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decision.”
    The court decision was Brown versus the Board of Education . The teachers at school hadn’t mentioned the decision, but Mr. McCall had explained it to me. In 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court had ruled that segregated schools were illegal—that having separate schools wasn’t allowed, even if they were equal. The schools would have to integrate.
    â€œThen how come we’re still segregated?” I had asked him.
    Mr. McCall had gazed at me, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve been asking the school board that same question. They haven’t given me a good answer.”
    â€œDo you really think black and white kids could go to school together?”
    â€œThey’ll have to,” he had said, “eventually.”
    â€œThat would be fine with me,” I had told him. “I just wonder about other people. Some of them might not like it.”
    As I remembered the words, Mr. Forsyth’s comment echoed in my head. I don’t mind them coming here, but they might bother some of my customers .
    If integration was okay with Mr. Forsyth and okay with me, who were all those other people?
    I thought back to that day in the store and realized something. In spite of what he had said, Mr. Forsyth didn’t feel comfortable with Negroes in his store. He just didn’t want to admit it, so he blamed his customers.
    Maybe I was doing the same thing. I wondered what it would be like to have Negroes at my school. The thought made me uneasy, but I wasn’t sure why. It was just a feeling I had, and thoughts bubbled up after it. They had their schools, and we had ours. Why did we have to mix? I was ashamed to admit it, but somewhere deep down inside, it was how I felt. I had blamed other people for segregation, but maybe I was one of them.
    I glanced uneasily at the group of Negro students and saw a familiar face. It was the young man from the store. Like the others, he was nicely dressed, wearing a coat and tie. I thought of him at Forsyth’s, and I imagined him at my school. Somehow it bothered me.
    Next to the young man, wearing the kind of dress you might wear to church, a girl was staring at me. She was my age, with skin the color of copper and a pale blue ribbon in her hair. At first I thought her gaze was simple curiosity, but when she kept staring, I realized it was more than that. The gaze was proud and defiant, and it was directed at me. She watched me all the way to my seat and kept watching. Finally, when I went to the drinking fountain, I looked up and saw her standing nearby.
    â€œDo I know you?” I asked.
    She said, “You’re Billie Sims. You’re a tomboy, and your next-door neighbor is Grant McCall.”
    Now it was my turn to stare. “Who told you that?”
    â€œYou go to Wellborn High. You ride your bike to school, you read the newspaper, and your room is a mess.”
    â€œWho are you?” I asked.
    Her eyes were brown, almost black. Suddenly I realized I’d seen them before but in a different face, one as familiar as my own.
    â€œLavender,” I said.
    The girl gave a little nod. “I’m Jarmaine Jones, Lavender’s daughter.”
    I guess I had known that Lavender had a daughter, but it was a shock to see her standing there.
    â€œYou know all about me,” I said, “but I don’t know anything about you.”
    Jarmaine studied me, waiting. I thought she might tell me something, but she didn’t.
    Finally she said, “I heard what happened at the grocery store.” She glanced toward her group of friends, where the young man was watching us.
    â€œThat’s Bradley,” she said. “He’s one of the best students at Cobb High. Now he can’t go into that store.”
    â€œI saw it,” I said. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean anything.”
    â€œDid you say that?”
    â€œAt the store? Well, no.”
    â€œWhy not?” she asked.
    Because