Later that afternoon, when Liz and I were riding our bicycles side by side back to Mayfield, I told her about the Cheetos-versus-Pringles debate.
“I don’t see why he got so bent out of shape,” I said. “If he thinks Pringles are better than Cheetos, that’s his opinion, but if I like Cheetos, that’s my opinion. If I have a fact wrong, that’s one thing. But an opinion isn’t a fact. And he can’t tell me my opinion is wrong.”
“Bean, you’re getting all worked up over a bunch of snacks,” Liz said. “It’s not important.”
“He can’t tell me what to think.”
“He sure can, especially if you’re working for him—but that doesn’t mean you have to think it. At the same time, you don’t have to tell him you disagree. You don’t have to argue.”
“In other words, I should just shut up and eat the damned Pringles?”
“Choose your battles,” she said. “It’s like with Mom. Sometimes it’s better to go along with what they say.”
That was what she did with Mr. Maddox, Liz said. He had strong opinions on just about everything, and what worked best was simply to listen. Mr. Maddox had told Liz he knew he could be a hothead, and one of the reasons he liked her was that she didn’t get upset when he got a little out of control. She knew how to handle herself. He also trusted and respected her, and that was why he gave her real responsibilities. He had let her see confidential legal papers about the lawsuits he was involved in.
“Like what?” I asked.
“I can’t discuss them,” she said. “Mr. Maddox swore me to secrecy.”
“Even with me?” I asked. Liz and I always shared everything.
“Even with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
By the end of summer, Liz and I had saved up enough money for new clothes. Mr. Maddox had been paying me in cash, as I wanted, and I had been keeping it in a cigar box in the little white cradle, along with the photograph of my dad and his Silver Star. Liz withdrew some money from her savings account, and one afternoon shortly before school began, we went down to Kresge on Holladay Avenue. I thought we should get several cheap sets of clothes, but Liz insisted that, in addition to jeans and T-shirts, we needed to invest in at least one really striking outfit. She kept saying it was important to make a good first impression at a new school. Liz picked out a bright orange-and-purple skirt and a shiny purple shirt for herself. For me, she found a pair of lime-green pants and a matching lime-green vest. “You need to make a statement,” she said.
On the first day of school, we each put on our one really striking outfit, and even though there was a bus stop within walking distance of Mayfield, Uncle Tinsley drove us to Byler High in the Woody. He also believed in making a good first impression.
The school was a big brick building, three stories high, with limestone pillars and trim. Hundreds of students were milling around under the huge poplar trees in front of the school, all the black kids in one group and all the white kids in another. As soon as we pulled up, I realized that we had made a terrible mistake clothes-wise. All of the white kids were wearing faded jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts, while all of the black kids had on flashy, bright clothes, like the ones Liz and I were wearing.
“We’re dressed like the black kids!” I blurted out.
Uncle Tinsley chuckled. “Well, I do believe you are,” he said. “These days, the coloreds dress better than the whites.”
“Everyone will point and stare,” I said. “We need to go home and change.”
“It’s too late,” Liz said. “Anyway, like Mom is always saying, who wants to blend in when you can stand out?”
We certainly stood out. The other kids, both black and white, were eyeing me, giggling, and doing slack-jawed double takes as I walked from class to class. “Hey, Day-Glo Girl!” some white boy shouted.
That night I hung the lime-green pants in the closet, next to Mom’s debutante gowns. Tomorrow I’d put on jeans and a T-shirt. Liz said she was going to do the same, but I knew that even if I never wore those pants again, they’d made an unforgettable first impression. From here on out, I was sure, I would be known as Day-Glo Girl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Byler High was one old building. Unlike the flat, modern schools I’d been to in California, it had stairways and high ceilings and was musty as well as noisy, with lockers slamming and bells ringing between periods and students yelling in the crowded halls. It quickly became clear that kids who’d known each other all their lives had no interest in meeting a new girl. Even if I gave them my friendliest smile, they quickly looked away. Maybe it was because of integration, but there was also a lot of pushing and shoving in the halls and stairways. You could tell that Byler High was filled with riled-up kids itching for a fight.