think? You’re my friend because I want you to be. And as far as you bein’ ugly, well my brother Jock said you were cute.” She smiled at me.
Either I had lost my mind and slipped into a fantasy world and this relationship was all part of my imagination, or God had finally taken pity on me and made Rhoda part of my life. Either way, I now had the best friend in the whole wide world, and I would do anything to keep her. I wanted to grab her and kiss her hand and then hug her and kiss her on the jaw. But I didn’t want to overdo it. Instead I just smiled back at her.
“Jock-the-Ripper? Your nasty, mean big brother? He said that about me?” I was concerned and flattered at the same time. Not only was Rhoda telling me I wasn’t ugly, but a handsome, popular boy like Jock said I was cute. Boy or not, compliments like that from him went a long way with me. I couldn’t wait to rub this information in Mr. Boatwright’s face.
“Uh-huh. Jock-the-Ripper said that about you, girl,” Rhoda told me.
“Oh. Well, I heard something else about you, Rhoda. From that same person that said you like me around because I’m ugly.”
Rhoda gave me a thoughtful look, then she bit her bottom lip before speaking. “I don’t want to hear any more of this mess,” she said, shaking her head with disgust. “I don’t give a shit what that person thinks. Let’s haul ass, girl.” We started walking. I turned around to see Mr. Boatwright standing on our front porch with one hand on his hip.
The schoolday started out typical enough. That morning Lena Cundiff caught up with me, and said, “This is for that toilet thing Rhoda done to me, bitch.” Then she tripped me, and I fell down a flight of stairs and busted my lip.
During lunch I ate most of Rhoda’s food. She kept looking at my bruised lip, but not once did she ask me about it. I had to volunteer the information. I lied and told her I’d tripped over my own two feet. She wiped dried blood from my lip and told me to be more careful. She just about scared me to death when she called me Sugar.
CHAPTER 17
During the study period after lunch, Pee Wee, who worked in the principal’s office, came rushing into the room and whispered something in Mr. Brown’s ear. Mr. Brown was one of the whitest people I had ever seen in my life. When he turned red, he literally turned red. That lasted for a few moments then he turned blue in the face. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. His eyes seemed to sink into his face right before us. Then Pee Wee fainted. Several girls ran to him and started fanning his face as he lay stretched out on his back in the middle of the floor.
“Class, President Kennedy has been shot,” Mr. Brown informed us. Girls gasped, boys cussed. I grabbed my books and ran out of the room. I found Rhoda in a near-catatonic state squatting on the floor outside of her music class.
“He’s goin’ to die,” she moaned. “I just know President Kennedy is goin’ to die.” All the Black people I knew loved Kennedy because he was helping us get equal rights. I embraced Rhoda. Before I could speak, Mr. Rhodes, our principal, came on the loudspeaker. He was all choked up, and it took him what seemed like a real long time to tell us all to go home right away and take Monday off, too.
We didn’t discuss it, but I followed Rhoda to her house. Her pretty mother was watching TV in the living room and crying when we arrived. She had on a pretty pink dress and black high heels. She was wiping her tears with a white-silk handkerchief.
Rhoda hugged her mother and greeted her with a kiss on the hand. “Who did it? Who shot President Kennedy, Muh’Dear?” Rhoda asked quietly, her voice choking.
“They don’t know yet. I just hope it wasn’t one of us,” Mrs. Nelson sobbed. She blew her nose and took a long deep breath. Even with her eyes red, she was pretty. Her voice was soft and gentle. “If a colored man is responsible, we’ll be set back fifty years.”
“I bet it was the Russians,” Rhoda said angrily. She motioned for me to follow her to her room,