Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd Read Free Book Online Page B

then, David Franklin walked by. He was a staff photographer and one of Grant’s heroes.
    â€œHey, Mr. Franklin,” said Grant. “I got that new lens, like you suggested.”
    The next thing I knew, he and Grant were lost in conversation. Figuring Grant would be busy for a while, I turned to Mr. McCall. “There’s something I need to do. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    He straightened his shoulders. “Sorry about my little outburst. That stuff about the Red Star gets my goat.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’m glad you care so much about your job. I hope I care that much someday.”
    Mr. McCall smiled, then turned back to his typewriter, ready to learn.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I went through the lobby and out the door. Next to the entrance was a bench, and on it sat Jarmaine.
    She wore a simple peach-colored dress and was eating a snack from a brown paper bag. I recognized the snack. It was peanut-butter crackers, the kind Lavender made for me. I imagined Lavender getting up early to fix Jarmaine’s lunch before she came to our house. I wondered what it would be like to run two households and juggle two lives.
    I hesitated by the bench. “I just wanted to talk.”
    Jarmaine eyed me warily. “About what?”
    â€œYou seemed mad when we talked at the spelling bee. You know, about the grocery.”
    Jarmaine’s eyes flashed. “You were there. You could have said something.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œThis is wrong. It isn’t fair.”
    â€œMr. Forsyth owns the grocery,” I said. “He wanted your friend to leave.”
    â€œIt’s a store! You can’t pick and choose your customers. You just open the doors and let people in.”
    â€œHe’s actually a very nice man,” I said.
    There was that word again: nice . Was Mr. Forsyth nice? Was I?
    â€œHe’s a cracker,” said Jarmaine.
    I’d heard the term at school, whispered in the hallways. A cracker was ignorant, like a redneck or poor white trash. I’d never heard a Negro say it before.
    Jarmaine sighed and shook her head. “Mama doesn’t like me calling people names. She says if we do it, they’ll call us names too.”
    I studied Jarmaine. She had her mother’s eyes, but there was a difference. When Lavender was angry or scared, her face was like a mask. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But something about Jarmaine’s face let you see right through. It made me nervous, and when I’m nervous, I talk. I needed something to say and remembered what Grant had told me after the spelling bee.
    â€œLook, I know you’re upset,” I said. “After all, your father was in the war; then he came home and nothing had changed. Separate but equal. Colored only.”
    â€œMy father left when I was a baby,” Jarmaine said. “I never met him.”
    I looked around for something to crawl under. Maybe the bench. Maybe I could just lift up the lawn and pull it over me.
    I said, “Am I blushing? I do that sometimes. Do Negroes blush? How can you tell?”
    I wanted to shut up but couldn’t. “Do you get sunburned? If you can’t see it, is it really a burn? What about zits? Can you stop me, please? Can you just grab my foot and pull it out of my mouth?”
    She stared at me for the longest time. Then she laughed. Not giggles or chuckles, but big laughs. Finally, after a long time, she stopped.
    â€œYes. Yes. And yes,” she said.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œWe blush. We sunburn. And, I can personally tell you, we have zits.”
    â€œI’m a jerk,” I said.
    â€œMy mother told me you have a good heart,” said Jarmaine. She offered me a cracker. I ate it in one big gulp, the way I always did.
    â€œThose are my favorites,” I said. “She makes them for me too.”
    â€œI don’t like sharing her,” said Jarmaine.
    I don’t know why that surprised me. In a