library, cross the trolley tracks, behind the rich girlsâ school, and back across to the colored teachersâ college. All these rushing, giggling brown babies loaded with books and language all their own converged upon Clark Street each morning: one mass of curls and prepubescent excitement.
Betsey was hurrying up the stairs where Twanda was directing up & down traffic, putting the third-graders in their places and looking like Ma Rainey in a fluorescent yellow tent. Twandaâs mama did hair the old-fashioned way and wouldnât allow her to comb out the bumper curls till the end of the week. But Twanda was so big, a real big gal, nobody said a word bout how howling funny she be looking. A big black roll of a girl covered up in them big roller curls. Liliana and Mavis twitched in they tight skirts with them slits up the back a little higher than was the usual style: so fast in the seventh grade.
âCharlie gonâ give she some, come tâmorrow. Betcha money on it. He gointa the high school. Now, how he be in the high school anâ he aint gonâ give she some?â
But whatâs he gonna give her? Liliana and Mavis were right in front of Betsey, talking the talk she couldnât make sense of. All Betsey knew was that she was going to give this poem for her very life and win that prize. Huhmph, what was the prize? Betsey wisht it was a trip to Paris, but she knew better. Maybe the prize was a brand-new book, Countee Cullen, or a Paul Robeson record. Wow! Stop thinkinâ on the prize. Think on the poem.
âIâma tell ya one moâ time. If she aint give it up yet, she a fool. Who you think donât want Eugene Boyd?â
Betsey dropped her books at the mention of Eugene Boydâs name. Liliana turned round like someone who had been purposefully provoked:
âGirl, whatâsa matter with you? Get holdt to them books and act grown. Donât you let them books get no run in my stockings, ya hear me?â
Betsey was shivering, she was blushing, she was all thumbs; the books wouldnât get back in her arms. âSpeak up Ike, anââspress yoâseâfâ and Eugene Boyd danced up and down the stairs, but it was Twanda waving her huge arms over Betseyâs head, screaming at her.
âGet a move on, rhiney heifer! Whatchu think this is, yoâ desk? I got traffic to move heah!â
Betsey thought she was gonna cry or faint. She wanted Liliana and Mavis to like her, but here sheâd made them mad. Now Twanda was shouting so the whole school could hear. âRhiney heifer,â thatâs all she needed, a new nickname. How could a rhiney heifer invite Ike or anybody else to speak on anything, much less to come on round, please?
Liliana and Mavis were long gone by the time Betsey gathered her thoughts, her books, her crush on the basketball player, Eugene Boyd. He was like another poem to her. She didnât know him but she âreadâ him the way you read poems. She watched his every move; the way his blue-gray eyes took in the ankles of all the girls. She knew he liked ankles. She tried to imagine inviting Eugene Boyd to come on in, but she got so excited she whispered out loud: âIâd better stick with Ike.â
Not only were the floors of the Clark School shining like the halls of Tara, but Betseyâs brow was weeping with sweat, as were her panties and underarms. She imagined she shone like an out-of-place star in midday. She felt hot. And there was Mr. Wichiten with the razor strap at the head of the hallway, justa swinging and smiling.
âGood morning, Elizabeth,â Mr. Wichiten murmured, justa swinging and smiling. Betsey knew sheâd get a licking with that olâ razor strap with the holes in it if Mr. Wichiten had any idea what was on her mind. Eugene Boyd and Ike, the prize, what âsheâ gonâ give up, who was âsheâ anyway? Oh, Mrs. Mitchell was not goin to be in a good mood