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trying to be different. I wanted to go to college. When I left that house on South Roman Street, I knew I wouldn’t ever go back. I decided to run off to New York.”
    â€œSo that was your storm, huh?” Reesie perched on a fluffy velvet stool. “You left home to make your dreams come true.”
    Reesie wondered what it would be like if she got the chance to fly all over the world, walk the runways, and see herself and her designs in magazines. That was her dream, but she couldn’t quite picture leaving her family behind. She couldn’t imagine them not backing her up, either.
    â€œI met other colored writers—black, y’all say now—up there. They were people who treated me like family.…” Miss Martine’s voice trailed off, and her eyes became distant.
    â€œAnd you got a chance to write your book!” Reesie said.
    â€œI got lots of chances.” Miss Martine nodded. “I tried writing for the movies too. Believe it or not, there were black folks making movies back then. The Johnson brothers, and Oscar Micheaux.” Miss Martine paused to laugh at Reesie’s blank expression. “He was … uh … the Spike Lee of my day,” she explained. “Oscar liked one of my stories, gave me a piece of money for it. Not much. Then he went and made a movie that wasn’t anything like it. I got invited to the opening anyway. That was his last film.”
    Movie scenes swirled in Reesie’s mind, first visions of the way-out dresses and evening gowns the women in the old black-and-white movies wore, then the fabulous clothes actresses wore on TV awards shows.
    â€œDid you get to walk the red carpet?” She gasped. “Was your dress custom designed? Oh, oh! And did you wear that—that fur from your picture—what was it? A rock martin?”
    Miss Martine laughed out loud and then looked thoughtfully at Reesie, pulling on her cat-eye glasses as if she wanted to get a good look for the first time.
    Reesie froze, afraid she’d somehow said the wrong thing.
    â€œA stone marten. And we seem to be going on and on about me ,” Miss Martine finally said. “Tell me about what you do.”
    â€œWhat? I just go to school and stuff.”
    â€œWhat is stuff ? I don’t believe at all that you keep your head on your studies every single minute. You are too lively for that!”
    Reesie didn’t know how to answer. Miss Martine was somebody who’d been famous and had hung out with stars. Surely, she wouldn’t care about an almost-teenager’s dream to be a fashion designer! Reesie nervously fingered the edge of her baby-doll shirt.
    â€œDid you make that?” Miss Martine asked. And she didn’t ask it like it was impossible, the way some of the kids or teachers at school did.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    Miss Martine came around and gently examined Reesie’s flat-felled shoulder seam, and the lace pieces she had sewn around the neckline.
    â€œAppliqu é !” Miss Martine murmured. “Child, you’re good! Very good.”
    â€œThanks,” Reesie said proudly. “My Ma Maw taught me how to do it. Miss M—” A question burned at the back of Reesie’s mind. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” Reesie hoped she wouldn’t bring back bad memories; still, she had to know .
    â€œNot at all,” Miss Martine said, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s been good talking about the past.”
    â€œWell … I guess I don’t get how you—I mean anybody—could give up something you wanted so much! How could you give up writing? All that fame and everything?” Her voice faltered.
    Miss Martine didn’t react with anger. In fact, she looked a little sad.
    â€œOh, child. I wasn’t ever famous! And anyhow, do you think this country was ready for anybody colored—trying to make a living off words—to be famous? I