Betsey Brown Read Online Free Page B

today. She’d neverwin the prize. There’d be no trip to Paris, no Paul Robeson, and Eugene Boyd would never lay no serious eyes on nobody called “rhiney heifer.”
    Soon as she’d passt Mr. Wichiten—Praise Be to the Lord—dumb Butchy Jones came rubbing himself up behind her. Betsey dropped her books again, but this time she screamed: “You nasty lil niggah, keep yo’ hands off me.” And here came Mr. Wichiten, strap justa swinging, Mr. Wichiten justa smiling.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Elizabeth? You never use language like that.”
    By this time Butchy was nowhere to be seen and Betsey’s books were strewn all over the floor as if she’d lost something on the order of her mind.
    â€œMr. Wichiten, Sir.” It was very important to say “Sir” to the likes of Mr. Wichiten, who had not quite gotten used to the fact that his marvelous principalship was over a horde of colored, and only so many white children as you could count on your fingers.
    â€œMr. Wichiten, Sir, Butchy did, uh . . . I can’t explain what he did exactly, Sir, but it wasn’t nice and I got scared. I said bad words to make him go away cause that’s all he could understand, Sir.”
    Mr. Wichiten looked about slowly for the shadow of a creature Elizabeth Brown was calling Butchy and saw nothin. He knew she was probably telling the truth, but with Negro children, no matter what ilk, there’s always that shady side.
    That strap justa swinging in his hand, Mr. Wichiten stared at Betsey till tears liked ta fall. “I don’t care what happens to you in these halls, you come to me before you let the words I heard come from your mouth. Is that understood?”
    Betsey nodded yes, picking up her books. Now, she was goingto be late for Mrs. Mitchell. Whoever heard of telling a white man anything first? Jesus! Betsey ran, which was also against the rules, to her class. She had to get to “Ike.”
    Mrs. Mitchell was not happy even before Betsey entered the room in her sweat and anger at Butchy and Mr. Wichiten. Plus, Liliana didn’t say who Eugene was messin with. There were so many things going on. Liliana sat with her legs wide open so Willie Ashington could look up her panties. Mavis was writing love notes to Seymour, who was staring at her breasts, which weren’t quite breasts, but pecans. Mrs. Mitchell’s hands were already full when Betsey came in, dripping wet and late.
    â€œWell, I see you’ve decided to come to class after all.”
    â€œYes, M’am.”
    â€œIs it raining outside?”
    â€œNo, M’am.”
    The whole class tittered, watching Betsey answer up to Mrs. Mitchell, who was a smallish woman with a hump in her back. Must have come from carrying too many books. Anyway, Mrs. Mitchell was mighty little and had taught at the Clark School since Adam, or that’s how folks put it.
    But Mrs. Mitchell had watched the children come and go from her classes, 7A and 7B, with delight and dismay. There were years she’d had genius and years she’d been burdened with slow learners, or no learners at all, like Liliana and Mavis and that terrible Butchy, as he called himself. She hadn’t reacted like some of the rest when the school turned over from white to black. No, Mrs. Mitchell liked children; she liked young minds. Today, she’d have her regular Elocution Contest, just as she’d had in the past when the girls warbled Byron or Shakespeare and the boys Twain and Stevenson. Today she’d hear something different. Today her students were different. Some of them hadbeen in St. Louis only a day, others a year, few more than a generation. She changed as they changed, and Dunbar, Hughes, and Fawcett were the champions of her new charges. Still, there was this matter of Elizabeth Brown, all wet and late.
    â€œGo to the corner, dear, and calm yourself. I have some talcum in my drawer you may