Lena by Jacqueline Woodson Read Free Book Online Page B

on the toilet and read—”
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    â€œI wish we had a toilet here,” Dion mumbled.
    â€œWe do. Right in the woods. Go when you gotta go.”
    She sucked her teeth.
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    â€œAnyway, Marie would read this poet named—”
    Dion looked up. “What poet?”
    â€œThis lady named Audre Lorde. She was mostly a poet and sometimes she wrote other things.”
    Dion went back to her book. “Her poems rhyme? I don’t like the rhyming kind.”
    â€œMaybe some rhymed and some didn’t. I don’t know. That’s not even the point.”
    â€œWell, what’s the point then?”
    â€œIt’s how the words made me feel,” I said. Then I started reciting softly—the same way Marie used to read to me. “It went something like ‘Living means teaching and surviving and fighting with the most important resource I have, myself . . .’ ”
    Dion closed her book and looked down at the cover.
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    â€œ ‘. . . and taking joy in that battle. It means, for me, recognizing the enemy outside and the enemy within . . .’ ” I stopped reciting, not remembering any more.
    â€œI used to know the whole thing,” I said. “Me and Marie memorized it. There was something in it about life and love and work and power that only girls and women got. And something else about a river—the Missisquoi River. She said something about how beautiful it was to fish there and how it was real quiet. . . . That the quiet was sweet and green.”
    I pulled my knees up to my chin, remembering how peaceful it was in Marie’s bathroom, the way the light came in through the windows and turned everything gold. And Marie’s soft voice drifting over to me while I played with the tubful of bubbles. It felt like there would always be Saturdays at her house—bubble baths followed by hot chocolate.
    â€œYou ever heard of Audre Lorde?”
    â€œNo.”
    I picked the book of maps up and held it close to my face to feel the breeze of the pages. “How far you figure we are from Pine Mountain?”
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    â€œIt’s southeast of here—near Virginia.” She exhaled. “Take a look at it instead of fanning yourself with it!”
    â€œJust want to walk the land Mama walked,” I said softly.
    Dion closed her book. “Bowling Green got a hospital and it’s headed in the right direction. We get ourselves there we could head straight east then.” She stopped talking and looked at me. “Then we done, Lena? We get to Pine Mountain, we find a place we could stay, go back to school. Huh?”
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    â€œYeah,” I said. “In Pine Mountain, we can probably hook up with some of Mama’s people. They’ll take us in.”
    Dion smiled. “I’d like that.” She came over to the shed and sat down, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I’d like it a whole lot.”

Seven
    You walk long enough, you get to dreaming about things—the sound of chicken grease popping hot on the stove, the taste of fried chicken when you pull the crispy skin back, the way the steam rises up from the tender meat underneath. And other things too. Like the feel of a nice pillow under your head and sheets when they’re fresh out of the wash, smelling like detergent. Windows and doors and hardwood floors underneath your feet.
    It was near dark when Dion and me got out to the highway the next evening. We weren’t standing on the side of the road two minutes before this Lincoln pulled up and a black woman leaned over asking where we was going. Dion stepped back. We hadn’t taken any rides from black people. Not because we didn’t want them, just ’cause nobody was offering. Ladies were always a better bet than riding with men but Dion’s face scrunched up a bit, the way Daddy’s used to when he saw black people. I felt heat rise up to my head and had to put my hand in my pocket to keep