Lies We Tell Ourselves: Shortlisted for the 2016 Carnegie Medal

I haven’t seen Ruth all morning.

“Did you see my sister?” I ask Judy in rapid French. “Where? How was she? Was she safe?”

Judy frowns and shrugs helplessly. She doesn’t understand.

“Have you seen her?” I repeat in English. “Is she safe?”

Miss Whitson is watching us. I’m sure she heard me speaking English, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Oui,” Judy says.

“Was anyone hurting her?”

“No,” Judy says. “I mean, non.”

I close my eyes and breathe in, long and slow. I feel like I haven’t breathed all morning.

Maybe we really can do this. Maybe it will be all right.

I’m so relieved I don’t even mind practicing French with a girl who can’t pronounce bonjour. So we get out our books and take turns conjugating regarder.

When the bell rings I grab my books. I try to move straight for the door, but before I’m even out of my desk the red-haired girl is blocking my way.

I wish she wouldn’t stand so near. I try again to force that feeling down. The strange buzzing in my chest that comes with being so close to a girl who’s this pretty. It doesn’t work.

“It’s a shame you had to work with her, Judy,” the girl says, looking right at me. “I’ll speak to my father tonight. He’ll get us both transferred out of this class. Math, too. We shouldn’t have to suffer just because some Northern interloper judge says so.”

The girl is right in my face. Her bright blue eyes are narrowed and fixed on mine. I can’t let her know she’s getting to me. I try to edge around her but she blocks my way with her purse. It’s just as fashionable as the rest of her—a cloth bag with round wooden handles covered in the same plaid fabric as her skirt.

There’s something about the way this girl talks. Something about the look in her eyes.

She makes me angrier than the others do.

She’s not like the girl who screamed at me in the parking lot or the one who spat on me in the hall. This girl doesn’t do that sort of thing. She works quietly. Efficiently. Ruthlessly.

I just wish she weren’t so pretty. That lovely face sets off a fire inside me that isn’t ever supposed to burn.

She frightens me. But she makes me want to stop being polite.

I shouldn’t say anything to her. It’s against the rules, and the rules are there for a reason.

It only happens because I can’t stop myself.

“It’s a shame you had to have such an awful friend, Judy,” I say, looking straight into the red-haired girl’s eyes. “I suppose we all have to suffer in our own ways.”

The red-haired girl stiffens. Everyone in the classroom is staring at us.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my nervousness returns. This girl may be too smart to throw rocks in the parking lot, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t just as dangerous as the rest of them. Smarts can do more damage than strength.

But if this girl is really so smart, why does she believe in segregation? There’s nothing logical about keeping people separated by their skin colors.

She’s as bad as the governor. Everyone says he’s an intelligent man. He’s a lawyer who argued in front of the Supreme Court, saying it would be too dangerous for colored children and white children to go to the same school. Then he got elected to the highest post in the state. Governor Almond has got to be one of the smartest men there is, but he believes in segregation, too.

I should’ve been smart enough not to talk back to this beautiful, dangerous girl.

It scares me, the way she makes me feel. I need to get away from her.

I slip around the red-haired girl while she’s still distracted and leave as quickly as I can. The rest of them spill out behind me. They don’t seem to be following me, though. They’re talking to Judy and her friend.

“It’s true,” one of them says. “Those agitators are just awful. I can’t believe that one had the nerve to talk to you that way, Linda.”

Linda. That must be the red-haired girl’s name. It suits her.

“What was it like speaking French with the nigger?” a boy asks Judy.

“Yeah, did she speak some of that coonjab to ya?” another one says.

“I don’t know,” Judy says. “I couldn’t understand what she said. It was in French.”

“No way,” a boy says. “You know that nigger don’t speak no French. They don’t say no ‘parlez-vous’ in Africa.”

Everyone laughs.

I’ve still got my back to the group. To be safe, I really should speed up to get away from them, but I want to hear what else Judy says. She’s the only white student all day who’s seemed like she might be all right.

“Does she stink even harder up close?” a boy asks her. “Man, I bet sitting next to one of them is worse than being on a pig farm in August.”

“I didn’t smell anything,” Judy says.

There’s a long pause where all I hear are footsteps. Then one of the boys says, “What’s the matter, Judy, you turning into a nigger-lover?”

There’s another long pause.

Then Linda speaks up. I’d recognize her voice anywhere.

“Don’t feel like you have to protect her, Judy,” Linda says. “You don’t owe her anything. They’re the ones who messed up this whole year for all of us, remember?”

There’s another pause. Then Judy’s voice falters. “Well. She talked real fast. Like how people up North sound.”

Some of the boys chuckle.

“I bet she wasn’t really saying anything in French,” Judy says. “I bet she just making a bunch of noises.”

No. No.

Everyone’s laughing now. One of the boys makes a honking sound.

“Yeah, do that again!” another boy says. “That’s what nigger French sounds like.”