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She was demurely dressed in a pale-grey cotton frock with a high neckline and a full skirt. She had skin the deep, dark colour of George’s mother’s, a cute flat nose, and lips that made him think about kissing. He knew she was at Chicago Law School, and like him was about to graduate, so they were probably the same age. He guessed she was not only smart but also determined: she would have to be, to get into Chicago Law with two strikes against her, being both female and black.
    He closed his book as the driver started the engine and pulled away. Maria looked down and said: ‘ To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in Montgomery, Alabama, last summer.’
    Montgomery was the state capital. ‘What were you doing there?’ George said.
    ‘My father’s a lawyer, and he had a client who sued the state. I was working for Daddy during the vacation.’
    ‘Did you win?’
    ‘No. But don’t let me keep you from reading.’
    ‘Are you kidding? I can read any time. How often does a guy on a bus have a girl as pretty as you sit down next to him?’
    ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘Someone warned me you were a smooth talker.’
    ‘I’ll tell you my secret, if you want.’
    ‘Okay, what is it?’
    ‘I’m sincere.’
    She laughed.
    He said: ‘But please don’t spread that around. It would spoil my reputation.’
    The bus crossed the Potomac and headed into Virginia on Route 1. ‘You’re in the South, now, George,’ said Maria. ‘Are you scared yet?’
    ‘You bet I am.’
    ‘Me, too.’
    The highway was a straight, narrow slash across miles of spring-green forest. They passed through small towns where the men had so little to do that they stopped to watch the bus go by. George did not look out of the window much. He learned that Maria had been brought up in a strict churchgoing family, her grandfather a preacher. George said he went to church mainly to please his mother, and Maria confessed that she was the same. They talked all the way to Fredericksburg, fifty miles along the route.
    The Riders went quiet as the bus entered the small historic town where white supremacy still reigned. The Greyhound terminal was between two red-brick churches with white doors, but Christianity was not necessarily a good indication in the South. As the bus came to a halt, George saw the restrooms, and was surprised that there were no signs over the doors saying WHITES ONLY and COLORED ONLY .
    The passengers got off the bus and stood blinking in the sunshine. Looking more closely, George saw light-coloured patches over the toilet doors, and deduced that the segregation signs had been removed recently.
    The Riders put their plan into operation anyway. First, a white organizer went into the scruffy restroom at the back, clearly intended for Negroes. He came out unharmed, but that was the easier part. George had already volunteered to be the black person who defied the rules. ‘Here goes,’ he said to Maria, and he walked into the clean, freshly painted restroom that had undoubtedly just had its WHITES ONLY sign removed.
    There was a young white man inside, combing his pompadour. He glanced at George in the mirror, but said nothing. George was too scared to pee, but he could not just walk out again, so he washed his hands. The young man left and an older man came in and entered a cubicle. George dried his hands on the roller towel. Then there was nothing else to do, so he went out.
    The others were waiting. He shrugged and said: ‘Nothing. Nobody tried to stop me, no one said anything.’
    Maria said: ‘I asked for a Coke at the counter and the waitress sold me one. I think someone here has decided to avoid trouble.’
    ‘Is this how it’s going to be, all the way to New Orleans?’ said George. ‘Will they just act as if nothing has happened? Then, when we’ve gone, impose segregation again? That would kind of cut the ground from under our feet!’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria. ‘I’ve met the people who run Alabama. Believe me, they’re not