Almost Crimson by Dasha Kelly Page B

expression to flash a bucky beaver face or another cross-eyed smile. CeCe would squeeze shut her eyes to keep from exploding with laughter.
    The girls’ Saturday antics carried them through the start of a new school year, frozen dinner trays for Thanksgiving, and an early winter snow. On a particularly cold morning, the girl did not make a face. She followed her bellowing mother, as usual, but stopped to face CeCe before pulling up the hood on her coat.
    â€œYou dropped your magazine,” the girl said, with a bit more volume than the small room required. Puzzled, CeCe followed the girl’s gaze down to the Right On! magazine dropped on the floor. CeCe looked down at the magazine and then up, into the mouth of the girl’s mother. She had turned back to make sure none of her fussing, neck swiveling, or ultimatums were being missed.
    CeCe looked back to the girl. “Thank you,” she said, also with a stage voice.
    As the girl and her mother’s voice retreated down the hall, CeCe held the magazine in her lap. Randy, Jermaine, and Janet Jackson looked back at her. Handwritten on little Janet’s forehead read, “Open to page 1 6 .” CeCe did and found a folded sheet of lined paper. CeCe opened it and felt everything inside her breathe.

THIRTEEN
    FLAGPOLE
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    WHEN HER FIRST YEAR OF college ended, Carla continued her discussions with Sandra about street soldiers and sideways politics with letters throughout the summer. By the Fourth of July, the two were trading letters weekly, Sandra with reports of her clandestine adventure in Chicago and Carla with quotes and historical misinformation she’d researched in the library.
    When Uncle John delivered Carla to Greyhound for her return to campus in the fall, he pulled her suitcase from the truck bed and walked it into the depot. Hugging his niece, he wished her luck and told her again how proud he was of her.
    â€œDon’t you go scarin’ them professors with all your revolution talk,” Uncle John teased as Carla stood with her bag.
    â€œI have more reason to be afraid of them and what they’re trying not to teach me,” Carla said, quite seriously, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss her uncle on the cheek. He shook his head and chuckled, heading back to his truck.
    Carla launched her sophomore year with a new confidence and more fervor than her freshman year. She greeted dormmates, joined study groups right away, even spread out a blanket on the mall some afternoons to read. Sandra wasn’t on campus for the first two weeks. Her parents had discovered her summer had been spent campaigning and protesting in Chicago, and not attending a leadership camp in Milwaukee, as she’d led them to believe. They were undecided about allowing her to return to college until the last minute.
    Carla was leaving the library with one of her study groups one afternoon when someone called her name from across the mall. She turned toward the voice and squinted at two figures near the flagpole. The woman’s outline resembled Sandra’s but was missing her roommate’s signature bouffant. Moving towards one another, Carla could tell the second figure belonged to a man and the first, indeed, belonged to her roommate, with some sort of hat on her head.
    As they closed the yardage between them, Carla could see it was the young man who wore the hat. He was compact and strong looking, like the cousin who might always be asked to help move wood and boxes, or the handy church member who was good at repairs. His skin was the color of molasses, and his face was stern. His eyes were dark and potent, like pot liquor.
    â€œYou’ll see. She’s solid,” Sandy was saying, somewhat winded. The two friends embraced and pulled apart to regard one another: Carla’s new rebellious slacks and Sandra's new afro.
    â€œI think I love it,” Carla said.
    â€œJust wait ’til I get my hands on that head of yours,”