Wild grape.

Dothy?

There was only one overriding instinct that she had obeyed on her way from school and that was to get home as fast as her feet could run to her father, because he would understand. Her teacher, the one with the footlong wooden ruler that cracked the backs of small hands for any disobedience, actual or imagined, had given her four licks in front of the class for calling the new girl ... white. It's not nice to call people white, Mrs. Brewer had said, and it especially wasn't nice because Dorothy had made the new girl cry. After school, at the bus stop, the new girl had leaned against the red brick wall and wept some more, and her sisters who looked just as pasty had clustered around the baby. Bigger, older and in the third, fourth and fifth grades, they had turned as one head of long Shirley Temple curls that reached to the middle of their backs to stare and point at Dorothy.

Dothy!

Why she had called the new girl white was more mystery to Dorothy than to anyone else. Had the new girl said or done something to provoke the outburst that occurred just as Dick and Jane and Susan, in particular, saw Spot run? Because it was her turn, the creamy new girl had been reading aloud without following her fingers, and Dorothy had looked up from her second grade reader to see everyone, including Mrs. Brewer, admiring the new girl's bangs. Bangs so thick, they looked like two sets curled together and they had been cut, too. Unlike hers, which were pin-curled every night but by midday dangled to her nose and needed the help of a pencil rolled up to her forehead to remind them of how and where they were supposed to be.

The new girl wore startling, lace trimmed socks. No one in class had such a pair. Her black and white saddleshoes had not yet become a fashion statement for the K-2 students at Lincoln Elementary in Charleston, South Carolina. Obviously her sisters were her trendsetters, and that put the new girl a step ahead of her time and grade. She wore dresses with big starched bows in the back that were confusing to Dorothy because the dresses were all plaids, yet they had bows. Dorothy knew that only fine dresses had such upstanding bows. The fact that she herself had only one such dress, an organdy hand-me-down from Rockelle that was worn once a week to Sunday school, was disturbing. Because Dorothy could count. She only had one such dress, but the new girl had more than five and that meant the new girl was spoiled.

Even the boys acted different around the new girl. They didn't horse around or talk about toejam. They didn't pull her hair, then run. They acted like they were afraid to talk to her, much less touch her and that meant she was considered special. This painful conclusion was Dorothy's dessert after a fried fish and red rice Friday lunch. At the long table Isaac Johnson who Dorothy liked mostest because he wore glasses, shyly offered the new girl first choice from a bag of pecan hulls that he had brought to pass around. The new girl thanked him for the "candy" and she popped a fragment into her rosy mouth. Not to be outdone, the rest of the girls followed her lead, except for Dorothy. And the boys who had planned to bandy the hulls in a swift game of table hockey, instead pushed jagged bits between their cheeks and gums like chewing tobacco, and with their jaws poked out they hitched up their pants and tried to say man-things. Like "Man, did you see--" or "Man, I really liked--."

Holding her jagged bit of hull Dorothy wondered at the sudden class insanity. But when she saw the new girl pretend to cough and coyly spit the hull into her hand, Dorothy was outdone. This close observation of deceit caused her to skip her turn at jumprope. She needed time to think. Arms folded and legs apart with the Chinese jumprope taut around her ankles, she watched the new girl posing with her hand placed delicately on the chain link fence and smiling smugly at the boys who were trying to impress her with their hoop skills, when there was no hoop. Most of the girls standing in line for their turn at rope were busy scraping their tongues and spitting out hulls that they had actually tried to eat. It wasn't until reading period when Dorothy looked from Susan in the book to the new girl again the center of attention, and seeing no real difference except haircolor that Dorothy jumped up and shouted. ... You're white!

It was the worst thing she could think of to say at the time.

Scrap! Scrap!

At the bus stop the new girl's sisters, breathing heavily, surrounded Dorothy as the student body surrounded them. The yellow school buses could wait. The oldest sister shoved Dorothy, strapped to her bookbag, into the sand and when she wouldn't get up and fight, kicked her. That's when Rockelle and her friends, Sharon and Marlon, split the crowd. Sharon had a bleached birthmark in the crook of her knee and Marlon had the same bleaching on the underside of her chin. They were cousins. Although smaller, the three were in the sixth grade, and so meaner. The crowd locked school administrators away from the battle that was quick, decisive, and a foregone conclusion by intimidating seniority advantage. Only losers emerged with torn clothes, and the new girl's sisters were beaten down to their slips, with adjustable straps. By the time the Vice-Principal, an elderly woman with snow white hair and a fondness for fragrant Juicyfruit gum, had elbowed her way to the fray, she found only scuffled sand and an empty arena, except for the new girl's sisters. When questioned they all had amnesia about who had passed the first lick and what the fight was about, which indicated that none had been beaten into brain damage, for the whole school was listening and a tattle-tell, no matter how cute, would be a pariah until graduation from Granby High school. Only slightly winded but looking dewy, Rockelle and her friends, seemingly as innocent as everyone not involved, had melted into the inner fringe. The only conclusion that the Vice-Principal could reach was, of course, the sisters had had a fight among themselves. A shame. Shameful. Past shameful the Principal chided and the chain of his pocket watch wagged.... For shame, sisters fighting sisters.

Without one passenger the yellow school buses had, indeed, left. Forced to walk home from the Charleston Heights outskirts to the hem of the inner city where they lived, Dorothy skipped ahead of her sister and her sister's friends because they didn't like anyone to follow them. They weren't exactly whispering, but they weren't talking loud enough for her to hear without hanging back and for once, out of gratitude for what they had done in sticking up for her, Dorothy respectfully decided not to try.

Before crossing the busy city streets she looked both ways, glancing over her shoulder at Rockelle generating a flat gaze that bore into Dorothy's skull a sensation that prickled her shoulders numb. By themselves her shoulders twitched with foreboding as Sharon and Marlon turned off onto the sidestreets leading to their homes. These two called Dorothy, LilBit, because she had not earned their speaking respect for her name. When neither one said, Seeya, LilBit, she suddenly realized that by not fighting back she had again reinforced their low opinion of her. Fighting back was their code. When neither one said, Bye, LilBit, nor acknowledged her with even an insult, she skipped faster. Rockelle had told her that the next time she didn't stick up for herself, Dorothy would have her to deal with, and even though Rockelle had come to her defense, such cowardice was embarrassing. Highly embarrassing, Rockelle had said, and Dorothy began to run. This was the next time.

Dothy! Rockelle hissed.

Too late. Rockelle had caught up with her and had her by the back of her jacket. It was zipped and this made it easy for Rockelle to punch her in the back while holding on, her fist the paddle and Dorothy's back, the ball.

... I told you. Someone hits you, you hit back, Rockelle seethed.

... Bu-but th-they-l-ll on-ly hi-it me-e-em-ore.

... Not if you hit hard enough so they can't. So I'll have to show you my more. Without letting go, Rockelle slung her into the alley behind their apartment house. Front pounded against the metal dumpster, her back still met Rockelle's merciless knuckled fist. When, like a ragdoll, she began to slump, Rockelle grabbed the bookbag strap and choked her with it, asking.... Next time, what you gonna do?

... Hitt--

... I can't hear you.

... Hittt backkk--

Flung at the dumpster, Dorothy sat hard, trying to focus on the spinning ground as the strap was unwound from her neck. Rockelle hiked the bookbag onto her own shoulder. Dorothy's eyes grew large.... I said, what you gonna do?

... Hit back, hit back--back, no!

Rockelle picked her up and threw her inside the dumpster, smelling of rotten fish and curdled spit and old blood.... What you gonna do?

... Hit back hard, hit back, hit hard. Dorothy's knees slid on something slimy and she fell flat, crying.

... Damn straight, Skippy. On the balls of her feet, Rockelle walked away.

And until she heard the front screendoor claps fade, Dorothy did not move.

Limping into the hallway of peeling medallion wallpaper, Dorothy entered their apartment, ominously silent. At the chrome rimmed kitchen table Rockelle sat, clutching her arms. Her mother, too, starched and pressed and looking like she had just stepped out of a bandbox and wearing choker pearls, sat smoking a filterless cigarette whose pulled shreds she dabbed periodically from her tongue with fingertips stained yellow. Her father had made a giant fist with both hands gripped together. And then she saw under the table, a suitcase. He tried to smile at her.

When Dorothy refused to sit on the chair he indicated, he swiveled and pulled her to him. He kissed her forehead.... Daddy's got to go. I'll send enough for you two to live comfortable. But not a penny more, his hooded eyes said, glancing at his wife who was nonchalantly blowing smoke rings.... I love you girls, but ...

But Dorothy felt her heart stop. She looped her finger through his collar buttonhole, thinking that this hook would hold him there.... When will you come back?

... When me and your mother figure out how to live together. He slid his coat from the back of the chair, and he unfastened her finger.

Dorothy limped over to her mother. At whom she stomped her good foot, but her mother didn't bat an eye. ... She'll be good, Daddy. I promise.

He spoke to Rockelle.... You girls will always know where I am, and how to reach me. I will write. You'll let them have the letters?

... But, of course. Her mother stubbed out the cigarette.

... Expect them. He stood.

Dorothy looked to Rockelle, massaging her eyelids. Her mother leaned forward to part the cafe curtains billowing onto the table as he opened the backdoor to the alleyway door because he was a proud man, and because his neighbors were nosy. He didn't look back. Dorothy tugged at her mother's sashed belt. The fading claps of the screen door were the countdown to a rage that exploded on the last soft tap. Dorothy pummeled her mother's glass buttoned bodice, screaming at her to be good, bring him back. She clawed at the soft pleated skirt and kicked at legs, the chair's and her mother's. She trampled the suede shoes.

Rockelle's legs opened. Scissored they gathered the storm of Dorothy's flailing legs. Her arms crossed over Dorothy's chest and arms in a strait jacket that locked in Dorothy's dry-eyed rage that slowly subsided into hiccups, jerking, ragged breaths that corresponded to the drops of warm salt water falling onto Dorothy's bangs.

Disheveled, their remote mother lit a cigarette. She patted a loosened button back into place. And with a slight wrinkle of her nose she asked, "What is that stench?"

At least twice a week for the past six weeks the Vice-Principal had seen Dorothy's previously unknown name submitted on the detention roster. Suddenly Dorothy is difficult, Mrs. Brewer told the Vice-Principal. Unwilling or unable to sit and by so doing concentrate, Dorothy aimlessly wanders the aisles, humming. It's as if she can't stay in her seat. Yes, of course, Mrs. Brewer had applied the ruler, or rather, she had tried. The last time she had attempted to exercise her authority, Dorothy's quick fingers had made hers fumble and before she knew it, Dorothy had grabbed the ruler and broken it. She had stood on it and pulling, snapped it in half to the cheers of the class. And so challenged Mrs. Brewer had been forced to retreat, wielding the yardstick as a weapon of last resort.

The chair opposite the Vice-Principal's desk was still warm from the student hall monitor who confessed to keeping his mouth shut about an incident that had spilled out of the girls lavatory. Dorothy had fought the new girl over a stall but he wouldn't say what bribe Rockelle had offered in exchange for his silence.

And the Vice-Principal had received a block-printed note from, of all people, the lunchlady who was concerned. Dorothy wasn't eating. Yes, she took her tray. At first, it had returned untouched. For too many consecutive days, but now Dorothy either wouldn't or couldn't buy a meal ticket, or even a pyramid carton of two cent milk to put on her tray. When the Vice-Principal asked if Rockelle had stopped eating, and drinking milk, too, the affirmative answer allowed for an educated guess. A family problem, possibly economic and not a physical one, had taken both appetites and someone needed to look into the matter.

Matter-of-factly, the Vice-Principal called Rockelle into her office of palms that screened the windowed view of the desert playground. Folding one more link to add to her chain of gum wrappers that wound like a rampant philodendrum in and out of her in and out trays, she informed Rockelle of a simple truth, and an even more simple consequence.... I understand that you bribed the hall monitor? Bribery is a serious infraction of school policy. In consequence of which you and your sister are now designated cafeteria monitors, and that means that you both will be wiping down the long tables after lunch.

... For this week?

... For this year, the Vice-Principal roared as the meeting ending abruptly with a dismissive wave of sheathed carbon paper. Scowling, Rockelle had slammed the frost paned door. But enormously pleased with herself, the Vice-Prinicipal had smiled, watching Rockelle's high hips depart. For the cafeteria monitors merited free meals.

Dorothy had no appetite because she was full of candy, her reward for not backing down from anybody. Daily Rockelle brought her little brown paper bags stuffed with Koolaid straws and nutty squirrels and MaryJanes from the Little Store. Enough to last all day and into the next. The Little Store even cooked their supper. Rockelle bought from the Little Store grill two redhot link sausages, more cornmeal than meat with mustard and two sour pickles on the side. A Good Enough Meal. There was no other food in the house. Sitting in their shared room, crosslegged on their beds situated at right angles, together they ate this greasy supper quickly for Rockelle had to go babysit, but she wouldn't take Dorothy with her. Dorothy pleaded to go because she liked babies, and whining, she begged. But Rockelle said flatly, no.

Their night owl mother slept the day until five in the afternoon. Then she scurried along the hall wall to the bathroom. She bathed for an hour. Once again in her room, she wouldn't come out without makeup. That took an hour to apply. And by seven o'clock Dorothy was quite asleep. But the night before the last day of school Rockelle woke Dorothy by flicking on the glaring bare bulb overhead. She tossed yet another goody bag onto Dorothy's drool stained pillow. Ecstatic over this unexpected bounty, Dorothy sat straight up. Fully clothed Rockelle plopped on her own bunkbed and stretched until she shivered. Then she planted both feet on the wall, hung her head over the side of the bed and looked upside down at Dorothy.

... Got something to tell you. There's stuff you need to know. Rockelle drummed her stomach on every syllable.

Dorothy sucked the dry from a caramel Sugar Daddy.... Mama home?

... Do I have hair growing on my lip? Rockelle stomped the wall adjoining the bedrooms.

... Well, what? Dorothy wondered why something that tasted this good was not meant to be chewed.

Skidding, Rockelle's foot slid down the corner molding.... You need to know why Daddy left.

Dorothy winced. Pangs over him still happened, except they weren't in her heart anymore. They had descended to her stomach and arched there like a burning rainbow with acid grooves, everytime she heard anyone say daddy. She hugged her knees. Extended from her clamped mouth, the Sugar Daddy stick quivered. Rockelle looked away.

Their mother, Rockelle said, had been going out with Uncle Jerry, their father's brother. A big man who always had craved whatever Daddy owned. When Daddy bought a chrome-winged car, Uncle Jerry bought the same model except his was a convertible with power steering, and when Daddy had bought the aluminum Christmas tree to save money, Uncle Jerry had bought one, too, only bigger, for Aunt Betty. The very day Daddy left, Rockelle said, she had seen their mother and Uncle Jerry coming out of the Valhalla Club together that very night, hugged up tight.

... But that don't mean--, Dorothy said.

... They went to his house, Rockelle said.

... Maybe she just want a drink of water. Dorothy was more than willing to give her mother credit for needing water after doing so much dancing.

Rockelle looked at her sideways.... I looked in the window, the bedroom window. She was slurping something not water.

Dorothy had no idea what that meant, and she shrugged and dug into the bag. A Tootsie Roll.

... When Aunt Betty leave him, Ma took right up with him. So she could ride in his fancy car with the top down and show off her hair all done up and for everyone to bite jealous over her new clothes because she won't go to the club in the same outfit seen already. That would be scandalous. But now he tired of her, same as Daddy. Tired of her spending ways, sucking him dry. Ma gamble.

... Gamble?

... She gamble on Uncle Jerry taking care of her. Thought he wanted to marry her.

... But she's married to--

... Uncle Jerry let her down hard. Found hisself a new woman, real young. I come home Friday early and heard Ma in her room crying out her troubles. Serves her right. Now she got to support herself. So we on our own. Rockelle rolled over, and she clasped her hands as if in prayer.... The rent money is sent direct to Old Drunk Landlady. That's Daddy's way of keeping a roof over our heads, and he done the same for the gas and electric. But there's no extra so Ma got to support herself, but she bound to get her feelings hurt again so we got to think ahead. For ourselves. We gonna be needing school clothes soon, and with you all cracked on candy we'll be needing more pocket money. Time for you to come work with me. You're old enough now.

... Babysitting! Excitedly Dorothy's legs scissored under the sheet airily puffed with anticipation until she remembered. Her father had not written.

... Babysitting. Rockelle stretched again for the involuntary shiver.... When you sit on them right they do squirm like babies. And she chuckled through a jaw breaking yawn.

Just down the street from their apartment house, the Little Store marked the visible boundary where shotgun tenements ended and a string of commercial buildings stretched for 10 city blocks, melting into a white residential section where lilacs abundantly grew on lawns. Unlike the solitary bush planted in the postage stamp front yard of each tenement and apartment house. Rockelle took Dorothy for a walk to look at the profusion of lilacs. No dandelions grew from the cracks of those sidewalks. There, maple trees had ignored the concrete barrier of the street to entwine overhead, creating a shady lane tunnel. More maples lined the properties themselves like a double blind that grew moss like new girl hair, long and luxurious, veiling the view of fine houses solidly built of blond brick. On one of these lawns cut by a circular driveway, Dorothy actually saw Dick and Jane, and if it could be believed, Spot playing on mowed channels of watermelon green seersucker. Dorothy stepped forward to stare.

As Rockelle coaxed her to hang back a maid opened one of the double frontdoors. The doors had knockers. This was a neighborhood of delicate knuckles, and the children dropped their toys and flapped around the maid like geese eager for treats. Dorothy couldn't see what the treat was, but on the tray was milk to go with it and they tipped, because the glasses were so full, back to their playing area and sat munching, looking like two models of sheltered contentment. Spot waited on his back for crumbs. For a moment the maid paused from tapping the tray like a tambourine against her thigh. Catching sight of the black girls, she stared. They stared back. Dorothy stepped on the manicured lawn to say hello to her mother, but Rockelle yanked her back as her mother's palm seemed to flash, but Rockelle said that she merely lifted her hand to shut the door.

... She busy. She working. Didn't believe her when she said where she was going to be. On the job you keep your mouth shut like she did. Working means keeping your mouth shut. Today her first day like you.

... We can't even say hi?

... Hi to who? She gone. A muscle in Rockelle's jaw jumped angrily.

In silence they doublebacked and by the time they stepped into the cool of the Little Store with its sawdust floor, Dorothy's feet were lagging. Kneeling to cut the cords of newspaper bundles, TickTock, clerking in his father's store, grinned up. When he saw Dorothy's expression, wide-eyed at the gleaming length of the blade, he quick closed the knife and pocketed it in his apron as Rockelle playfully bopped him on his dusty looking head. From the refrigerated case Rockelle chose two chilled colas. Then she spotted Old Drunk Landlady, the only other person in the store, and her expression changed. Grey head bent, with her glasses chained to her neck and the frames perched on the very tip of her nose, Old Drunk Landlady was reading the expiration dates on labels. So she can complain, TickTock whispered, and disgust spread over Rockelle's face.

Dorothy pinched her nose as shield from the rancid scotch emanating from Old Drunk Landlady.... Old Biddy's tilted four sheets to the wind, TickTock said. Dorothy turned in time to see Rockelle offer TickTock her closed fist as if there was money in her hand, and he extended his flat palm to receive the pretend money. Dorothy was surprised when the cash register chi-chinged open for him to put the imaginary money in the drawer.

... We got some mighty fine looking apples today, Miss Rockelle, he said loudly.

... I see you do. Rockelle walked archly as if she was wearing highheels and gloves and a hat slanted over a beauty mole on her cheek. At first Dorothy thought she was mocking their mother, until she remembered that their mother didn't have a grownup voice.... But our mother cooks before she leaves for work so we had a big supper. We already ate.

That lie made Dorothy's stomach grumble as she hungrily eyed the sausages sputtering on the blackened grill.

... We're just on our way home, so we'll be going out the back way to get there quicker, Rockelle said, popping the caps from both bottles with the tooth on his knife.

Peering at both girls, Old Drunk Landlady replaced a box of cornflakes. She hefted a tin of oil. Could oil expire? Dorothy wondered. She didn't think so. The day before her father left he had cleaned a mess of catfish for fry and just yesterday, from the lard he had used, more than two months old and setting at room temperature all that time on the kitchen cabinet, she had popped dry kernel corn in the fish grease, and it tasted pretty good.

... Might I call on you lovely ladies, later? Mockingly gallant, Ticktock offered Rockelle two straws.

... Now suh, you know we can't have no gentleman callers without our mother being home.

Swollen with congested laughter, Ticktock's face seemed about to burst.

... Well why don't you stop by again when she is, so I can drop by?

... Why, I'll do just that, I will, Rockelle said, pulling Dorothy along a cramped hall stacked with produce boxes. At the back screen door, Dorothy glanced over her shoulder. TickTock had ducked behind the glass cased counter. Suffused with laughter and on his knees, he straightened up sober when Old Drunk Landlady teetered over to complain about--. Rockelle had opened the screen as if to go out, but it banged for no reason as she swung them both around the corner to a narrow staircase steeply pitched. Up the dizzying spiral they tipped, leaving behind the resonating taps of the bouncing screen.

... Dothy! hey, Dothy! hey Dothy girl!

Startled and blinking at the bright shine on the flat-topped roof, at first, Dorothy couldn't see. After a few seconds Marlon appeared, standing right before her and clapping her on the shoulder. They all froze as Sharon tipped up the steps. She closed the door behind her. The sixth graders gripped wrists as if they were about to play an intense game of street kickball, then they turned to look at Dorothy who was looking around.

At the babies. Most had straggly hair plastered to their scalps in combovers, cradling bricks and lounging, singly or in pairs. Cardboard boxes arranged in two opposing forts tempted her to peek inside the shady dimensions that looked like roomy playhouses. But the force of three combined stares kept her still standing next to a metal garbage can with its inside bottom weighted with a brick, and the brick littered with? Dorothy peered closer at the deflated balloons and when her head snapped up from the smell, the older girls laughed. Sheepishly, the babymen looked away. Aside from the boxes the only other shade came from the eve overhanging the door.

... Does she know? Marlon asked, turning her back and shrugging out of her jacket.

... She'll get the picture.

... Well, you the monitor today so you call the shots.

Told to sit beside the door and keep quiet, Dorothy folded her legs under herself. She watched the red sand ants that appeared and disappeared down the jagged crack she leaned over, wondering what they carried. To block any intruders Rockelle sat snugly against the metal door. She knotted her jacket's sleeves around her waist and from a pocket she unfurled a roll of balloons. She gave one to Dorothy who promptly blew it up. Marlon went to one box, and Sharon to the other. They ducked inside. Rockelle held up one finger. Number One showed her the chalked number on his brick, and he received a balloon.... Soup, tossed salad or nuts? Rockelle asked.... Nuts, he said, handing her the brick with folded dollars on top. Rockelle pointed at Marlon's box. She then held up two fingers.

... Nuts, the second man said.

... You'll have to wait. Three fingers.

... Soup, the third said and on pocketing his balloon and delivering the brick and the money, he went right into Sharon's box.

The lounging men, some playing cards and not a few smoking cigarillos, paused to listen as though they were waiting to hear a train. The boxes began to rock. Soon straining noises came from the men inside, but not a sound from either girl. Dorothy glanced at Rockelle whose flint-eyed gaze flitted from man to man as if counting ahead the total tally. She seemed not to hear the strangling that sounded to Dorothy like a finger had been rammed down each man's throat. She leaned close to Rockelle.... Are they throwing up?

... Kind of.

When Marlon's man came out looking winded, Rockelle held up two fingers and pointed for Number Two to go in.

Everytime she heard a man throw up, Dorothy pressed her back against the concrete wall. But the last man didn't throw up. He sighed a lot, but by then her eyes were hooded. The ants were more interesting. When the last man left and Rockelle's fist was chock full of greenbacks, Marlon and Sharon emerged looking dewy. The money was divided by three and just as Rockelle was repositioning the bricks in a line with the numbers face down, there was a soft tapping on the hollow door. Only Dorothy jumped. TickTock peeked around the door and winked at her.

... Just thought I'd bring you ladies a few of these luscious apples. Salt water taffy cleaners.

... Why, thank you, suh.

... Too kind, suh.

Dorothy bit past the stippled yellow surface into the mellow crispness. She barely noticed Marion and Sharon waving goodbye. They had shopping to do.... Seeya Dothy, they said as TickTock slid down the wall to sit beside her. Juice dribbled from the corners of her full mouth. She couldn't close her mouth to chew. Amused he looked up at Rockelle.

... Hey girl.

... Hey yourself.

His knee knocked against Dorothy's.... Hey, how you?

Dorothy nodded.

He looked from Dorothy to Rockelle in a doubletake with a question forming on his face that he lifted with both hands.... You ain't thinking--?

... Done thinking. Need more money. Beside him Rockelle sat, recounting her money.

He put his arm around Rockelle.... She ever?

Rockelle shook her head, and stuffed the green wad into her training bra.

... You can't throw her up in there with someone she don't know. Girl be having nightmares.

Rockelle peeled off the skin of her apple with her fingernails. Leaning against him, she looked at the darkening skyline painted gray in strokes.... She know you.

TickTock held Rockelle off at arm's length. He drew back. ... You got a better idea?

Shoulders sunk, he rubbed his head like dilemma.... I suppose, naw. This ain't right. But if, naw. Taint right.

... Tick.

... Naw.

... Tock.

He sighed.... If she could keep her mouth shut ....

... She will. Won't you?

Nodding, Dorothy chewed with her mouth closed.

... Is best she learn with someone ain't too interested. You know I'd only do this for you, he said meaningfully.

... I know, Rockelle said simply, unbuttoning his shirt.

... Aw, naw. She see all this, she be scared.

... How then? Up under?

... Only way.

Rockelle slid her hands under his apron, and he relaxed, cradling his head in his hands. Dorothy heard the teeth of his zipper open. She dropped the apple core.

... Nothing to worry about, he said, but Dorothy shook her head.

... Give me your hands, Rockelle ordered with hers shielded by the apron. When Dorothy hesitated, she hissed.... Gimme your hands. He ain't gonna hurt you.

... How you know?

... Cause I'll be watching.

Dorothy closed her eyes and thrust her hands under.

... See, just like a Tootsie Roll.

The Tootsie Roll was getting bigger, and Rockelle's hands were gone.... Now what? Dorothy said, removing one hand to pluck at an apple hull stuck between her teeth.

TickTock looked to Rockelle. Rockelle glanced away. He cleared his throat.... You shake it like a catsup bottle when the sauce is coming out too slow, you know?

Dorothy scrunched up her face to imagine. She wiggled him. She steered him around the plate of french fries in her mind. And then she smacked the bottom.

TickTock yelped. Dorothy held on, watching him reel. He cringed and gripped his temples.

Rockelle scrambled up .... What did you do?

Open mouthed Dorothy watched his head loll on the wall. Gasping he extended his arms to steady himself.

... My mistake. I shouldna told her about the catsup. Sighing he cleared his throat.... The question is what can she do about it, and that is, she can kiss it and make it better, he said looking for justice from Rockelle who nodded sternly at Dorothy.

And by the third grade Dorothy had in her closet, bowed plaid dresses; her ears had been newly pierced; and along with a new walk, she had her own candy money.

As if there was an invisible road, the ants followed the same path from the jagged crack to the crumbling retainer wall missing in spots where the ants carried away mortar dust. But only on Thursdays, Singing Thursdays when Dorothy gathered the bricks, had she the time to wonder about the hidden city they were building.

On the rooftop every male was named John, and among them there was a code. The girls had to be treated gently. Where else could such men get such a service at such a price? One hothead could ruin this afternoon delight for every one concerned, so the rocking boxes were monitored by masculine ears on the alert. At the first sign of trouble, and Sharon once had such trouble, the men as a group dangled the offender precipitously from the rooftop. Such a trouble so scared claimed to be cured and was naively grateful for the reprieve--that lasted only until dark--when the smell of smoked pork filled a dead end alley.

To Dorothy the men talked paternally once they got over the surprise of her expertise. When they found out she would sing for candy, they made requests, and one ditty in particular, Saturday Night was a standing favorite. "One plus one he asked me for some in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night..." she sang.

Two plus two he took off my shoes in he bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

Dustmopping, Dorothy found an old pair of her father's shoes under her mother's bed. She wiped them off and underneath the furry tendrils of dust, the burnish of the old polish still gleamed. She placed a foot in each one, and slid to her room. Nestled in tissue paper, but buried in the big cardboard shoebox inside her closet were her brand new Mary Janes with taps. She tried the new shoes on and stood admiring their patent leather shine until she realized that she needed lace-edged socks. She shook every penny from her glass Esso bank, a Christmas souvenir from her father's job, and she poured the jingling heavy copper into the sandwich pocket of her bookbag. With the bookbag denting her shoulder, she gathered up his shoes and the bank, and threw both into the dumpster on her way to the Five and Dime. He had not written.

Three plus three he pulled back the sheets in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

They're swollen. From me standing all day, her mother said. Her feet and so were her ankles, and her face was bloated. All of her looked puffy. But she squeezed into a lemon yellow pantsuit. She laid on the bed to zip her slacks. A new uncle, Uncle Frank, was coming to pick her up. Take her out for Chinese. Dorothy had never met Uncle Frank who, her mother said, also delivered cottage cheese to Dick and Jane.... A nice quiet man. Keeps to himself, doesn't drink or smoke, and doesn't curse. A Christian man in the church. Her mother sighed as if she missed the "bad" men who, in loud clusters, stood on the comers of neighborhood bars, drinking. Lopsided she smiled as she wrapped masking tape around her hand to snatch naps from the nubby lemon sleeves. And she grimaced when she shoved her feet into the black pumps. She looks like a bumblebee, Dorothy thought, going to answer the door with her mother limping behind.

... Why hello, little sweetness, the man said, looking shiny clean and winking at Dorothy.

... Hi, John.

... No, no, Dorothy, her mother said. This is Uncle Frank.

Four plus four he shut the door in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

Purposefully the Principal left the door open. He looked at his chained watch, and he stood staring out of the window at the rain pocked sand. Dorothy watched a convoy of sand ants traisping across the red floor tiles just under her chair and she squirmed, wondering at the sudden call to come to his office. She hadn't been in a fight recently. She had passed her spelling test. Just that morning Mrs. Brewer, promoted to be her fourth grade teacher, had hugged her for staying in her chair. But the mute secretary with big eyes had nodded her in, right after the Vice-Principal, looking solemn had torn a stick of Juicyfruit in half and encouraged her to chew it right there on school property.

Driven from Thompson Junior High by the janitor, Rockelle came in, casting at Dorothy a glance that read, 'No matter what, keep your mouth shut' and she plopped into a chair. They were both sitting on opposite sides of the Principal's desk. Now seated he extended a hand to each of them. Dorothy immediately laid her hand in his great palm, strangely soft and warm and damp. Rockelle offered him her fingertips which his ate into his palm until he had a firm grasp. Dorothy glanced over her shoulder. The Vice-Principal had slid in and she placed her hands on Rockelle's shoulders that flinched. And Mrs. Brewer had come up behind Dorothy to cradle her chin. The hatted shadow of a woman fell across the threshold just as the Principal cleared his throat.

... Your mother is waiting. She asked me to speak to you, and for us to be with you. There's been an accident. An explosion. Your father--

Rockelle jumped up. Her chair rammed the Vice-Principal into a stagger, and Dorothy reached down to seize an ant.

She plucked both antennas from its head.

Five plus five he opened my thighs in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

Around the apartment stoop, there were no more antennas to pluck. Dorothy sat next to the lilac bush, tugging on a branch. She saw the new girl all alone and crossing the street against traffic. The new girl carried two Fudgesicles, and as soon as she was close enough, she offered one to Dorothy. In silence they pulled the cocoa crystals into their mouths until the sticks pulled clean.

... My daddy, the new girl said in a nasal voice that happened whenever she ate something cold.... He says whenever you get lonely for a daddy, you can come to our house and visit him.

Dorothy smiled, thinking of all of the daddies on the rooftop.

... You know what I heard? Sitting, the new girl didn't wait for an answer .... I heard about the Nasty.

The Nasty.

... That's when a boy puts his thing in yours. She nodded knowledgeably.... I even heard two people doing the nasty in the bushes behind our house.

In the bushes.

... And sometimes, she continued confidentially ... they get stuck together like my dog Fluffy and his girlfriend Pooch next door. I saw them. Pooch was walking and Fluffy was hopping. They was in the street. Everyone could see. But people do the nasty in the bushes. Or a ditch.

A ditch.

... My sister, the one over me, said she was walking to the beauty parlor when she looked down, and there in a ditch was a man and a woman, doing it. My sister had to walk home the same way, and on her way back she seen the man was still on the woman, except her stomach was getting bigger and bigger, with a baby. Only married people do the nasty in a bed. The new girl stood, brushing off the backskirt of her dress and Dorothy reminded herself that she had to remember to do that, too.... Well I gotta go home now. You come by. You know where I live?

Dorothy nodded. She had beaten the new girl all the way home, enough to know.

... Bye.

The new girl flounced across the street. Watching her skip along and out of sight, Dorothy thought her simple. Marlon would have used just that word. Simple, because Dorothy knew. The nasty really happened in cardboard boxes.

Released the lilac branch snapped back.

Bare.

Six plus six he took out his dick in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

... Babies can't get past balloons, Rockelle said in a hush because their mother was home. Rockelle was combing thick Royal Crown through her hair that had been cut in a short bob with heavy bangs. Combed flat then pushed up, the hair stayed up and Dorothy inspected the resulting rippling waves so like individual currents, patterned never the same twice, but always pretty. Dorothy wanted hers cut the same way but Rockelle said no. Then you'll be wanting to wear lipstick. You have to wait until you get to Junior High.

... You wear lipstick.

... This is Vaseline.

... I want some, I want, until Rockelle had dabbed her pouting mouth. Dorothy smacked her glossy lips in the mirror and hopped on her bed. A slurred voice at the front door made them suddenly still.

... Can't hep it bout the rent going up. Least you know a month in advance. Property taxes went up and no one tell me a month in advance, so I got to pass it along to keep head bove water.

... This is too much. Ain't this the limit....

... You free to move. But you know and I know you won't find a cheaper place in the area. And so close to your work.

... I'm barely making ends meet now.

... Trials and tribulations, we all got shares.

... Even my girl is working.

... Eh? Doing what?

... Babysitting, and she takes the younger with her to spare me a moment to myself. Couldn't ask for either, better.

... I had gals myself, so I know what a handful they is.

... Mine no trouble at all.

... Girls take watching.

... How'm I to watch when I have to work double now to give you more money?

... We ain't talking time here, we're talking distance. If I was you, I'd keep a closer eye on them two.

Dorothy looked to Rockelle, slapping the comb against her palm.

Seven plus seven it felt like heaven in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night ....

Sitting on the stoop and enfolded by her family that was Rockelle, Sharon, and Marlon, Dorothy listened to heel-stomping stories about junior high school. There, students and teachers changed classrooms like musical chairs, except there were plenty of chairs and classrooms. In the lunchroom there were choices to be made. Not every one ate the same thing from a sectioned tray. There were no sectioned trays, and--you can pick out what you want. The books are bigger, too--and they have to be covered, or else.

... Else, what? Dorothy asked.

... You pay for the book. Labor Day was but a week away. Sharon was making a list of everything the three of them would need: notebooks, pens, and for this year, laminated book covers. What else?

... Pencilboxes, Dorothy said, and the rest smiled indulgently.

This year the Thompson Junior High dress code would change. Girls could now wear pants, too, and pants would open up their wardrobes to new, exciting possibilities. Sharon licked her pencil. Pants, vests, turtlenecks, and shirts of a certain blousy sleeve. Earrings were a must, a jewelry, outfit specific. Sharon passed around the list. Marlon added shoes, the right kind that looked like boots. Rockelle added belts. Dorothy added barrettes for they, too, were jewelry, a hair jewelry and so, outfit specific.

... Do we all have enough? Marlon asked.

Sharon slapped her hip. Rockelle slapped hers. Dorothy rubbed hers and they all got up and went shopping.

Eight plus eight he rattled my plate in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

Inside the Pizza Parlor, a crosswalk away from the Little Store, the floors were green and white checkerboard. Sliding into a red booth Dorothy immediately pushed the buttons on the miniature jukebox. Rockelle reached over and put in a nickel for three selections. A boy in a green apron like TickTock's gave them their menus with a flourish, although the selections and the prices were lettered and numbered on the board behind the counter. When he asked, what would you lika drink, he had a strange accent.... Eye-talian, Rockelle said. Sharon and Marlon wanted a large sausage and pepper pizza. Rockelle ordered a large pepperoni for her and Dorothy to share, but Dorothy said no. She wanted her own cheese pizza with onions. He said he could make a pizza with half cheese and onions and the other half pepperoni if that's what Rockelle would like, but Dorothy said no. She wanted her own, and Rockelle told him to bring Dorothy a small cheese, onions, but Dorothy said no... a large.

... You're going to pop, Marlon said.

... No I won't, Dorothy said, examining her cloth napkin.

... We'll see, Sharon said as he slid the steaming rounds onto the table. In his bulging apron pockets were straws and sweating cans of soda whose rims he towel wiped clean with a flourish. He smiled at Dorothy until he grinned. He had gold capped teeth.

... I wonder when youall coming in here. I see you pass by so much. Now I glad, he said, counting change for their bills .... Come again soon I beg, and he walked away to greet a take-out customer.

... He's cute, Sharon said, winding stringy cheese around her finger.

... He's just short, Marlon said, rolling her eyes.

With a raised brow Rockelle squinted, giving him the twiceover up down that covered the space of a certain area.... No, not really short.

They all laughed, except Dorothy. The clinging bubbling cheese had scalded the roof of her mouth, but a sip of cold soda made it curdle cool. She pulled off all of the crusts, and her fork slid large gooey pieces to her mouth soon oily and open like a bird's to release the steaming heat. Alternately her attention was fixed on her glistening plate and the plate glass window where she could see people in a walking rush hour. So intently was she focused that she screened out a conversation that ended abruptly when nothing but the crusts were left on her plate. Conversation had been replaced by astonishment.

... Dothy!

... Girl!

Sharon and Marlon looked under the table, and giggled.

Rockelle ran her hand over Dorothy's distended abdomen and she whispered .... You look pregnant.

Dorothy burped.

Nine plus nine I felt just fine in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night....

The light seemed too bright. When the chicken pox scabbed her arms and legs, Uncle Frank had brought her orange juice. Her mother made her wear a pair of white church gloves to bed. Dorothy took long baths in ground oatmeal that she didn't mind for this kept the raging itch from becoming too fierce. Even TickTock stopped by with some canned peaches, but he could only visit in the living room, not the bedroom, her mother said.

Spread on her blanket were paperdolls, their clothes white-tagged to hang from the rigid dolls' shoulders. Rockelle had brought her these, and with Ticktock waving at her from the door, a fork upright in the can of peaches on the windowsill and a glass of juice beside her bed, Dorothy felt just fine. Ticktock said he was taking Rockelle to the movies, but that he would bring Dorothy back some Goobers.

Every room was shaded to spare her eyes. The apartment was quiet except for the radio playing softly in the dim living room. The urgent need to pee made her tip because she seemed to get there faster and on her way back from the bathroom, she peeked into the living room--an autumnal palette with orange curtains and a brown sofa with yellow pillows and off to the side, a green chair. There, as if in a forest glen, stood Uncle Frank holding her mother in a slow drag that looked serious.

There was a ring on her mother's finger.

Ten plus ten we did it again in the bedroom, allday and Saturday night.

... Uncle Frank says he wants to move to New York. There, delivery men make more money and he says I won't have to work. There's opportunity, their mother said, there.

New York? Dorothy and Rockelle looked at each other.

Their mother twisted the diamond ring on her finger. She had never owned a diamond.... I'm sure he'd be good to you girls. He likes you both very much, and there's nothing he wouldn't do for you, for either of you, for both of you, for us.

... So, what has he done for us? Rockelle asked, waiting for her mother to get to the point of what he had actually done. The orange juice he had brought was just that, orange juice. Either Rockelle or Dorothy could have bought the same. But looking perplexed, their mother seemed to think the gesture significant, and so Rockelle sighed.

... I know you don't know him, but don't you like him?

Even Dorothy sensed there was something wrong with the question, but lately her mother's comments and questions were often nonsensical.

Rockelle shrugged her shoulders into her jacket.... Do what you like, she snapped.

And with Dorothy a step behind, the screen door banged after both.

Thursdays were very special. The Johns humored her by staying as a group for a performance. After all, she had humored many of them when they had needed to express themselves. So engrossed in her ditty, capable of stretching to Twenty plus Twenty, were the men, standing with candy bars bulging in their pants pockets and the girls tucking in their blouses and buttoning their blazers and pushing up their flattened hair, that when the unguarded door swung open on her bow, no one took a step back. They were all rooted by the sight of Old Drunk Landlady, stepping up and brandishing her clasp pocketbook as though she had found moneychangers in the Temple.

Then, the men like a panicked herd, fled but not before Old Drunk Landlady got a good look at the suspicious bulges in their pants. Her mouth widened into an almost toothless grin as she turned from the men stampeding from her--not because she was a woman but because she was an old woman--to the girls.

... Uh-huh. Just as I thought. Don't think I don't know what you-all doing. What else would grown men be doing with you young girls? It don't take a genius to figure. So pare yourselves. I'm telling your mothers. She turned on Dorothy, blocking the closed door. ... Git out my way. I ain't bove slapping down nasty gals what ain't mine. To hit Dorothy, Old Drunk Landlady raised her pocketbook, Rockelle wrenched it away, and that spun Old Drunk Landlady around, looking ferocious until Sharon kicked her age-spotted birdlegs out from under her, and Marlon hit her in the head with a brick. Semi-conscious and calling for Jesus, Old Drunk Landlady like a sack of wet laundry, rolled away from their punches. Even as her eyelids fluttered, she kept repeating.... Sus, sus, which Dorothy squatted to hear. Then Dorothy sat with her feet propped on Old Drunk Landlady while the older girls debated.

... She's gonna sober up, Marlon said.... Then what?

... Then maybe she won't remember? Sharon said.

... She'll remember when she gets drunk again, Rockelle said.

Like Rockelle did so often to their bedroom wall, Dorothy's feet pushed at the laundry sack with the muttering jack-o-lantern face. The others seemed really scared. Marlon was pulling at her lip. Sharon was biting hers raw. And Rockelle, Dorothy had never seen Rockelle crush any part of her clothes. She hated wrinkles. But there she was, clutching her blouse and doing the same thing to her front that she had done to Dorothy's back. She was punching her own chest. What if Old Drunk Landlady tells? Dorothy had no fear of her mother. So, so what if Old Drunk Landlady tells?

... No more coming up here, Marlon said.

... And no money, Sharon said. No more? Like her father no more? No more shopping? No more pizza? No more attention?

... We won't be able to. Let's just leave her. She might die, Marlon said hopefully.

... There's more roofs, Sharon said. ... But not set up so sweet, Rockelle said, looking around.

Like sweets, no more?

... No! Dorothy stomped on Old Drunk Landlady who rolled.

The girls gasped. Dorothy gasped back at them who clustered, looking down at Old Drunk Landlady sprawled below on the alley pavement. Sharon slapped herself. The admiration was plain in Marlon's eyes.

... She fell, Dorothy said simply, standing up to brush off the backskirt of her dress.

But hushed by horror Rockelle whispered.... Dothy!

Angel Y. Green received her PhD in English with a specialization in Creative Writing from the University of Rhode Island. She teaches at the Alan Shawn Feinstein College of Continuing Education, Providence Campus of URI.