Читать книгу Melody Ellison 3-Book Set - Denise Lewis Patrick - Страница 8

o,” Yvonne said, “what’s the news? What have I been missing?” She glanced around the table.

“I’m doing double shifts at the factory again this week,” Daddy told her.

Melody opened her mouth to speak, but Mommy beat her to it.

“There’s a lot of talk about some of the city schools only having half days next year,” she said.

Everyone looked up at that. “Really?” Yvonne asked.

Mommy nodded. “Can you believe that? School three or four hours a day? Children need as much time as they can get to learn. We teachers are against it, but the district says there may not be enough money for full days.”

“Wish they’d shortened the days when I was in school!” Dwayne grunted.

“I have news…” Melody started to say. But Yvonne nodded in Dwayne’s direction.

“What’s up with you?” she asked him.

“Not much,” Dwayne said, leaning over his almost empty plate.

Melody looked at him curiously. When he wasn’t working at the factory, Dwayne was always busy singing with his friends or writing new music—and playing Big Momma’s piano every chance he could get. Why would he tell Yvonne “not much”? She wanted to ask him, but she also wanted her turn.

Melody waved her fork in the air at her sister, trying not to see Mommy frowning at her poor table manners. “Vonnie, I was going to write you, but now I can tell you in person.”

“Spill it, Dee-Dee!” Yvonne laughed.

“I’m going to sing my first solo!”

“In the Mother’s Day program next week?” Yvonne asked.

“No, Miss Dorothy picked me for the Youth Day program. I have the whole summer to learn a song.”

“That’s great!” Yvonne said. “Now you can show that girl—what’s her name? The one who always tries to boss the other singers around?”

“You mean Diane Harris?” Melody made a face. Diane was in the same fourth-grade class as Melody and took piano lessons from Big Momma. She had a nice voice, but she wasn’t at all nice about that.

“I hear she’s a solo hog,” Dwayne mumbled with his mouth full.

“We can’t be jealous of other people’s gifts,” Mommy said to Dwayne sternly. She turned to Melody. “Besides, didn’t you just say that Miss Dorothy asked you to sing a solo?”

“Yes.” Melody looked down, twiddling her fingers in her lap. “But I’m really not as good as Diane.”

“Who says that?” Daddy asked.

Melody said out loud what she’d been thinking since Miss Dorothy’s request. “Well, Diane has a big, grown-up voice, and I only have a girl voice.” She looked at Dwayne, expecting him to remind her that she was only a girl. He didn’t say anything.

“Everybody’s got a right to shine, baby chick,” Big Momma said. “Diane does and you do, too. You’ve got a beautiful voice, and plenty of other gifts.”

“What about that green thumb of yours?” Poppa reminded her.

Lila said, “I bet Diane can’t name every car off the Ford line, the way you can!”

Melody smiled. It was true that she was good at all those things. And she liked being good at them, too. But Diane was so sure of herself when she sang! She could hear a song once and sing it without one mistake. Melody remembered music easily, but she had to practice and practice to get the words right.

“You’re a hard worker, Melody. That’s a gift, too,” Mommy said, and then turned to Yvonne. “Speaking of hard work, how was your second year at Tuskegee?”

“Yes, Vonnie. Did you study all the time?” Melody asked. Mommy had gone to Tuskegee, and this year Dwayne had applied and been accepted. Melody knew that her parents hoped all their children would graduate from Tuskegee one day, too.

Yvonne shook her head so that her small earrings sparkled. “There’s so much more to do at school besides studying,” she said, reaching for more gravy.

“Like what?” Poppa asked, propping his elbows on the table. Melody held back a giggle when she saw Big Momma frown the same way Mommy had, but Poppa paid no attention.

“Well, last week before finals a bunch of us went out to help black people in the community register to vote,” Yvonne said. “And do you know, a lady told me she was too afraid to sign up.”

“Why was she afraid?” Melody interrupted.

“Because somebody threw a rock through her next-door neighbor’s window after her neighbor voted,” Yvonne explained, her eyes flashing with anger. “This is 1963! How can anybody get away with that?”

Melody looked from Yvonne to her father. “You always say not voting is like not being able to talk. Why wouldn’t anybody want to talk?”

Daddy sighed. “It’s not that she doesn’t want to vote, Melody. There are a lot of unfair rules down South that keep our people from exercising their rights. Some white people will do anything, including scaring black people, to keep change from happening. They don’t want to share jobs or neighborhoods or schools with us. Voting is like a man or woman’s voice speaking out to change those laws and rules.”

“And it’s not just about voting,” Mommy said. “Remember what Rosa Parks did in Montgomery? She stood up for her rights.”

“You mean she sat down for her rights,” Melody said. Melody knew all about Mrs. Parks, who got arrested for simply sitting down on a city bus. She had paid her fare like everybody else, but because she was a Negro the bus driver told her she had to give her seat to a white person! But that happened eight years ago, Melody realized. Why haven’t things changed?

“Aren’t we just as good as anybody else?” Melody asked as she looked around the table. “The laws should be fair everywhere, for everybody, right?”

“That’s not always the way life works,” Poppa said.

“Why not?” Lila asked.

Poppa sat back and rubbed his silvery mustache. That always meant he was about to tell a story.

“Back in Alabama, there was a white farmer who owned the land next to ours. Palmer was his name. Decent fellow. We went into town the same day to sell our peanut crops. It wasn’t a good growing year, but I’d lucked out with twice as many sacks of peanuts as Palmer. Well, at the market they counted and weighed his sacks. Then they counted and weighed my sacks. Somehow Palmer got twice as much money as I got for selling half the crop I had. They never even checked the quality of what we had, either.”

“What?” Lila blurted out.

“How?” Melody scooted to the edge of her chair.

“Wait, now.” Poppa waved his grandchildren quiet. “I asked the man to weigh it again, but he refused. I complained. Even Palmer spoke up for me. But that man turned to me and said, ‘Boy—’”

“He called you boy?” Dwayne interrupted, putting his fork down.

“‘Boy,’” Poppa continued, “‘this is all you’re gonna get. And if you keep up this trouble, you won’t have any farm to go back to!’”

Melody’s mouth fell open. “What was he talking about? You did have a farm,” she said, glancing at Big Momma.

“He meant we were in danger of losing our farm—our home—because your grandfather spoke out to a white man,” Big Momma explained. She shook her head slowly. “As hard as we’d worked to buy that land, as hard as it was for colored people to own anything in Alabama, we decided that day that we had to sell and move north.”

Although Melody had heard many of her grandfather’s stories about life in Alabama before, she’d never heard this one. And as she considered it, she realized that on their many trips down South, she’d never seen the old family farm. Maybe her grandparents didn’t want to go back.

Melody sighed. Maybe the lady Yvonne mentioned didn’t want to risk losing her home if she “spoke out” by voting. But Yvonne was right—it was hard to understand how that could happen in the United States of America in 1963!

Poppa was shaking his head. “It’s a shame that colored people today still have to be afraid of standing up or speaking out for themselves.”

“Negroes,” Mommy corrected him.

“Black people,” Yvonne said firmly.

“Well, what are we supposed to call ourselves?” Lila asked.

Melody thought about how her grandparents usually said “colored.” They were older and from the South, and Big Momma said that’s what was proper when they were growing up. Mommy and Daddy mostly said “Negroes.” But ever since she went to college, Yvonne was saying “black people.” Melody noticed that Mommy and Daddy were saying it sometimes, too. She liked the way it went with “white people,” like a matched set. But sometimes she wished they didn’t need all these color words at all. Melody spoke up. “What about ‘Americans’?” she said.

Yvonne still seemed upset. “That’s right, Dee-Dee. We’re Americans. We have the same rights as white Americans. There shouldn’t be any separate water fountains or waiting rooms or public bathrooms. Black Americans deserve equal treatment and equal pay. And sometimes we have to remind people.”

“How do we remind them?” Lila asked. Melody was wondering the same thing.

“By not shopping at stores that won’t hire black workers,” Yvonne explained. “By picketing in front of a restaurant that won’t serve black people. By marching.”

“You won’t catch me protesting or picketing or marching in any street,” Dwayne interrupted, working on his third helping of potatoes. “I’m gonna be onstage or in the recording studio, making music and getting famous.”

Mr. Ellison shook his head, and Melody knew there was going to be another argument, the way there always was when Dwayne talked about becoming a music star.

“Don’t forget,” Daddy said, “when you graduated high school early, we agreed that you’d work in the factory until the summer was over, and then go on to college. I couldn’t go to college, and now I’m working double shifts at a factory so you can! You could study music in college!”

Mommy was nodding. Melody knew that her parents were disappointed whenever Dwayne talked about skipping college. She saw Dwayne stop eating to look down at his plate—not at his father—and she felt bad for her brother. Melody hated when they argued. So when her brother looked as if he might say something, Melody interrupted.

“Daddy,” Melody said. “Dwayne can sing and write music already, and he can play the piano almost as good as Big Momma can. He’s really talented. It’s like Big Momma says—everybody’s got a right to shine.”

Daddy smiled at Melody. “I hope your brother is smart enough to appreciate it when you girls stick up for him,” he said. “But with a college degree, your brother would have a whole lot of opportunities.”

“Let’s save this talk for later,” Mommy said.

Melody blew out a relieved breath. She didn’t want their great day to be ruined by a disagreement.

“I say everybody needs to cool down with some ice cream and cake,” Big Momma said. She got up and headed for the kitchen.

Dwayne escaped to the living room. Yvonne stayed at the table, talking to their father and grandfather about her plans for a summer job. Melody gathered the salt and pepper shakers, which were shaped like two fat penguins, got up, and put them away.

A soft, slow tune was coming from Big Momma’s piano. Dwayne was playing, making up a new song. Melody listened for him to sing some words, but there weren’t any. Maybe he hadn’t thought of them yet. She wandered to the archway between the rooms just as the phone beside the sofa rang.

“Children, answer that for me!” Big Momma called from the kitchen.

Melody started into the living room, but Dwayne had already grabbed the big black telephone receiver without noticing her.

“Hello!” Dwayne answered breathlessly. And then, instead of calling either of his grandparents or taking a message, he lowered his voice.

“Yeah?” he almost whispered. “Make it quick. I told you this is my grandfather’s number. Okay. I’m working on the song now. I’ll meet you later.”

“Who is it?” Poppa asked from the table. Dwayne dropped the receiver into the cradle with a clatter.

“Are you getting calls from your girlfriends on my telephone?” Poppa laughed. So did Daddy and Yvonne.

“No, sir,” Dwayne called quickly. His eyes met Melody’s. He had a funny expression on his face. She’d heard him talking to girls on the phone before, and that wasn’t how he’d sounded. Dwayne definitely had a secret.

“Was that about your singing group?” she asked.

Dwayne pulled her farther into the living room. “Yeah, but after that scrape with Dad, I’d rather not announce this, okay? That was Artie’s brother. He just got hired as a musician at Motown, and he’s gonna try to get us an audition.” Artie was Dwayne’s buddy and a member of his singing group, The Detroiters.

“That’s so exciting, Dwayne!” Melody exclaimed.

“Shhh,” Dwayne insisted. “Can you keep it a secret?”

Melody pinched her finger and thumb together and slid them across her lips, as if she were closing a zipper. That was the signal she and her brother and sisters used with one another, meaning, “I won’t tell anyone!”

Dwayne’s shoulders relaxed, and he went back to the piano. Melody followed.

Dwayne held his hands dramatically over the piano keys. “How about you singing this for your Youth Day solo?” he said, beginning to play and sing something different—and lively. “Grandpa Poppa had a farm…”

Melody giggled, shaking her head at how he’d changed the words of the old kindergarten rhyme. From all around the house, her family joined in:

“E-i-e-i-ohhhh!”