Page 53 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Sarah straightened almost imperceptibly. "I am Sarah Page," she said, her voice carrying easily to the back of the stands, "daughter to Larry and Rebecca Page." She paused just long enough to lift her hand, letting the ring catch the light. "And future wife to Dr. Houston Whitaker."

The applause was warm and immediate. Several people turned to look back at me. Rebecca made a small sound of satisfaction.

"Isn't she something," she breathed.

"She is," I said.

And I meant it. That was the trouble. Sarah was something—genuinely, undeniably something. Smarter than she let on, beautiful even under all the makeup she wore. She was certain of herself in a way I had always admired, with a confidence that could not be taught.

"She adores you," Rebecca breathed, patting my hand.

I breathed a sigh of relief once we entered into the last event. Just like the introductions, each woman was interviewed. This time, Sarah went third.

"And what is your vision for Tulsa?"

Sarah cleared her throat, her face becoming serious. "I envision Tulsa to one day return to its roots."

I froze, needing a second to process her words.

She licked her perfect pink lips. "I envision Tulsa going back to the glory days where the oil ran free, and the rights belonged to the states."

To my horror the audience began to cheer and clap.

Sarah took that as a sign to be even more bold. "I envision a city that respects its traditions and does not blur the lines where they need not be blurred."

People in the stands began to cheer. I felt sick.

Someone shouted, "That’s right!"

Her confidence swelled.

"And yes," she continued, "where certain communities remain as they were intended, to protect the sanctity of a pure race."

The crowd understood. Cheers erupted around us.

"And where service remains service."

Her meaning was unmistakable now. My stomach turned as my hands shook.

She paused, only a breath before adding, almost gently—

"For the protection of this community’s women and children."

The crowd rose. That was the moment. She didn’t have to say "Negro." The applause became unified without it. Everyone heard her.

I looked around to see the baker who saved me bread on Sundays. The sheriff who waved as I passed him every morning on the way to work. The grocer who asked after my practice from time to time. All neighbors, but suddenly they seemed foreign. I needed to move. My legs carried me toward the aisle before I could think twice. I pressed past knees and murmured apologies I didn't mean—the roar of the crowd still building behind me.

I vaguely heard the sound of the announcer proclaiming a winner, but I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t look back.

21

Gema

Schools May Close for the First Desegregated Carnival

After talking with Dr. Brown, I felt relieved to have something to do with myself until I could rebuild a battery strong enough to power the ORI to get me back to my time. Following after Rita was entertaining, but I was not used to a sedentary life. I’d thrown myself into medical school, and as if that wasn’t enough, I’d taken night classes to earn a combined Ph.D., all while sketching the ORI. Moving slowly through life wasn’t peaceful to me, it was frightening.

"Have you ever tasted cotton candy so good?" Rita asked, finishing her cone of the sticky cloud. It had taken her several minutes of chatting with the brown-eyed server before she decided on the bubble gum flavor.