Space Between the Stars Read Free Page B

dark like nighttime, his white teeth like starlight. He's the color of songs.
    Outside, the principal rang the hand bell. Kids' voices came closer. I wanted the cubby to swallow me, to make the fire exploding in my heart go away. I rubbed my sleeve across my face.
Your mama's as white as day. Your daddy's as black as night.
    I hated those kids. I had never thought of my parents as colors. They were Mom and Dad. Mysteries and music.
    My classmates had come into the cloakroom with me. Steven Chin hung his jacket on a hook, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and walked to his desk on the other side of our cubbies. Sharon Rodgers tossed her thick braids over her shoulders and smiled at me. Her skin was light brown—like mine. I untied the knot beneath my chin and slid my scarf off my head, wadding the fabric into a soft ball like the one in my stomach. Idropped it on the floor next to my lunch and carried my schoolbooks to my desk. The teacher was calling roll.
    “Deborah King.”
    “Here,” I murmured, sitting tall in my chair—a picture of night meeting day hanging before me.
    The whole day, I careened through space, unable to stop trembling, feeling as though I were spinning round and round. Every child became a color: my best friend, Karmen, brown; Janet, white; Steven, ivory.
    Kitsaun and I walked home from school. I quietly stepped where she stepped, but I didn't tell her what had happened. I didn't ask her to interpret the mean words, and I didn't want her to feel the crushing pain of the realization that Mom and Dad were different from everyone else's parents. I felt like those kids were going to beat me up because of my parents' skin colors.
    Dad was sitting on the couch when we arrived home. He told us to wash our hands, and he gave Kitsaun and me red apples. Mom cooked hamburger patties for dinner. Nothing was different at home except my vision of every color in my life. When Mom tucked me in, I told her what the kids had said to me. She sat on the edge of my bed, her soft hands tracing my eyebrows, my cheeks. Kitsaun was brushing her teeth in the small bathroom between our room and Mom and Dad's. I tried not to cry, but my lips quivered and my eyes watered.
    “Oh honey,” Mom said, “people see things very differently. Your father and I married because we love each other, not because of what we look like. Those children don't know the first thing about love. Don't let their ignorance hurt you.”Kitsaun ran into our room and jumped onto her bed, her dark curls flying. She had heard everything: “Show me who said it,” she said, raising her fists like a fighter and punching the air. “I'll tell them a thing or two.”
    The next day, Dad came to school to pick me up. I saw him standing in the schoolyard outside the principal's office as I came down the stairs. He looked taller than usual. His black skin glistened like cold lava. His mouth was pulled tight, his eyes dark.
    “Dad!” I called out. His lips opened, showing those bright white teeth. He walked his cool strut toward me as kids half his height poured out through the doorways.
    “Hi, Dobs,” he said, taking my hand in his.
    “What are you doing here, Dad?”
    “I wanted to see if those children had anything else to say to you today. Do you see any of them here? Did they bother you this morning?” Mom must have told Dad what happened.
    “No, Dad. I don't even know who said it.” I didn't tell him that I had stayed close to a teacher all day.
    “Well, if anyone ever says anything like that to you again, or tries to hurt you, just pick up a brick and hit 'em over the head.” Dad always told Kitsaun and me to pick up a brick if anyone tried to harm us, as though bricks lay along every San Francisco street, ready for our use.
    I looked up into his face. His mustache twitched, and he squeezed my hand. “Let's get you and your sister some ice cream, okay?”
    We waited for Kitsaun to come out. Dad began to whistlein a full, beautiful, bird-like