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home.
    But Goober, he doesn’t know nothing about colored water fountains, or those marked “Whites Only.”
    He kept whining, “I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty.” And before I could stop him, he was running fast to get water from a “Whites Only” fountain.
    I know a water fountain doesn’t care who drinks its water. But white people care. They really care.
    Goober got to the “Whites Only” fountain, and started slurping the water. Then he dipped his face down into the basin to cool off! I have never been more scared for Goober than when I saw three white boys coming up on him from behind. I knew those kids. They were the Hatch brothers, Bobby, Cecil, and Jeb. Their daddy owns Hatch Hardware.
    “Goober, get back!” I shouted.
    Goober startled, then lifted his face, which was glistening from the water.
    The boys had circled around Goober, who was offering them a drink from the fountain.
    Bobby, the oldest Hatch brother, is my sameage, but much taller. He said, “Well, if it ain’t a Negro retard!”
    My heart was a fast pitch inside my chest, making its way to my throat.
    The Panic Monster had sharpened his claws, and did they ever pinch!
    “My brother can’t read good,” I managed to say. “He was thirsty. He made a mistake. But we’re leaving now.”
    Jeb Hatch said, “Look, is that a colored girl, or a colored boy? Can’t tell by the dungarees.”
    Mr. Albert had left his cart and come over. He looked just as scared as I felt inside. “Goober, Dawnie, get on now. Go home, you hear me?”
    But Goober said, “Want some water, Mr. Albert?”
    I didn’t want to holler at Goober. That would scare him. He didn’t know what was happening.
    Mr. Albert folded one arm around Goober and one around me and backed us away slowly.
    “Get outta here, and take that Negro retard with you!” Cecil called.
    All three Hatch boys started to chant. “Negro retard! Negro retard!”
    Then came sticks.
    And spitting, too.
    Daddy and Mama have told us to always tell them when we have a run-in with white folks. But telling about run-ins always leads to more trouble somehow.
    It is late night as I write this. Goober has been rocking in his sleep.
    And singing very quietly,
“Happy birthday to me,”
as he dreams.
    And whispering “Negro retard” into his pillow.
Monday, July 12, 1954
Diary Book,
    It’s the in-between. Not night, not morning. I’m folded into my bedroom’s tiny closet with a flashlight, writing.
    It’s hot as blazes in here, and the only good air is what’s slicing through the crack of my partway open door. I’ve come to my closet because what I’m about to tell you feels supersecret. And, Mama has some kind of special power that lets her know when I’m awake, or when I’ve got my flashlight on under my covers. I don’t want to beckon whatever that thing is in Mama.
    Yolanda told me that same white lady and the two Negro men in city suits came to her house.
    “Did they sit in your living room?” I asked.
    Yolanda nodded.
    “How long did they stay for?”
    “My daddy showed them to the door soon after they started talking,” she said.
    I told Yolanda how the lady hugged Mama.
    Yolanda’s eyes went wide. “Hugged for real — like, touching each other?”
    “For real,” I said.
    That’s when Yolanda fished a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket. It was a mimeograph copy of a flyer with lines for people to sign their names.
    “This is what the two men and that lady gave my ma and daddy before they left.”
    I have the steadiest hand in Lee County, on account of how firm I can hold a baseball bat. But my hand, all on its own, has a little quiver to it right this minute. And I’m doing something I hate when others do it, especially at school — I’m chewing on the pencil Goober gave me.
    The paper Yolanda showed me has Mama’s and Daddy’s signatures on it.
    I am pasting it here, just to make sure it’s real, and that this is not one of those dreams like when a Martian comes and takes