didn’t work. We were swamped. Too swamped even to look for a new member. I thought I was going to go nuts.

  And then … ta-da! Abby Stevenson landed in our laps. Well, not literally. She, her twin sister, Anna, and their mom moved into a house on my block. (Abby’s dad died in a car crash when she was nine.)

  I liked Abby and Anna right away. Wild is the best word to describe Abby — wild sense of humor, wild hair. It flows around her head in big ringlets (the hair, not the humor). Unlike most of my friends, Abby’s a good athlete (yeeeaa!), despite asthma problems and tons of allergies. Anna’s much different — quieter and gentler, like Mary Anne. She’s also a phenomenal violinist who practices four hours a day. And she hates sports.

  Sometimes it’s hard to believe they’re twins. Sometimes it’s not. Take their Bat Mitzvah, for instance. That’s a ritual many Jewish girls go through at age thirteen. You have to recite in Hebrew from the Torah, the holy book of Judaism. All the BSC members were invited to the twins’ ceremony. On that day, you knew Abby and Anna were twins. They were equally wonderful.

  We invited both girls to join the BSC. Anna said no, mainly because of her music studies. But Abby took Dawn’s place as alternate officer, and she’s fit in beautifully.

  So far, all the members I’ve mentioned are thirteen. Our two junior officers, Jessi and Mallory, are eleven and in sixth grade. They’re best friends. They also happen to be the oldest kids in their families, and they both insist their parents treat them like babies. Both of them were convinced they wouldn’t be allowed to go on this trip (boy, were they surprised when their parents said yes). Two other things they have in common: They’re fantastic with kids, and they love to read, especially horse books.

  In some ways Jessi and Mallory are very different. Jessi’s African-American, and she lives and breathes ballet. She wears her hair in a tight bun and carries herself with perfect posture. She has one younger sister and a baby brother. Mal’s white, with thick, floppy reddish-brown hair. She wears glasses and braces and walks like an average person. Her great passion is writing and illustrating her own stories, and she has seven younger siblings.

  Our two associates, who help us out when we’re totally overloaded, are Logan Bruno and Shannon Kilbourne. Both are in eighth grade. Logan is Mary Anne’s steady boyfriend. He’s pretty cute, I guess — dimply and sandy-haired, with a faint Southern accent. He plays after-school sports, so his baby-sitting time is limited. Shannon goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School, and she’s involved in all kinds of extracurricular activities there.

  Neither of them could go on this trip. Shannon’s at sleepaway camp. Logan is working as a busboy at a local restaurant and playing in a summer baseball league. (Which explains why Mary Anne was now blubbering away.)

  Amid the blubberings and screamings and laughings, I, Kristy, was tackling the Dilemma of the Uneven RVs.

  First I needed to figure out who could switch. Just about everyone had picked a destination. Who needed to go where? Time for some geography.

  I started writing:

  (I wanted to do this with my dad when I was a kid, but you know what happened. I figured I might as well do it myself.)

  (If you’re not a horse book fan, that’s some island in Virginia where wild ponies run around. If you are a fan, don’t laugh at my spelling. I know it’s wrong.)

  (By the time we arrive, a panda may be giving birth.)

  (Abby worships Elvis.)

  (Jessi’s ancestors were slaves on a plantation there. She wants to find out all she can about them.)

  (It’s a place out West where four states touch. Karen wants to experience being in all of them at the same time.)

  (Some of his college friends live there. Why anyone would live in a place called Lester, I don’t know.)

  (She’s been writing to a guy she knows named Ethan, who is spending the summer there with his parents.)

  (That’s where her grandmother lives.)

  (Knowing Claud, she probably had a hard time choosing between this and Hershey Park.)

  (He insists it’s the coolest city in the USA. Maybe he hasn’t been to New York.)

  (Rock climbing.)

  I put a big star next to the travelers in our RV who could possibly go north.

  Watson peered over my shoulder. “Figured it out?”

  “Mom, David Michael, or I have to move,” I said.

  Now Karen, Abby, Dawn, David Michael, and Mr. Schafer were crowding around. Karen looked very concerned. “We have to split up the family?”

  “I could go in the other RV,” Abby volunteered, “if Mr. Schafer can swing down to Memphis.”

  Mr. Schafer shook his head. “Then north to Chicago afterward? That’s really out of the way.”

  “Come with us, David Michael,” Dawn suggested. “You can find a rodeo in a northern state like Montana.”

  “I want to go with Mom!” David Michael said.

  Mom was stepping out of the RV. “You will, darling. The Grand Canyon is south, too. We’ll have to stay in this van.”

  Abby suddenly sneezed. “Did you say Grad Cadyod?” (Abby’s allergies were kicking in.) “Is that your choice?”

  “Yes,” Mom replied. “Have you been there?”

  “Isd’t it very crowded this tibe of year? Hot, too. Add overrud with gray wolves add stuff.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought of that,” Mom said, looking a little bewildered.

  “Gray wolves have every bit as much right to the land as humans do,” Dawn proclaimed.

  “Modumet Valley is supposed to be a huddred tibes better!” Abby pressed on. “Add it’s south, too!”

  “Maybe we can stop on the way,” Watson suggested.

  I looked closely at the list and sighed. The solution was clear. “I guess I’ll have to switch.”

  “Just a moment!” Watson protested.

  “This was supposed to be a family vacation,” Mom said.

  “I cud thik of a dortherd place for byself,” Abby volunteered.

  “Nope, I insist,” I said. “Really. I want to do it this way. We’ll all be together in California and on the way home.”

  “But what about your ballparks?” Karen asked.

  “Well, if I went south I couldn’t see a lot of the best ones,” I replied, “like Wrigley Field.”

  “Is that where they grow the gum trees or something?” David Michael asked.

  Karen burst out laughing. “That is so silly.”

  “No sillier than going to see the home of Elvis Pretzel,” David Michael retorted.

  “Heyyyy, watch it,” Abby said.

  “Well,” Mom said with a sigh. “We’ll miss you?—”

  “Hooray! I did it!” Claudia’s voice called from her front door. “Only two suitcases!”

  Mr. Schafer forced a smile. “Well, that’s good news.”

  “Uh, don’t forget,” I said, “now you have to add mine.”

  Mr. Schafer went pale. He rolled up his sleeves and slumped toward the cargo hold.

  We had a long, long way to go.

  Okra.

  Fried chicken.

  Biscuits with lots of butter.

  How many times had I smelled those things as I walked up Grandma’s front stoop? A hundred? A thousand?

  It didn’t matter. I still practically had to suck down my saliva.

  I bounded up the walkway ahead of Watson, Mrs. Brewer, Andrew, Karen, Mallory, Abby, and David Michael.

  I pressed the bell and knocked at the same time. (You have to do both, in case Grandpa’s not home. Grandma’s hearing is not so great.
)

  “Cute house,” Watson remarked, looking around.

  “Old, huh?” I said with a laugh. My grandparents’ house is exactly like them — a little worn and faded, but sturdy and warm and inviting.

  I felt a tingle as I wiped my feet on the familiar old mat that read, OUR HOUSE IS YOUR HOUSE. “Grandma hasn’t changed the interior one bit since she moved here,” I explained. “My dad’s room is exactly the way it was when he went to college?—”

  Abby perked up. “Does he have any Elvis memorabilia?”

  “He’s not that old!” Mal exclaimed.

  “Ahem,” Watson said, arching his eyebrow. “I happen to have been something of a fan myself.”

  Mal’s face turned red. “Oops.”

  “Well, Daddy was more of a Motown kind of guy, anyway,” I said. “He says Elvis stole from a lot of the black singers in the fifties.”

  “Stole?” Abby looked skeptical.

  “You know, sang their songs, imitated the way they sang and moved …” I rang and knocked again. Then I leaned close to the open window. “Grandma? Grandpa?”

  A car puttered to a stop behind us, and a deep voice called out, “What are you standing around for? The door’s open!”

  “Grandpa!” I ran down the front steps and threw my arms around him as he climbed out of his old Buick.

  His eyes were dancing. “Hello, baby!” he said. “Early, aren’t you?”

  Uh-oh. His voice sounded a little muffled. “Grandpa,” I whispered, “you didn’t forget to put in your — ”

  “Choppers? Shush, child, you’re beginning to sound like your grandmother!”

  I couldn’t help giggling. All my life, Grandma has always been bugging him to wear his false teeth — and all my life, Grandpa has never listened.

  “We-e-e-ell, look who’s here!” my grandmother’s voice sang out from the house. “Come in! I know this one, don’t I?”

  Grandma was standing in the open door now, her hand resting on Mallory’s shoulder. “I’m Mallory Pike,” Mal said meekly. “Remember Jessi’s ballet? We met there?”

  Before Grandma could reply, I was up the stoop and wrapping my arms around her. “Hi!” I squealed.

  I introduced everyone all around. Grandpa nodded with a closemouthed smile, while Grandma gave him her sternest I’ve-told-you-time-and-time-again-Arthur-Ramsey Look.

  As we walked into the living room, Grandpa scurried to fetch his teeth. Grandma settled into her big easy chair by the fireplace, and everyone sat on the old, comfortable couches and chairs. I pulled out the bench from Grandma’s upright piano for Mallory and me.

  “Well!” Grandma said with a sigh. “I am so glad I started that chicken early. I hope you all are hungry.”

  “Starving!” David Michael blurted out.

  Grandma was up in a flash. “Would you like a little something now?”

  Watson and Mrs. Brewer began fussing over David Michael — he didn’t need the snack, he would ruin his appetite, typical grown-up stuff.

  But I was paying more attention to Mallory. She looked kind of stiff and uneasy. “Carsick?” I whispered.

  Mal shook her head. “Nope. Fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute. I know Mal, and something was bothering her.

  The smell? Couldn’t be. Everybody loves fried chicken. Something in the living room? I gazed around at the familiar scene. Above the fireplace was a big color portrait photograph of my grandparents, my dad, my uncles John and Arthur, Jr., and my aunt Cecelia. It had been taken around the time my dad was in high school, and he and my uncles had these big Afros and wide-lapeled jackets. On the mantelpiece below the photo was Grandpa’s collection of African statuettes.

  I felt a sudden twist in my stomach.

  I thought of the statuettes we have in our house. And of a girl named Alison I invited over one day, back when we first moved to Stoneybrook. Alison was white. She laughed hysterically at the statuettes. I didn’t think much about that at first. Then she really started acting weird — like not accepting food that I had touched. When her parents came to pick her up, they were cold and uncomfortable. Her dad actually asked if more of “you people” were moving into town. (Needless to say, I did not stay friends with Alison.) Mama and I talked about the racism that Alison’s family had shown. Mama said, “Some people are afraid of the unknown.”

  Why did that pop into my mind? The look in Mallory’s eyes. The unease. It reminded me of Alison.

  Never, I said to myself.

  Mallory could never be like that. She was a totally different kind of person. So were her parents. It was an insult to put Mallory and Alison in the same thought.

  But still …

  Even in Oakley, racially mixed Oakley, kids you never expected to do so would say racist things when they were angry or stressed.

  I tried to see this visit through Mallory’s eyes. I thought about Grandma’s and Grandpa’s street, Wagner Lane. Tons of kids were playing on it, all of them African-American. In Stoneybrook, my family lives on a quiet block, where we’re the only nonwhites. Then I thought about the interior decoration of Grandpa’s and Grandma’s house. It has a definite African theme, much more so than our house.

  Could it be? Were those things making Mallory uncomfortable?

  Was there a side of her I didn’t know?

  Ding-dong!

  Before anyone could turn around, the front door opened and my cousin Keisha flew into the room. “Hiiiiii!”

  All my ugly thoughts floated away. I screamed with joy. Behind Keisha were all the other Oakley Ramseys: Uncle John, Aunt Yvonne, and cousins Billy and Kara (Keisha’s family); and Uncle Arthur, Aunt Denise, and their kids, Isaac and Raun.

  The room exploded with noise. I hugged so many times, my arms grew tired. I tried to introduce everyone, but it was useless. Within about five minutes, my uncles were laughing at the top of their lungs with Watson, Aunt Yvonne was yakking with Mrs. Brewer, Aunt Denise was hugging Abby, Keisha was hugging Grandma, and Grandpa was back in the room, smiling brightly with his shiny false teeth.

  I love my family. They are so loud and funny and affectionate.

  As Keisha and I gabbed away, catching up, I caught a glimpse of Mallory. She was standing by the wall near the piano, alone.

  Keisha followed my glance. She did a double take, then put her fists on her hips and called out, “Girl, what are you doing in that corner?”

  Mallory practically jumped. “Oh … hi!”

  Keisha bounded across the room and wrapped her in a big hug.

  “Jessica, dear, would you please help me with the food?” I heard Grandma ask.

  “Sure.” I turned away and followed her into the kitchen. The smells didn’t seem quite so luscious anymore. I began worrying about the okra. Would Mallory hate it? I tried to remember if Mama and Daddy had ever served it to her before.

  “Nice people,” Grandma said. “Got to shake out that Mallory, though. She’s wound up tighter than a cobra.”

  “You noticed, too?” I asked.

  Grandma lifted the lid off the okra pot and stirred. “Mmmm, this’ll cure her.”

  Gulp.

  I had to tell her what was on my mind. “Grandma?—”

  “So, where are you all headed after this?” Grandma barreled on.

  “Well, first to Chincoteague, to see wild ponies, and then Dalton, Mississippi?—”

  Grandma dropped the wooden spoon into the okra, then quickly picked it up. “Why ever are you going to Dalton?”

  “Well, that’s where our ancestors were slaves, right? That’s what you always told me. I want to see if I can learn more about them. There’s an exhibit at the plantation. Photos and records.”

  Now Grandma was facing me. Her face had changed. At first I thought she was angry. But that wasn’t it. She was looking at me the way I see her look at Daddy sometimes. Firm. Respectful. Like a grown-up to a grown-up. I felt a little shiver.


  “Darling, I can’t believe you decided to spend your vacation doing that.” Grandma clucked her tongue and smiled. “At all of ten years old.”

  “Eleven,” I reminded her. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

  Grandma didn’t answer for awhile. She began stirring the okra again. “I think you should,” she finally said. “But be prepared, sweetheart.”

  “For what?” I asked. “I mean, I know it was harsh and awful and all …”

  “What happened between the races was like an infection, Jessica. A virus. Back when our family was in Dalton, that virus was full-blown. What you see in those photos might not be too pretty.” Grandma sighed. “Some people think the civil rights movement cured the sickness. But it didn’t. Oh, sure, it made things better. But it was more like a vaccine. The infection is still inside people. Even the ones who think they’re immune. Me and you.”

  And Mallory. The thought popped into my brain. I looked back toward the living room. Mallory was in full view now. She was laughing. Keisha was on one side of her, Isaac on the other. Little Kara, who’s only two, was hugging Mal’s legs.

  Grandma saw it, too. She chuckled. “Looks like she finally got over the jitters, didn’t she?”

  “Well, some people are just afraid of the unknown, I guess,” I said.

  “Beg pardon?” Grandma gave me a puzzled look.

  “Well, you know, she’s not used to the … decor and the neighborhood?—”

  “She’s your best friend, darling. The poor thing was worried about making a good impression, that’s all.”

  Mallory saw me now and gave a cheerful wave. I waved back.

  Wow.

  Grandma’s words hit me like a hammer.

  She was right about Mallory, I just knew it.

  I felt awful. Totally ashamed. Why hadn’t I realized what was going on? Why had I assumed the worst?