“I think you’re lookin’ for trouble,” Jean said, looking worried.
“If I am, it’s about time.”
“I’ll be here waitin’ when you get back,” Jean said.
Nadine walked over to join them. “She’s really going?” she said to Jean.
Jean nodded. “She’s going.”
“Well, doll,” Nadine said, “I wish I had your pluck.”
Elsa was grateful for the support.
She walked out of camp. On the main road, the few automobiles that passed her honked for her to get off to the side. By the time she reached the school, she was covered in fine red dust.
She brushed as much of the dirt off of her as she could. She would not be a coward. Chin up, she crossed the lawn and bypassed the office and walked toward the library.
There was a sign on the door for the after-school PTA meeting.
She opened the door just as the school bell rang and children ran out into the hallway.
In the library, books lined every wall; there was a checkout desk, and bright overhead lights. A dozen or so women stood clustered together, sipping coffee from china cups. Elsa noticed how well they were dressed—silk stockings, fashionable dresses, matching handbags. Hair cut and styled. At one side of the room, a long table, draped in white, held trays of cookies and sandwiches and a silver coffee urn.
The women turned to stare at Elsa. Their conversations stalled and then stopped altogether.
Elsa wondered how it was she’d thought a clean flour-sack dress or a bath would help. She didn’t belong here. How could she have thought otherwise?
No. This is America. I’m a mother. I’m here for my kids.
She took a step forward.
Eyes on her. Frowns.
At the clothed table, she poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sandwich. Her hand was shaking as she lifted it to her lips.
An older woman, in a tailored tweed skirt suit and heels, with tightly curled hair that peeked out beneath a beribboned felt hat, peeled away from the cluster of women and walked resolutely toward Elsa. As she neared, she raised one eyebrow. “I’m Martha Watson, president of the PTA. You’re lost, I presume.”
“I’m here for the PTA meeting. My children are in school here and I’m interested in the curriculum.”
“People like you don’t influence our curriculum. What you do is bring disease and trouble to our schools.”
“I have a right to be here,” Elsa said.
“Oh, really? Do you have an address in the community?”
“Well…”
“Do you pay taxes to support this school?”
The woman sniffed, as if Elsa smelled, and walked away, clapping her hands. “Come along, mothers. We need to plan the end-of-the-year raffle. We want to raise money to get those dirty migrants a school of their own.”
The women fell in behind Martha, waddling like chicks behind the mama duck.
Elsa did what she’d always done when faced with derision and contempt. She walked away, defeated, left the library, went out into the now-deserted schoolyard.
She was almost to the flagpole when she stopped.
No.