Read Online Fire from the Rock by Sharon Draper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharon Draper
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Central High in the fall?â Donna Jean piped up.
âMaybe,â their mother replied slowly. âMaybe.â
Her father, as he placed his large hand on Sylviaâs shoulder, said to her then, âIâm really proud of you, Sylvie. Youâre a gift to us all.â Sylvia glanced at her brother, but he had turned to tickle DJ.
Her mother blinked back tears. Sylvia wasnât sure if it was pride or fear she saw in her motherâs eyes.
Wednesday, January 9, 1957
I just got finished looking at myself closelyâat least as much of me as I can see in our tiny bathroom mirror.
The mirror is a little warped, but it showed me a brown-skinned girl with puffy black hair, a nose thatâs too large for her face, and full, possibly kissable lips, assuming I could find somebody who wanted to kiss them. Reggieâs lips would be a nice starting point!
I have ridiculously bushy eyebrows and short, stubby eyelashes. Okay, Iâll never be a movie star. My skin is too oily, so my face always looks shinyâI hate thatâand I have tiny little pimples that dot my forehead and cheeks. Goodness! Iâll never get married at this rate!
Looking at myself on the inside is even harder. Iâm not talking about hearts and lungs and stuff like that, but whether Iâm brave like Miss Washington said, or noble, or admirable, or any of those adjectives they only use at somebodyâs funeral. I know Iâm just as intelligent as any white student, and just as worthy of a good education as anybody else in this country. Why should the color of my skin make a difference? I donât get it.
When I was about six, I went with Mama the only time she ever did housecleaning for Mrs. Crandall. Mama didnât like doing day work, but we needed the extra money. I remember she hesitated before going into the Crandallsâ house. Mama moved stiffly and kept her jaws tight as Mrs. Crandall, dressed in pearls and a tailored dress, like a lady in a Life magazine ad, demanded that Mama clean the dusty corners of her house, which was not nearly as nice as ours. Callie Crandall, the same age as me, followed her mother around, tossing her long blond hair as she stuck her tongue out at me.
When Callie sat down on the sofa next to me, I reached out and touched her hair, out of curiosity. It felt a little like curly silk. Then she reached over and touched my hair. She said it felt nasty like monkey hair. I got up from the couch and stayed close to my mother. We never went back to that house.
Is that what it would be like if I went to Central? Will it be full of kids who think the darkness of my skin will run off and dirty them? The thought makes me feel sick. But Iâm sure there would be nice kids there, too, like Rachel. Everything is so complicated.
My parents watch my every move and try to control my thoughts as well. How am I supposed to learn how to be an adult if I donât even get the chance to figure out stuff by myself? I think itâs time I do something!
SUNDAY, JANUARY 13, 1957
Hallelujah, Church!â Pastor Patterson intoned from the pulpit. âIâve got a special message for you today, my brothers and sisters. But first, join me in a chorus or two of âShelter in the Time of Storm.ââ In his rich tenor voice Sylviaâs father began, and the church joined him as he sang:
Â
âMy Lord is a rock in a weary land, weary land, weary land
Â
My Lord is a rock in a weary land
Shelter in the time of the storm ...â
Â
Sylvia loved old hymns like this one. The minor key and the sadness behind the words made her shiver. It was cool to know that same song had given strength to people a long time ago.
As the last notes of the hymn filtered up to the highest ceiling of the church, perhaps even to Heaven, the room was stilled, waiting, strangely expectant. The small auditorium carried the faint fragrance of the roses in Miss Lillieâs bouquets, mixed
âMaybe,â their mother replied slowly. âMaybe.â
Her father, as he placed his large hand on Sylviaâs shoulder, said to her then, âIâm really proud of you, Sylvie. Youâre a gift to us all.â Sylvia glanced at her brother, but he had turned to tickle DJ.
Her mother blinked back tears. Sylvia wasnât sure if it was pride or fear she saw in her motherâs eyes.
Wednesday, January 9, 1957
I just got finished looking at myself closelyâat least as much of me as I can see in our tiny bathroom mirror.
The mirror is a little warped, but it showed me a brown-skinned girl with puffy black hair, a nose thatâs too large for her face, and full, possibly kissable lips, assuming I could find somebody who wanted to kiss them. Reggieâs lips would be a nice starting point!
I have ridiculously bushy eyebrows and short, stubby eyelashes. Okay, Iâll never be a movie star. My skin is too oily, so my face always looks shinyâI hate thatâand I have tiny little pimples that dot my forehead and cheeks. Goodness! Iâll never get married at this rate!
Looking at myself on the inside is even harder. Iâm not talking about hearts and lungs and stuff like that, but whether Iâm brave like Miss Washington said, or noble, or admirable, or any of those adjectives they only use at somebodyâs funeral. I know Iâm just as intelligent as any white student, and just as worthy of a good education as anybody else in this country. Why should the color of my skin make a difference? I donât get it.
When I was about six, I went with Mama the only time she ever did housecleaning for Mrs. Crandall. Mama didnât like doing day work, but we needed the extra money. I remember she hesitated before going into the Crandallsâ house. Mama moved stiffly and kept her jaws tight as Mrs. Crandall, dressed in pearls and a tailored dress, like a lady in a Life magazine ad, demanded that Mama clean the dusty corners of her house, which was not nearly as nice as ours. Callie Crandall, the same age as me, followed her mother around, tossing her long blond hair as she stuck her tongue out at me.
When Callie sat down on the sofa next to me, I reached out and touched her hair, out of curiosity. It felt a little like curly silk. Then she reached over and touched my hair. She said it felt nasty like monkey hair. I got up from the couch and stayed close to my mother. We never went back to that house.
Is that what it would be like if I went to Central? Will it be full of kids who think the darkness of my skin will run off and dirty them? The thought makes me feel sick. But Iâm sure there would be nice kids there, too, like Rachel. Everything is so complicated.
My parents watch my every move and try to control my thoughts as well. How am I supposed to learn how to be an adult if I donât even get the chance to figure out stuff by myself? I think itâs time I do something!
SUNDAY, JANUARY 13, 1957
Hallelujah, Church!â Pastor Patterson intoned from the pulpit. âIâve got a special message for you today, my brothers and sisters. But first, join me in a chorus or two of âShelter in the Time of Storm.ââ In his rich tenor voice Sylviaâs father began, and the church joined him as he sang:
Â
âMy Lord is a rock in a weary land, weary land, weary land
Â
My Lord is a rock in a weary land
Shelter in the time of the storm ...â
Â
Sylvia loved old hymns like this one. The minor key and the sadness behind the words made her shiver. It was cool to know that same song had given strength to people a long time ago.
As the last notes of the hymn filtered up to the highest ceiling of the church, perhaps even to Heaven, the room was stilled, waiting, strangely expectant. The small auditorium carried the faint fragrance of the roses in Miss Lillieâs bouquets, mixed
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