Beyond Molasses Creek by Nicole Seitz Page A

the store and white folk yell at me, call me nigga. I try to go to school, mind my own business, and white kids knock down my books. I see signs that won’t let me drink the water, won’t let me come into a white restaurant. I’m colored, Ally, and I ain’t nothing to do about it. I cain’t do nothing. You cain’t do nothing.”
    If I was honest right then, if I was really honest, I knew what he was saying was true because I’d seen it. Hadn’t I? Different people, different circumstances, but I’d seen it—people being treated differently, wrongly, because of the color of their skin. And what had I done? Had I spoken up? Had I? The truth pressed my shoulders down.
    â€œI just . . . I wanted to say I’m sorry, that’s all,” I told him. “And I hope . . . I hope we can still be friends. I’ve missed you, you know. I miss going out in the boat and just being with somebody I don’t have to impress. We could just sit there and not say anything at all, not have to say anything, and nowadays I have to be all proper and perfect and ladylike, and, well, I just miss the way we used to be.”
    â€œWe used to be kids,” said Vesey.
    I reached back behind the marsh grass and pulled out a shiny black radio. I turned the knob and a small sound pierced the night air. Then I turned it just a hair louder. It was the Beatles. Vesey stared at the radio.
    â€œWhere’d you get that?” he asked, suspicious.
    â€œI didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying. I got it for my thirteenth birthday. It was yesterday, you know?”
    â€œYeah. I know. That’s a nice radio.”
    â€œSo do you want to dance or what?” I asked him. It was the best thing I’d said in a long time. It made me feel right with the world.
    There was nothing but stone and concern in Vesey’s face at first, but when Stevie Wonder’s “Fingertips” came on, he started bobbing his head a little. Then a smile broke out. A full-out grin. Then something like courage rolled onto his broad shoulders, and he put his hand out to me.
    I remember the way his warm hand felt in mine. Strong and capable. Music drifted between us, around us, and up into the cool night air. Lights glittered on the black water, and I stole furtive glances at the sculpture of his cheeks as the marsh grass swirled around us.
    Hands down, that moonlight dance with Vesey when we were thirteen years old was the best dance I’ve had in sixty years.
    The worst dance was not long after that, when Margaret insisted I make Vesey appear. She said she was losing patience with me, and if I didn’t produce him soon, she’d have no choice but to tell her parents or our friends at school. So I did produce him. I lured him back to the spot on the riverbank, brought my radio, and when we started shagging, Margaret stepped out from behind a tree.
    â€œWell, well, well,” she said. “I don’t believe you’ve introduced me to your friend.”
    She held her hand out to a rock-still Vesey. He looked at me, eyes wide. “This is my friend Margaret,” I told him. He seemed too stunned and afraid to shake her hand, and I was Judas.
    I’d betrayed our friendship. I’d betrayed his trust.

NINETEEN
Supper with Old Friends
    Mount Pleasant
Ally
    â€œI’ VE ALWAYS FELT DRAWN TO VESEY,” SAYS M ARGARET , watching him wave from the boat. “Drawn to his . . . his, what is that, Ally? Animal magnetism?”
    â€œForbidden fruit,” I say.
    â€œNo,” says Margaret. “Yes? No. Well, maybe so.” Vesey ties his rope and steps up on firmer ground. “Vesey Washington, would you look at you? Looking good, old friend! Looking fine.”
    â€œMiss Margaret.” Vesey tips his hat. “Been a long time, ain’t it? Decades.”
    â€œDon’t you dare count how many, neither.”
    â€œMiss Ally?” He turns to