The Last House on the Street(26)

I had to reorganize my thinking. I’d figured we’d have a little cake and lemonade and then we’d be on the road, but these three needed a break and some real food. “I can make you sandwiches,” I said to the boys. “And coffee? Do you want coffee or lemonade?”

“Both,” the guys said in unison, and I laughed.

I fed them tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwiches and lemonade. I was too nervous to eat, myself; I felt like an outsider in my own home. The three of them seemed to know each other well from the ride down. The boys were from Columbia University and the girl from Drew University, a school in New Jersey. They were already telling inside jokes about things that had happened so far on their trip, and they made no effort to include me in their conversation. I thought back to what Reverend Filburn had said about me not being trusted. I felt shy, the way I often did in a new situation, and I wasn’t sure how to break into their tight little circle.

I gradually got their names. The girl was Peggy Greenberg, which I knew was a Jewish name. I’d never met a Jew before, nor an Italian, which David DeSimone turned out to be, despite his blond hair. The dark-haired boy with a sort of Beatles haircut was Chip Stein. Another Jewish name. Two Jews, an Italian, and me. I felt pretty plain vanilla sitting with them at my kitchen table. I was also annoyed with myself for automatically categorizing them. I was certain, though, that they were doing the same with me. They kept laughing about my father hiring goats to do our gardening and I had the feeling that would be the running joke for the ride to Atlanta.

“This is one of the counties SCOPE’ll be working in, right?” Chip asked, finally directing a question to me. He looked around the kitchen as though it represented all of Derby County.

“Yes,” I said, “though not here in Round Hill. It’s a really big county. I’m hoping I’ll be assigned back here after the orientation.”

“I think you’re the only Southerner in the whole program,” David said as he finished his sandwich.

“The only white Southerner,” Chip corrected him.

“Right,” David said. “I guess there’ll be lots of locals working with us, wherever we land.”

“What’s this little town like? Round Hill?” Peggy asked. “It looked cute when we drove through it, with all the little shops. Very quaint. Looks like it’s from another era. But it’s mostly farms out here, right?”

Round Hill looked like it was from another era? “It’s just … a regular place,” I said. “To be honest, I’ve never been out of the Carolinas, so I don’t know any different. And you’re right—there’s a lot of farming—but my father owns the pharmacy, so we’re not farmers.”

“Your accent,” Peggy said. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Yours is pretty familiar to me,” I said. “My favorite aunt grew up in New York.”

“Why’d you want to do this?” Chip asked as we moved on from the sandwiches to the pound cake.

“Probably for the same reason you do.” I shrugged. “To help people vote.”

“Most Southerners couldn’t care less if Negroes get the vote,” he said.

“Most would just as soon they never get the vote,” Peggy said. She looked at me as if for validation.

“A lot do feel that way,” I said. “But I care, which is why I’m doing something about it.”

“Where do you go to school?” Chip asked. “You’re in college, right?”

“Carolina,” I said.

“Where’s that?” David asked. “Never heard of it.”

“The University of North Carolina. In Chapel Hill? We just call it ‘Carolina.’”

“Oh, Chapel Hill I’ve heard of,” Peggy said. “That’s a really great school.”

“Yeah,” said Chip, wide-eyed, and I had the feeling their impression of me finally jumped up a few notches.

“I’m a pharmacology major there.”

“Really.” Peggy eyed me like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of me now.

Chip looked at his watch. “We should go,” he said. “We’ve got another eleven hours ahead of us.” He looked at me. “You know how to drive?”

I nodded.

“You’re a lot fresher than we are,” he said. “Can you take the first shift behind the wheel?”

I hadn’t realized I’d be expected to drive someone else’s car, but of course it made sense.

“Sure,” I said.

“Can you drive a van?” Drew asked.

I laughed. “I can drive my brother’s old pickup,” I said, “so I guess I can drive just about anything.”

We carried our plates to the sink, where I washed and dried them quickly. I didn’t want to leave them for my mother.

“We have to remember to be careful once we get to Atlanta,” David said as we walked out the front door onto the porch. “They said to stay in the Negro neighborhoods if we can.”

That seemed backward to me. “Why?” I slung the bag of books over my shoulder, then picked up my suitcase and sleeping bag. Most people I knew avoided Negro neighborhoods.

Chip took the suitcase from my hand in a gentlemanly gesture. “White people’ll be watching for us,” he said. “For the SCOPE workers. They don’t want us there. We’re a threat to them.”