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“I’m sorry ... but who’s this Dame?” one of the older faculty members interrupted.
“He’s a rapper,” Ms. Lindsey added enthusiastically, shaking enough in her seat so that her breasts bounced from one side to the other. “He’s been number one on the charts since his new album, The Same Dame, dropped two months ago.”
“Is that heifer a rap groupie? Video ho?” Billie whispered to me, but the secretary sitting next to me heard her. I was sure that remark would soon get around the school.
“Well, it seems that those high sales have served him well,” Evan said, “because when he comes, he’s presenting us with a check for one million dollars in front of the whole school.”
“A million?” Billie asked. “To Black Warrior?”
I looked on stunned. Nearly immediately, I, along with everyone else, looked around the outdated, pale green conference room that hadn’t changed in one way since my own father called the building “school.” It was as if the mention alone of “one million dollars” in a room of desperate, tired teachers could make the place just change. The walls—pale green with speckled black and white nothingness—would become bright and clean; the table—an old oak, pitted and picked mass between us—would be mahogany; and instead of beat-up folding chairs, we’d be in leather swivels that turned and turned and comforted us as we taught the next generation of leaders. I could see, just as clearly as the woman next to me, but as I looked, I wondered what price we’d pay to get the pretty stuff. As my father always said, “Some things that are free cost you.”
“Yes, you all heard me right! He’s giving us a million dollars and he wants to present it to”—Evan suddenly looked toward me—“his favorite music teacher, Mrs. DeLong.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes. He asked for you specifically. He wants you to give the tour of the school with the camera crew and accept the check in front of the student body.”
All eyes went from the walls, the table, the chairs, to me, falling around me like dominoes. Evan gave the rest of the details to a room of open mouths and internal thoughts so heavy I could hear them in their silence. I could even hear my father miles away: “Beware of those who don’t sing for the Lord.”
“You know he probably suggested Dame visit his wife’s classroom,” I heard one of the teachers in Ms. Martin’s circle say when I walked past after the meeting.
“She ain’t even a real teacher,” another said. “Music—shit, I can teach that.”
“Let her tell it, she’s a damn college professor.”
This exchange was just loud enough for me to hear, but low enough so that if I asked what the problem was, they’d all look at me like I was crazy. I didn’t bother to turn around. I’d faced these kinds of comments in barrels behind me and also to my face. When I was much younger, I’d tried to make women like Ms. Martin and the others like me. But it was no use and after teaching and policing all morning, my feet were hurting and my big toe was threatening a revolt through the top of my gray leather heels.
“We certainly can find positive things to do with that money,” I heard Mr. Williams say to Ms. Kenley and Evan when I reached the front of the room where they were still standing.
Evan was in the middle of excusing himself. He shook both of their hands very quickly and then nodded at me.
“I’ll see you later,” Evan said evenly.
“Sure,” I replied, while I’d just rushed to the front to speak to him about Dame.
“Ms. Kenley, I want you to meet Mrs. DeLong,” Mr. Williams said when Evan departed with a few teachers hoping to talk to him following closely behind. “She’s Dr. DeLong’s wife.”
“Great to meet you,” she said as we shook hands.
“My pleasure,” I replied. “How are you settling into Alabama?”
“I’m fine. Just trying to get used to this heat. Got my hair all crazy-looking.”
Another group of teachers came over and pulled Mr. Williams to the side.
“Oh, just let it go. Put it in a bun.” I pointed to my hair.
“Good advice,” she said.
“Hey, Ms. Davis and I normally go out to eat after work on Wednesdays. You’re welcome to join us tonight. Nothing big. Just a local place a lot of teachers go to on hump night.”
“That actually sounds great. My dinner date is working late tonight,” she said. “Now, I hope you don’t mind if I have a few drinks. I know I’m in the South now and you all are supposed to be Southern belles.”
“Well, I don’t know much about drinking,” I said, amused by her assumption about Southern women, “but I can tell you, if you’re looking for some fierce drinking competition, you sit down at a bar next to a ‘Southern belle.’ ”
We both laughed and walked out of the conference room together.
When we stepped into the hallway, I could see Billie and Clyde a few steps down talking. His body was pressed against the wall with one knee up toward Billie and she was standing in the middle of the hallway with her hands on her hips. Her head shook from side to side as she spoke. In the dim light the sun sent through the window at the head of the hallway, their shadows could have been fifteen or fifty-five. The argument was the same—someone had done something and the other person was upset. Both Ms. Kenley and I stopped. There was no need to explain the situation.
