The mustached man behind the counter held up a wooden bat. “Leave. Now.” His accent was heavy, but his words rang clear.
The burly leader looked around the room, taking in the sight of all the Negro men and white women, and then spat on the floor in disgust. There was a frail woman with pink lips sitting alone on a barstool. He grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her close to him. “What do you want with these filthy animals? Dance with me, pretty.”
“Stop.” The woman squirmed in his arms, trying to get loose. The man spun her out so hard that she stumbled backward. Ozzie caught her before she fell to the floor.
“Nigger lover,” the burly man shouted.
Ozzie didn’t think twice as he pushed the woman behind him and looked the burly man up and down.
“You need to leave, now,” the mustached man said to the troublemakers, and then patted the bat on the bar in a way that suggested he meant business.
The burly man’s laugh was raspy and defiant. “What the hell are you going to do? That your whore?” He directed his words to Ozzie.
From the corner of his eye, Ozzie saw Thornton and Morgan flagging him on both sides. His heart was racing. He didn’t want to fight these white boys. Nothing good would come out of it. But he wouldn’t be disrespected either. The tension in the room was too thick to cut, even with a butcher’s knife. Before Ozzie could answer, the mustached man stepped from behind the bar, bat in hand.
“Thepolizeiare on the way,” he said. “You.” He pointed at the white men. “Leave now.”
The burly man spat on the floor again, eyed Ozzie one last time, and then backed out the door. As they exited, one of his friends called out, “Girls, leave those darkies alone. They all have tails between their legs!”
Ozzie felt his temples pulse, and as he moved to follow the men, Morgan grabbed him by the arms. “Naw, man. They ain’t worth it.”
Ozzie opened and balled his fist as the rage bubbled inside him. The music all of a sudden sounded off-key. The earlier spell ofcelebration and glee had been broken. People found their drinks and seats; some of the women reached for their sweaters and purses.
The short blonde who had danced against Morgan all night patted his cheek. “That’s why we like you better.”
“The white American soldiers are mean,” her freckled friend added. “And rude.”
“Thank you for saving me,” said the frail woman Ozzie had caught. She smiled invitingly at him, but Ozzie couldn’t hear what she was saying beyond the thunder in his head. His jaw had started to ache from clenching his teeth. It wasn’t right. The Negro man couldn’t have anything. Not a good time. Not a victory on the day of military desegregation. Not a single breath of freedom. And most certainly not a white woman. Not even across the ocean.
CHAPTER 9West Oak Forest Academy, September 1965
SOPHIA
Having opened the wrong closet, Sophia now stood frozen, enamored by Wilhelmina’s department-store wardrobe. To the left there was a neat row of wool and cashmere sweaters in a confetti of pink, green, yellow, and blue. On the right, a line of ruffled blouses, hip-huggers, and A-line skirts in varying patterns of plaid, pinstripes, and floral checks. At the bottom on a metal shoe rack were kitten-heel pumps, Mary Jane strap shoes, tennis shoes, and furry satin slippers.
Draped on the bed in contrast were Sophia’s meager belongings. A pair of faded Wrangler jeans, black pedal pushers, a Sloppy Joe sweater, and two passable blouses, all hand-me-downs from Unc’s summer girlfriend.
The generous gifts that she had received from the school counselors were folded neatly and packed away in the chest of drawers opposite her bed. Then Sophia remembered her uniform and located it at the top of her closet. It was in a simple brown bag with her name written on it in blue.
Sophia made sure the door was locked, then changed into the stiffpleated skirt and crisp white blouse, which, to her relief, fit perfectly. She could not bear returning to the office and asking for an exchange, not after the way the receptionist had treated her. Against the door hung a full-length mirror, and when Sophia looked at herself, she felt almost pretty in her new clothes; she liked her shiny black hair and the way Ma Deary’s Mary Janes hugged her ankles. Maybe things would work out for her here.
She checked her school timetable and realized that she had twenty minutes before her afternoon classes began. While packing up the school supplies that Mrs. Brown had given her, she decided it was better to be early so as not to call attention to herself.
Outside, the day was still warm, and she hoped she could make it to class without sweating. Sophia had a good sense of direction and wound her way back to the admissions building with ease. From studying the brochure, she had learned that the boys’ school, Donoghue Hall, was on the right, and the girls’, Campbell Hall, on the left. Boys and girls interacted fully only during meals.
Sophia walked up the sprawling stairs to the three-story brick building on the left. The white halls gleamed as she followed the numbers on the wooden door to her physics class. When she entered the sunlit classroom, she was taken aback by the neat rows of beautiful maple desks with matching ladder-back chairs. There were only three other early arrivers, with their noses inside of books. The teacher, a long-faced woman with a mole on her chin, pursed her lips from behind her desk at the front of the room. A chalkboard filled with scientific notations and metric multipliers loomed behind her head. In the top right corner, her name was written in cursive: Ms. Meacham.
She brought her hands together. “You must be Wilhelmina.”
“No. I’m Sophia,” she said, fiddling with the stiff hem of her new uniform skirt.
“Right, the other one,” Ms. Meacham said to herself. “Well, here’s the syllabus for the year. Help yourself to a textbook from the backshelf, and sit anywhere you like. Let me know if you have any questions.” She slid a packet of papers across her desk.
The back of the classroom was lined with two bookshelves. With the heavy physics textbook in her hand, Sophia picked a seat by the window. The pages smelled freshly inked and crisp, and the spine cracked just a little when she opened it. What a stark difference from the textbooks donated to Brooks High with whole chapters torn out and obscene language scribbled in, courtesy of the all-white students who had used the textbooks first at Calvert High.
A cluster of about five girls entered the classroom, talking loudly and giggling. Sophia kept her head down, careful not to look up and make eye contact with any of them. Even though she didn’t see them, she could smell them. Powdery hair spray, fruity lotion, and floral perfume.
“There she is. The one I was telling you about,” and as if it had a mind of its own, Sophia’s head snapped up and she made eye contact with Patty, the brunette wearing the white ribbons who had refused to show her the way to the dormitory. Patty grabbed the arm of the friend closest to her and steered the group to the corner of the room, on the opposite side of Sophia.
