‘It’s my fault,’ she whispers. ‘I shouldn’t have told her to stay hidden like I did. It’s my fault.’
‘No,’ I say, turning toward Betty, my voice urgent. ‘No, Betty, you can’t think like that. You can’t.’ I grab her hands, not caring if she might find it odd. But she must not because she grips mine back just as tight. ‘Betty, I know how you feel,’ I continue. ‘Because I’ve felt that way, too. I still do sometimes. I’ve cursed myself so many times for not being more careful when I went to talk to Johnny that day. If that boy hadn’t overheard. If he hadn’t followed me back to the hideout. If I’d never gone to the bathroom that night at Winkler’s. If, if, if. But, Betty, the truth is we were only trying to do the right thing. The right thing for Diane. You loved her. And so did I. And that will always be true. No matter what happened and no matter what will happen. It will always be true.’
Betty nods, still crying. I barely know this girl, I realize, but something makes me reach out and embrace her tight, until I can feel her wet face pressing into my neck. Something makes me want to tell her it’s all right to cry and keep crying.
The something that makes me do it, the something that makes me hold her and reassure her, is Diane.
And Connie.
And Juanita.
And Sunny.
The something that makes me do it is friendship. Because Betty is a girl who wanted to help another girl out of a fix and was willing to do whatever she could to do it.
So that means Betty is my friend, too.
I hold Betty until she stops crying. Then she pulls back and lets go of my hands.
‘You know,’ she says, sniffling, her face flushed and her mascara smeared, ‘I’m so sad but I’m angry, too. I’m angry because Diane wasn’t allowed to just … be. I’m angry because Diane didn’t deserve this, but she’s not the only one.’ Her red cheeks redden some more. ‘Evie, I’m so tired of living in a world where a girl is seen as dirty because she loves someone. Because she gets in trouble. Because she doesn’t look perfect or do every little thing perfectly or because she wants something different. Because she isn’t always good.’ At that last word she scowls and balls up her hand into a little fist, shaking it for emphasis.
I nod, and then something occurs to me.
‘Bad girls never say die,’ I tell Betty.
‘What?’ she asks, confused.
‘It’s something my friend Connie said once,’ I explain. ‘You met Connie that night you drove Diane and me back to our neighborhood. This world wants girls to be good all the time, whatever that means, but I don’t care about that. I don’t care if they call us bad, because bad girls never say die. They never give in. Let them call us bad. I don’t care anymore.’ Something in my voice surprises me. Whatever it is, I like the sound of it.
Betty looks at me, then nods in quiet agreement. She turns and fetches the red geraniums and rests them gently in front of Diane’s grave, leaning them just so, so they cover up the lie of Beloved Daughter. Her fingers lightly trace the top of the gravestone, and then she pulls her hand back. We stand together quietly for a moment.
‘I like what Connie said,’ Betty says at last.
‘I do, too,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t mind seeing Connie again one day.’
Betty and I catch eyes again and I smile at her.
‘Something tells me she’d like that,’ I tell her. ‘I know she would.’
The December sun streams through the tops of the oak trees that surround us. A light breeze blows by, tickling the backs of our legs. I hear a skittering in a nearby bush. Maybe a lizard or a rabbit.
Diane is in our hearts, and Betty and I are here, alive and awake. We will stand at our friend’s grave for a while longer yet, and when we leave, we’ll leave together.
RESOURCES
For more information about Fannie Lou Hamer, Jerrie Mock, Betty Friedan, and other ‘bad girls’ from history, please visit the National Women’s History Museum, a virtual museum. womenshistory.org
If reading this story brought up issues or concerns for you, below are some resources that may be helpful. They are available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, both by phone and online. You are not alone.
If you are in immediate danger, please call 9-9-9.
If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted:
Rape Crisis England & Wales
0808 802 9999
Rape Crisis Network Europe
Find help in your country at: rcne.com/contact/countries/ Or internationally at: rcne.com/links/sources-of-help-for-survivors/
For domestic violence:
Refuge’s National Domestic Abuse Helpline (England)
0808 2000 247
nationaldahelpline.org.uk
Hot Peach Pages (international directory)
hotpeachpages.net/index.html
Men’s Advice Line
0808 8010327
mensadviceline.org.uk
For child abuse:
Childline
0800 1111
childline.org.uk
For free crisis support:
Text SHOUT to 85258
giveusashout.org
For teen pregnancy:
Family Lives
0808 800 2222
familylives.org.uk/advice/your-family/parenting/where-can-young-parents-go-for-support/
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not be possible without a group of generous men and women who gave of their time as they recalled their teenage years growing up in Houston. Our conversations in their homes and over lunch were some of my favorite parts of writing this novel. Many thanks to Sheila Harrison, Kay Waddell Laycock, Anne Sloan, Anna Wirt, Juan Lira, Marilyn and George Frank, Linda and Bob Cook, Biff and Frances Reed, James H. Ford Jr and Doris E. Thomas Ford, and the wonderful ladies of Clayton Homes – Juanita Vallejo, Eloise Chavez Buenrosgro, Virginia Arce, and Martha Castro. Linda Cook deserves a special thanks for the many emails she answered! And Doris Sanders was kind enough to read an early draft and offer thoughts, too.
A million thanks to the wonderful academics and Houston history buffs who were so generous with their time in providing information on everything from school integration to maternity homes to music. I learned more about Houston and the early 1960s than I could ever fit into one novel, so I’ll have to write another one someday. Thank you to Lisa Gray, Kirk Farris, Carlos Calbillo, James Schafer, PhD, Roger Wood, PhD, Kristen Contos Krueger, PhD, and Alex LaRotta, PhD.
Tyina L. Steptoe, PhD, was a tremendous resource, and her book Houston Bound: Culture and Color in a Jim Crow City is a must-read for any proud Houstonian.
Many thanks to the lovely librarians at the Houston Metropolitan Research Center, part of the Houston Public Library system. Many thanks to Debbie Harwell, PhD, for our wonderful talk and the many issues of the outstanding Houston History magazine, plus her detailed memories of the city bus in the early sixties!
To my dear friend Kate Jacobs, who was instrumental in helping birth this book. You always believe in me even when I don’t. You don’t know how much that means to me!
To my lovely editor, Kate Meltzer. Thank you for your patience and guidance as we helped shape this book together. Especially the patience.
To everyone at Macmillan who helps me get my words out into the world, especially Johanna Kirby Allen, Mary Van Akin, and the entire team at MCPG. You are still making my childhood dreams come true.