Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

I might have told Judge Thunder he could suck my dick.

What ensued was a chambers conference where I begged to not be disbarred and assured the judge that I did not have, in fact, any male genitalia and had actually said, Such magic! because I was so impressed by his ruling.

I’ve had two cases in front of Judge Thunder since then. I’ve lost both.

I resolve not to tell Ruth about my history with the judge. Maybe the third time is a charm.

I button my coat, getting ready to leave the courthouse, giving myself a silent pep talk the whole way. I’m not going to let a tiny setback like this affect the whole case for me, not when we have jury selection next month.

As I walk out of the building, I hear the swell of gospel music.

On the New Haven Green is a sea of black people. Their arms are linked. Their voices harmonize and fill the sky: We shall overcome. They carry posters with Ruth’s name and likeness on them.

Front and center is Wallace Mercy, singing his heart out. And beside him, her elbow tucked in his, is Ruth’s sister, Adisa.

I’M WORKING THE CASH REGISTER, getting toward the end of my shift, when my arches ache and my back hurts. Although I took as many extra shifts as I could, it was a bleak and meager Christmas, and Edison spent most of it sullen and moody. He’s been back at school for a week, but there’s been a seismic shift in him-he barely talks to me, grunting out responses to my questions, riding the knife edge of rudeness until I call him on it; he’s stopped doing his homework at the kitchen table and instead vanishes into his room and blares Drake and Kendrick Lamar; his phone buzzes constantly with texts, and when I ask him who needs him so desperately he says it’s nobody I know. I have not received any more calls from the principal, or emails from his teachers telling me he’s slacking on his work, but that doesn’t mean I’m not anticipating them.

And then what will I do? How am I supposed to encourage my son to be better than most people expect him to be? How can I say, with a straight face, you can be anything you want in this world -when I struggled and studied and excelled and still wound up on trial for something I did not do? Every time Edison and I get into it these days, I can see that challenge in his eyes: I dare you. I dare you to say you still believe that lie.

School has let out; I know this because of the influx of teens who explode into the building like a holiday, filling the space with bright ribbons of laughter and teasing. Inevitably they know someone working table and call out, begging for free McNuggets or a sundae. Usually they don’t bother me; I prefer to be busy rather than slow. But today, a girl comes up to me, her blond ponytail swinging, holding her phone while her friends crowd around to read an incoming text with her. “Welcome to McDonald’s,” I say. “Can I help you?”

There is a line of people behind her, but she looks at her friend. “What should I tell him?”

“That you can’t talk because you’re meeting up with someone,” one of the girls suggests.

Another girl shakes her head. “No, don’t write anything. Keep him waiting.”

Like the customers behind her in line, I am starting to get annoyed. “Excuse me,” I try again, pasting a smile on my face. “Are you ready to order?”

She glances up. She has blush on her cheeks that has glitter in it; it makes her look awfully young, which I’m sure is not what she’s going for. “Do you have onion rings?”

“No, that’s Burger King. Our menu is up there.” I point overhead. “If you’re not ready, maybe you can step aside?”

She looks at her two friends, and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline as if I’ve said something offensive. “Don’t worry, mama, I was jus’ aksin’…”

I freeze. This girl isn’t Black. She’s about as far from Black as possible. So why is she talking to me like that?

Her friend cuts in front of her and orders a large fries; her other friend has a Diet Coke and a snack wrap. The girl orders a Happy Meal, and as I angrily stuff the items into the box, the irony is not lost on me.

Three customers later, I’m still watching her out of the corner of my eye as she eats her cheeseburger.

I turn to the runner who’s working at the register with me. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk into the dining area where the girl is still holding court with her friends. “…so I said, right to her face, Who lit the fuse on your tampon? -”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me at the counter.”

A hot blush burns in her cheeks. “Wow, okay. I’m sorry,” she says, but her lips twitch.

My boss suddenly is standing beside me. Jeff is a former middle manager at a ball bearing plant who got cut when the economy tanked, and he runs the restaurant like we are giving out state secrets and not French fries. “Ruth? Is there a problem?”

There are so many problems. From the fact that I am not this girl’s mama to the fact that she will not remember this conversation an hour from now. But if I choose this particular moment to stand up for myself, I will pay a price. “No, sir,” I tell Jeff, and in silence, I walk back to my register.

–

MY DAY ONLY gets worse when I leave work and see six missed phone calls from Kennedy. I immediately ring her back. “I thought you agreed that working with Wallace Mercy was a bad idea,” she hammers, without even saying hello.

“What? I did. I do .”

“So you had no idea that he was leading a march in your honor today in front of the courthouse?”

I stop walking, letting the foot traffic funnel around me. “You gotta be kidding. Kennedy, I did not talk to Wallace.”

“Your sister was shoulder to shoulder with him.”

Well, mystery solved. “Adisa tends to do whatever she wants.”

“Can’t you control her?”

“I’ve been trying for forty-four years but it hasn’t worked yet.”

“Try harder,” Kennedy tells me.

Which is how I wind up taking the bus to my sister’s apartment, instead of going right home. When Donté lets me in, Adisa is sitting on the couch playing Candy Crush on her phone, even though it is nearly dinnertime. “Well, look what the cat drug in,” she says. “Where you been?”

“It’s been crazy since New Year’s. Between work, and going over things for trial, I haven’t had a free minute.”

“I came by the other day, did Edison tell you?”

I kick her feet off the couch so there’s room for me to sit. “Did you come over to tell me your new best friend is Wallace Mercy?”

Adisa’s eyes light up. “You see me on the news today? It was just my elbow and up to here on my neck, but you can tell it’s me by the coat. I wore the one with the leopard collar-”

“I want you to stop,” I say. “I don’t need Wallace Mercy.”

“Your white lawyer tell you that?”

“Adisa,” I sigh. “I never wanted to be someone’s poster child.”

“You didn’t even give Reverend Mercy a chance. You know how many of our people have had experiences like yours? How many times they been told no because of their skin color? This is bigger than just your story, and if some good can come out of what happened to you, why not let it?” Adisa sits up. “All he wants is a chance to sit down with us, Ruth. On national television.”

Alarm bells ring in my head. “Us,” I repeat.

Adisa’s gaze slides away. “Well,” she admits, “I indicated that I might be able to change your mind.”

“So this isn’t even about helping me move forward. It’s about you getting recognition. Jesus, Adisa. This is a new low, even for you.”