Leaving Atlanta by Tayari Jones Page B

participate in the races
     since the consensus is that you are slow as dirt. And now, the competition to the finish line is intensified by the metamorphosed
     girls who whisper behind lotioned hands as the boys demonstrate their speed.
    Octavia sits with her back against the building. She doesn’t glance toward the lower field, where the boys kick up gritty
     disorderly clouds of red dust as they struggle to win. Her eyes focus on the pages of a worn paperback. From where you are
     standing, you see the small piece of brown cardboard covering a hole in the bottom of her shoe. You turn away, embarrassed
     to glimpse something as intimate as poverty. You turn your eyes to her again as she blows on her thin fingers, warming them.
    She looks up from her hands, smiles at you and perhaps waves. Maybe she is just wiggling her fingers to stimulate circulation.
     No. Her second movement is clearly a wave. You wave back—discreetly, you hope—and look away.
    She stands up, adjusting her shoe, and walks toward you. “Do you think Mr. Harrell is going to tell us who won?”
    “Huh?”
    “The posters. Do you think he’s going to judge them today?”
    You forgot about the fall competition.
    “I thought that mine was good. I stayed up until ten trying to get the border right. But yours is the best.” She smiles, showing
     a tiny row of crooked teeth. “How long did it take you to make it? I wanted to work on mine longer, but my mama made me go
     to bed.”
    You shrug, feeling vaguely dishonest.
    “But he might give something for second place,” she muses.
    Neither of you says anything for several moments as you look out across the playground. The races are over and the girls have
     disbanded their tight giggly cluster to chat with individual boys.
    Leon Simmons is talking to Candida Winters, a tall, big-boned girl who chews Wild Cherry Bubblicious with her mouth open.
     She makes fantastic noises with the gooey wad, despite the fact that gum chewing is not only against the rules but also most
     unladylike. You had a crush on Candida for several days at the start of the school year, even going so far as to carefully
     pen a note expressing your admiration. You folded your confession carefully around two sticks of Fruit Stripe gum. Ultimately,
     you
ate
the note rather than have it fall into the wrong hands. Now, whenever you see pretty Candida, the back of your mouth sours
     with the remembered taste of blue-lined paper and black erasable ink.
    You sigh as you watch her laugh as Leon whispers.
    “They talking about us,” Octavia says.
    “Huh?” You are taken aback.
    “I can’t stand neither one of them. Always messing with me.”
    If this is the case, why hadn’t Octavia said, “They talking about
me
.” She had very deliberately said
us
. You know that unpopularity is dreadfully contagious, but you’d no idea that the incubation period is so brief. You feel
     unbearably conspicuous and must get away from Octavia as quickly as you can.
    “That policeman today was stupid.” She suddenly changes the subject.
    Her characterization of the experience is so succinct and comprehensive that there is nothing worthwhile to add to the exchange,
     so you just shrug.
    “Why you so shy?”
    Did she actually want to know why, or did she merely want you to know that she noticed? But you are not shy. You simply have
     nothing to say. But now you are too shy to tell her this.
    Leon Simmons sings, “Rodney and Watusi sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
    Octavia stands suddenly. “You better shut your mouth, ol’ ugly boy.” She picks up a small rock from the ground and pitches
     it toward Leon’s pointed head. She misses.
    Leon laughs and performs a jerking parody of an African dance. He chants, “Watusi, Watusi. Wa-Wa-Watusi!”
    Octavia hurls another rock. Leon ducks.
    “I ain’t no Watusi,” she shouts, looking around for more ammunition.
    There are two small stones near your shoe, which would be perfect to chasten Leon.