Small Great Things Read online

  Whatever differences there were between Christina and me grew more indelible as we got older. It was harder to pretend that it didn't matter my mama worked for hers; or that I had to work after school while she became a striker for the soccer team; or that the clothes I wore on Casual Fridays used to belong to Christina. It wasn't that she was unfriendly to me. The barricade was built with my own suspicions, one brick of embarrassment at a time. Christina's friends were all blond, pretty, athletic, fanning around her like the matching spokes of a snowflake; if I didn't hang around their edges, I told myself, it was because I didn't want Christina to feel like she had to include me. The real reason I distanced myself, though, was because it hurt less to step away than to risk that inevitable moment where I would become an afterthought.

  The only problem with dissociating myself from Christina was that I didn't have many other friends. There was a Pakistani exchange student, and a girl with cataracts that I tutored in math, but what we had in common was the fact that we didn't really fit in anywhere else. There was a cluster of other Black kids, but their upbringing was still a world away from mine--with their parents who were stockbrokers and fencing lessons and summer cottages on Nantucket. There was Rachel--who was eighteen now and pregnant with her first child. She probably needed a friend, but even when we were face-to-face across the kitchen table, I couldn't think of a single thing to say to her, because the things she wanted out of her life were so different from what I hoped for in my own, and because--honestly--I was a little scared that if I started hanging around with her, all the stereotypes she'd wrapped herself in would rub off like shoe polish and make it even harder to fit in seamlessly in the halls of Dalton.

  So maybe that's why, when Christina invited me to a slumber party she was having one Friday, I said yes before I could remember to stop myself. I said yes, and hoped that she would prove me gloriously wrong. In the company of all these new friends of hers, I wanted to share our inside jokes about the time Christina and I made helmets out of tinfoil and hid in the dumbwaiter pretending it was a spaceship to the moon; or when Ms. Mina's dog, Fergus, pooped on her bed and we used white paint to cover the stain, certain no one would ever notice. I wanted to be the only one who knew which kitchen cabinet held the snacks and where the extra bedding was kept and the names of each of Christina's old stuffed animals. I wanted everyone else to know that Christina and I had been friends even longer than they had.

  Christina had invited two other sophomores--Misty, who claimed to be dyslexic to get accommodations on homework, but who seemed to have no trouble reading aloud from the stack of Cosmo magazines that Christina had brought onto the roof deck; and Kiera, who was obsessed with Rob Lowe and her own thigh gap. We had all stretched out towels out on the teak deck. Christina turned up the radio as a Dire Straits song came on and started singing all the lyrics by heart. I thought of how we used to play Ms. Mina's records--all original Broadway cast recordings--and dance around pretending to be Cinderella or Eva Peron or Maria von Trapp.

  From my bag, I pulled out a bottle of sunscreen. The other girls had rubbed themselves with baby oil, as if they were steaks on a grill, but the last thing I wanted was to be darker. I noticed Kiera looking at me. "Can you tan?"

  "Um, yeah," I said, but I was spared going into detail by Misty interrupting.

  "This is so awesome," she said. "The British invasion." She twisted the magazine so that we could look at the models, each one twiggier than the last, draped in next season's clothes with Union Jacks and gold-buttoned red coats that made me think of Michael Jackson.

  Christina sank down beside me, pointing. "Linda Evangelista is, like, perfect."

  "Ugh, really? She looks like a Nazi. Cindy Crawford is so natural," Kiera countered. I peered at the photographs. "My sister's going to London this summer," Kiera added. "Backpacking through Europe. I made my dad promise, in writing, that when I was eighteen I could go too."

  "Backpacking?" Misty shuddered. "Why?"

  "Because it's romantic, duh. Just think about it. Eurail passes. Hostels. Meeting hot guys."

  "I think the Savoy is pretty romantic too," Misty said. "And they have showers."

  Kiera rolled her eyes. "Back me up, Ruth. No one in a romance novel ever meets in the lobby of the Savoy. They bump into each other on a train platform or accidentally pick up each other's backpacks, right?"

  "Sounds like fate," I said, but what I was thinking was that there was no way I couldn't work for a summer, not if I planned to go to college.

  Christina flopped onto her belly on the towel. "I'm starving. We need snacks." She looked up at me. "Ruth, could you go get us something to eat?"

  Mama smiled when I came into the kitchen, which smelled like heaven. A rack of cookies was cooling, another sheet was just going into the oven. She held out the mixing spoon and let me lick the dough. "How are things up in Saint-Tropez?"

  "Everyone's hungry," I told her. "Christina wants food."

  "Oh, she does, does she? Then how come she isn't the one standing in my kitchen asking?"

  I opened my mouth to reply, but couldn't find the answer. Why had she asked me? Why had I gone?

  My mama's mouth drew tight. "Why are you here, baby?"

  I looked down between my bare feet. "I told you--we're hungry."

  "Ruth," she repeated. "Why are you here?"

  This time I couldn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because," I said, so quietly that I could barely hear it, so quietly I was hoping my mother couldn't either, "I don't have anywhere else to go."

  "That is not true," she insisted. "When you're ready for us, we'll be waiting on you."

  I grabbed a plate and began to stack cookies on it. I didn't know what my mother meant and I didn't really want to know. I avoided her the rest of the afternoon, and when she left for the night, we were already locked inside Christina's bedroom, playing Depeche Mode and dancing on the mattress. I listened to the other girls confess their secret crushes and pretended I had one myself, so I could be part of the conversation. When Kiera brought out a flask filled with vodka ("It has the least calories, you know, if you want to get drunk"), I acted like it was no big deal, even though my heart was racing. I didn't drink, because Mama would have killed me, and because I knew I had to stay in control. Every night, before bedtime, I lotioned my skin and rubbed cocoa butter into my knees and heels and elbows to keep from being ashy; I brushed my hair around my head to encourage growth and wrapped it in a scarf. Mama did this, and so did Rachel, but I was pretty sure those rituals would be foreign to everyone at this sleepover, even Christina. I didn't want to answer questions, or stick out any more than I already did, so my plan was to be the last girl in the bathroom and to stay there until everyone had fallen asleep...and then to wake up before dawn and fix my hair before anyone else was stirring.

  So I stayed awake as Misty recounted in painstaking detail what it was like to give a blow job and Kiera got sick in the bathroom. I let everyone brush their teeth before me, and waited long enough to hear snoring before I emerged in the pitch dark.

  We were sleeping wedged like sardines, four of us in Christina's queen-size bed. I lifted the covers and slipped in beside Christina, smelling the familiar peach shampoo she had used forever. I thought she was asleep, but she rolled over and looked at me.

  My scarf was wrapped around my head, red as a wound, the ends trailing down my back. I saw Christina's eyes flicker to it, and then back to mine. She did not mention the wrap. "I'm glad you're here," Christina whispered, and for a brief, blessed moment, so was I.

  --

  LATE THAT NIGHT, as Wanda's snore whistles through the bunk, I lie awake. Every half hour a CO comes by with a flashlight, making sure that everyone is asleep. When he does, I close my eyes, pretending. I wonder if it gets easier to sleep with the sounds of a hundred women around you. I wonder if it gets easier, period.

  During one of these circuits, the flashlight bounces with the CO's footsteps and then stops at our cell. Immediately Wanda sits, scowls