Miss Schultz’s expression softened in sympathy. She reached out and smoothed Helen’s hair. “You have a lovely complexion and enviably high cheekbones. Your hair is thick and it’s a pretty color.” She examined Helen a moment longer before dropping her hands. “Move to the back of the room where no one will see us if they pass in the hallway.”
She then hurried toward the door and closed it before moving to Principal Newbolt’s desk, where she pulled open the top drawer, bent over, and rummaged through it. Without looking up, she called out, “Why are you still sitting there? Go on, hurry up.”
Helen tucked her notebook against her chest and scurried to a seat in the back row. Miss Schultz straightened, a pair of scissors held aloft, and grabbed at her pocketbook resting on Principal Newbolt’s desk chair.
“Wait—” Helen shrank as her teacher headed toward her.
“Trust me,” Miss Schultz said, pressing her hand on Helen’s shoulder to hold her in place. “Now don’t move an inch.”
Helen closed her eyes and grimaced. Snip, snip, snap. Whispers of hair tickled Helen’s face. She held her breath. What was going on?
After a couple more clips of the shears, Helen sensed a pause and cracked an eye open. Miss Schultz stood back, her head cocked, assessing her handiwork. From her pocketbook, she pulled out a compact and clicked it open. Helen leaned in and flicked her finger across the mirror, dusting the thin layer of powder from its surface to see her reflection better. A fringe of hair ran along the side of her forehead, covering her birthmark.
“Bangs?”
“Yes, they soften things a little. Give a sense of style, don’t you think?”
Amazed, Helen nodded. Finally the purple splotch marring her forehead no longer resembled an ugly target, front and center on her face.
“See? You don’t have to do anything fancy that will cost money. Just put a little effort into yourself each morning.”
“Thank you. But how do you know to do this kind of stuff? I feel like there’s a world out there filled with”—she paused—“information, like what to wear, how to do your hair, and all of that kind of stuff, but I don’t know how to figure it out.”
Miss Schultz studied her. “Sometimes mothers can help with this, sometimes friends share advice, and lots of girls study magazines like Photoplay or Cosmopolitan to see what’s fashionable and get ideas. But really, you need to just pay attention, experiment.”
“The girls at my boardinghouse spend all evening looking at those magazines while I’m usually doing homework.”
“Maybe you could ask one of the girls to borrow one of their magazines.” Miss Schultz gave her a mischievous smile. “Make sure you’re still keeping up with homework, but I think a little leisure time wouldn’t kill you.”
Helen smiled back at her teacher. Already she felt lighter, freer. Even hopeful.
16.
February 1932
Malden, Massachusetts
LOUISE PEERED IN THE WINDOW OF HER CHEMISTRY teacher’s door, and when she saw Mr. Callahan sitting at his desk, she knocked. Annoyance crossed his face, yet he waved her in as he studied the papers in front of him and said, “I moved my waste bin from its usual spot.”
She slowed as he pushed the bin toward her, her face heating with humiliation, but she moved around it. “Sir, I need to speak with you about my latest test.”
“Huh, so you’re not one of the custodians? It’s hard to tell you all apart,” he grumbled, moving his wastebasket to the other side of his desk. He then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his long beak of a nose, before focusing on her anew. “And you are?”
“I’m Louise Stokes. From your chemistry class.” She held back from adding that she had been in his physics class the previous year and biology the year before that. During her first year in his class, he had once stopped in front of her desk as she took notes and mused, “Left-handed, eh? They used to burn women like you at the stake for being witches.” Louise’s mouth had gone dry as she felt everyone staring at her, but she held her pencil even tighter in her left hand.
She cleared her throat and continued. “I failed the last chemistry test and am concerned about my overall grade.”
He made no move toward the leather-bound grade book on the corner of his desk, but drummed his fingers on his desk as he considered her. His shoulders hunched, giving him the posture of a vulture. “This is your final year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done well to make it this far.”
“Thank you, sir.” She kept her eyes lowered to the ground so he couldn’t see the anger she knew to be written all over her face. For her first three years of high school, Louise had been an exemplary student, and it was only recently that her grades had begun to suffer. In December, she set a national record in the broad jump, and everyone had been talking about it. Even The Boston Globe had written an article about it that Louise had clipped out and sent to her uncle Freddie in California. Despite all of these successes, every new accomplishment in track and field seemed to lead to less time for her to study. And since more paid sewing work was coming Emily’s way, Louise had been taking on more work around the house. Ever since Mrs. Grandaway’s death in the fall, Mama continued helping the family ready the house for sale, but no one had said a word to her about how much longer she would have a job. The uncertainty was stressful and wearying Mama and Papa.
Mr. Callahan picked at his ear. “Tell me, what do your parents do?”
“My father’s a gardener and my mother’s a housekeeper.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk to retrieve a cigarette and lit it, placing it between his thin, chapped lips and letting it dangle out of the corner of his mouth. “Chemistry is a difficult subject. Perhaps this isn’t the class for you.”
“But, sir, I need it to graduate.”
“Ahh, graduation.” He rubbed his thin lips together. “A high school diploma isn’t meant for everyone.”
Hot shame filled Louise. At that moment, the sound of throat clearing interrupted their conversation and they turned to see Norm Northam, one of her classmates, lean into the room and grin as he ran a hand along the part of his chestnut-colored hair, held perfectly in place by a shiny pomade. He entered with the easy confidence of a boy whose yearbook page listed a lengthy column of clubs, office positions, and sports teams. “Mr. Callahan, may I have a word?”
“Of course, of course, Mr. Northam. We’re just finishing up.” He beckoned Norm to come in and then reversed the motion as if nudging Louise away from him. “All right, then, Miss . . .”
But Louise didn’t answer. She bolted for the door and hurried out into the hallway. Only once she could no longer hear the teacher and Norm talking did she stop to lean against the wall of lockers and collect herself.
Directly across the hall from her were some large framed class photos. In the photos, it was clear the number of black students diminished each year that the class progressed, but in the last couple of years, fewer students, white and black, had returned to classes at Malden High. More young people were looking for work, even though jobs were harder to come by. She let out a shuddering sigh. Cutting back on expenses seemed to be the goal of every household in Malden, both among the well-off and the less so, but this last year had been exceptionally lean and the results were trickling down to the families teetering on the fine line between “scraping by” and “flat-out broke” with calamitous results.