Color Me White
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Doctor Who
Copyright: BBC
The chemists' shop down the road from Leadworth's uninhabited duck pond was exactly the same: rows of pill bottles, hygiene products, a row of freezers at the back and a rather sparse shelf of greeting cards next to the counter. It smelled the same: a mix of flowery shampoo, licorice and sulfur. Even Mrs. Danforth, the manager, was still there: milky-pale and blue-veined with age, the ringlets of her neat gray perm shaking as she moved her head, a huge pair of glasses making her look unnervingly insect-like.
"Good morning," she chirped. "How can I help you, dear?"
River blinked, taken aback. This was not the greeting she'd been expecting. Catching sight of her reflection in the security mirror reminded her why. This was not the body Mrs. Danforth was used to keeping suspicious eyes on.
"Just stocking up on some basics," she muttered, picking up a box of tampons.
"I don't think I've seen you before," said Mrs. Danforth. "Are you new in town?"
River ducked behind a shelf so the manager wouldn't see her smirk. Oh no, ma'am, I've lived here for all my third regeneration. How do you like the new face? Does this hair make my head look big? And look – I'm Caucasian! No wonder you're being so polite.
"Oh no," she replied lightly. "I'm just passing through. Visiting … friends."
"How nice. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Thank you."
Having composed herself, River emerged from behind the shelf, picked up a roll of Jammy Dodgers from one of the bargain bins (just in case), and carried it and the tampons over to the counter.
"You wouldn't happen to remember a girl named Melody Zucker, would you?" she asked casually, using the alias she had gone by at the time.
Mrs. Danforth squinted at the price tags, her bony hands dancing like spiders across the cash register.
"Hmm? Zucker? Oh, yes." The gray curls bounced from side to side. "Tch, tch, tch. Poor girl. Very troubled. Do you know her?"
River bristled internally, but kept her face blank. The old bag can take her pity and shove it, spat the teenage girl she had been so long ago.
"I'm her teacher," she improvised. "Yes … I've heard about her personal history. She grew up here, didn't she?"
"Oh yes. A bad egg, I'm afraid. Countless times I've caught her shoplifting in here, and leading on her friends to do the same. If she's your student, I can only sympathize. A few years ago, she drove one of her teachers to a nervous breakdown."
"Did she now?" River's jaw ached from looking pleasantly disinterested. Only because he had the nerve to fail me, when I've forgotten more about quantum physics than he ever knew. And nicking those lipsticks was Amy's idea, and we only tried it once –
"Mm-hmm, afraid so. But then, what can you expect from – well, from her sort?"
"Excuse me." River's pleasant voice took on a hint of steel. She placed her red-nailed hands on the counter, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Her sort?"
"Oh, you know," Mrs. Danforth twittered, appearing not to notice. "Some color won't come off with washing. And since she was in foster care, it stands to reason her parents were somehow unfit guardians. What's bred in the bone … you understand, my dear, don't you? As a teacher, I'm sure you've had your share of difficult children."
Some color won't come off … unfit guardians …
River's fists clenched on the cold plastic, sharp nails digging into her palms. She had honestly believed herself to be better than this, mature enough to face her childhood demons as if they really had belonged to a different person. That was why she'd come to Leadworth in the first place; not only to visit Amy and Rory, but to prove this to herself. Instead she bitterly regretted leaving her sedative perfume behind at Stormcage. She still had her squareness gun tucked into her purse, though …
River, stop, said her conscience, in the familiar boyish tenor of her husband. You are better than this.
Looking up from her hands at Mrs. Danforth, whose washed-out blue eyes bulged with honest fear, she was forced to agree with him.
"I don't appreciate people who judge others by their race or background," she said, lowering her voice to a predator's purr. "You have no idea what Melody has been through. She's got a job now, she's married, she's fighting tooth and nail to turn her life around. The last thing she needs is a bigoted World War II relic like you, spreading gossip and making things worse for her. Is that clear?"
Mrs. Danforth's white face turned paler than ever, and her hand wandered to a spot underneath the counter where, from painful experience, River knew the security button was.
"Get out of my shop," she whispered, choked by equal parts fear and rage.
"With pleasure!"
River whirled around and made her exit, the steel chimes above the door ringing furiously behind her. Every click of her high heels on the concrete sidewalk was a small explosion. She barely saw the summer sky, or smelled the familiar lilacs growing by the pond, aware of nothing but the rage spiralling inside her like a snake eating its own tail. Not until the shop was two blocks behind her did she remember having left her merchandise on the counter.
"Damn."
She had two options: go back to Mrs. Danforth – absolutely not! – wait for one of her assistants to take over – and when would that be? – or use her vortex manipulator to take her somewhere else, anywhere else. But first, she had to calm down. Vortex-jumping in an agitated state could have nasty consequences, as the Doctor had told her all too often.
She sat down on the old wooden bench next to the post office, leaned back, and raked her hands through her frizzy hair. It was one of the few gestures she'd kept from her previous body; which made sense, considering that frizziness was the only feature they both had in common. At forty-seven (eighteen, as far as Leadworth was concerned) she'd gone to Edinburgh to get cornrows, since the local haistylists had been hopeless in dealing with African curls, eyeing them up as if they were Medusa's snakes. This memory only fuelled her anger; it was a small thing, but small things tended to accumulate, rather like mosquito stings, until the combined itch became unbearable.
She could barely remember her first regeneration, except for dark streets, overwhelming exhaustion, and a black man watching her with alarmed concern. It must have been after Amy had unwittingly shot her; after she'd clawed her way out of the space suit. She knew from the photograph in her orphanage that she had been born white, like her parents, with Rory's straight mousy hair. Her regeneration must have changed her race out of an unconscious need to blend in, out there in the alleys of Harlem. Raised in isolation by a fifty-first-century madwoman and a swarm of Silent Ones, she couldn't have realized how badly she would stand out in so many other places.
She looked down at her hands, her white hands. White, white, white, she remembered chanting to herself, as the golden light enveloped her in Hitler's office. Please, God, let me be white again. If I'm stuck in Nazi Berlin colored like this, it will get twice as complicated. And for once, she'd gotten her wish – but kept the frizz. It was enough to make one wonder if Time Lord genes had a sense of humor.
Had there been brown-skinned people on Gallifrey before it was destroyed? Had their status been any different? Had the Doctor ever changed races, or had he always been white? Something about his casual indifference to "those silly human prejudices", the way he took his authority for granted, hinted to her, whatever the Gallifreyan upper class might have been (whether color-related or not), he was part of it. He had been judged for his opinions, for his choices, but never for himself. She loved him, but he was not omniscient. Some things he simply couldn't see.
"All right there, lady?"
A young voice, startlingly familiar, jolted her out of her thoughts. She looked up, from a pair of scruffy combat boots with trailing laces, to skinny jeans, a black tank top, sleek cornrows pulled into a ponytail – and an all-too-familiar, eighteen-year-old, light brown face.
Damn it, was her first thought. Don't tell me that thing's malfunctioning again. Her vortex manipulator appeared to be at least a year off-target, because why else would Melody "Mels" Pond-Williams, alias Zucker, be standing right in front of her? Calling her lady, no less. She knew she looked at least forty, and was in fact a great deal older, but how embarrassing!
"I'm fine," she said, pasing on a smile. "Thank you."
"You don't look so good. Can I get you something, maybe over there?" Mels gestured over her shoulder, where the sign of Mrs. Danforth's shop was still faintly visible.
"Good lord, no," she blurted out. "I've already been. The manager's on the prowl."
"She bothered you?"
Mels' eyes flicked to River's green linen pantsuit and her well-preserved, elegantly made-up face. As the minor time loop curled around them both, River remembered seeing the moment from Mels' perspective: how respectable the white woman had looked, how upper-middle-class, someone who'd never had to deal with racism in her life. How envious she had been!
She'd also forgotten – or perhaps ignored – how beautiful Mels was. Her cornrows shone like glossy liquorice in the sun.
It's not right, she surprised herself by thinking. It's not right that she can't appreciate who she is, that she – that I – denied what beauty she already had in order to fit in. Other outsiders don't have the luxury of Time Lord DNA; they have no choice but to accept themselves as they are, society be damned.
I took the easy way out, and it's not even that easy. Black or white, I still haven't stopped thinking like an outsider. The Doctor would tell me that's a good thing – unique perspective, and all that – but is it really?
She forced her tangled thoughts aside to focus on Mels, who was still looking worried, and answer her question.
"She's not worth winding myself up over," with a dismissive hand wave. "Don't worry. People like that should be packed in mothballs and stored in a museum – except that's an insult to museums. I'm an archaeologist. I should know."
Mels snickered.
"I like your hair, by the way," said River. "It's an ancient tradition going back to the Stone Age. 'Cables to Heaven', some people call it."
Mels let out a snort at the idea of Heaven, but looked gratified all the same as she flicked a loose braid off her face.
"Thanks. You should try it sometime," eyeing River's untamable blonde afro with a wry sort of respect.
"Maybe I will. Have a nice day."
"See ya!"
Mels waved over her shoulder as she sauntered off, about to meet their young parents for ice cream and plan some hideous pranks on Mrs. Danforth, which Rory would mercifully talk her out of. The last thing that girl needed was another stint in juvenile detention. River watched her go with a faintly nostalgic sigh.
Time to get going, she thought. I can always get the tampons somewhere else. And after that, Casa Pond – hugs, wine and gossip, in that order. Do they have my guest room ready yet? If not, I'd better buy a toothbrush.
They wouldn't care if I was pink, brown or silicon-based, come to think of it. Maybe there's hope for this planet after all.