Chapter Eight: Swirled

"I am an invisible man...I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me."

~Ralph Ellison

(EPOV)

"I have a plan."

I glanced up from Scarlett's bed, gauged her expression, and then returned to my crossword puzzle. "No."

"Aw, shucks, you haven't even heard it." Scarlett pouted from her vanity chair as she tied a ribbon in her ponytail.

"It's coming from you, which means it's filled with schemes," I replied, chewing on the end of my pencil. "And I want no part of it."

"Hear me out," she continued. "We've been sitting in this room every day for almost a month. I'm bored. If we just went out into the city—"

I dropped my pencil. "No."

"You're such a dud."

"No, I'm a survivor and I'd like to live to a ripe old age, thank you very much."

"Don't you want to see what's out there?" Scarlett spun around in her chair and faced me. Her ponytail swung to the side and I tried not to stare at her glistening, pink lips.

"I have, remember? It almost got me killed." I shuddered at the memory and touched the faint hint of a bruise on my arm.

"That's because you did it wrong. If you went out there dressed like you are now, I would have pounded on you too."

"Gee, thanks," I replied sarcastically.

"Lincoln …" Scarlett whined in that screeching, annoying voice of hers that usually got her what she wanted. "Please? If we dress you up, toss on a hat or something, you'd blend right in. We could walk down the street, get some ice cream, visit that new library …"

"I can't. You weren't there. You should've seen the looks I received. They wanted to slaughter me—blacks, whites, it didn't matter—and they almost did. I can't, Scarlett. As much as I want to, I can't."

Scarlett blew out an exasperated breath. "I'll be right back."

I ignored her and continued about with my puzzle. Ten letter word for crazy …

She returned a few minutes later, her hands filled with clothing. "I dug these out of Father's drawers. He doesn't wear casual clothes much, but I thought these would do. And this hat might just do the trick."

Aha! Psycopath. My crossword puzzle was almost complete.

"Lincoln."

"What?" I glanced up as Scarlett laid the items on the bed. "I said I wasn't going. Drop it already."

"You're not even going to try? Not even for me?" She batted her eyelashes and my heart sunk in my chest. "At least let me make you over. Just look at yourself first and then decide. Please? Please, just let me work my magic, and then if you still don't want to go, we'll stay here and I won't bother you ever again."

I highly doubted that. I tossed my pencil on the bed. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't the first time you've thought of this?"

Scarlett clapped and squealed. "Because it's not. Now, come on. Into the bathroom you go!"

She shooed me along and I trudged regrettably into her bathroom. She pointed and picked up several items. "This is hair gel. You need to get rid of those curls. Slick your hair to the side and comb it over."

I slapped a pile of the goo in my hair and tried to rub it in. Next I picked up the comb and ran it through my curls. My hair fought back with a vengeance and the comb got stuck in the middle.

"What are you doing? You need to part your hair! Part and slick! You're not even following my directions!"

"And you're being bossy," I retorted. "I can't do hair, I'm a guy."

Scarlett groaned and pointed to the toilet. "Sit down."

I did and Scarlett left again, this time returning with gloves. No, not gloves. Kitchen mitts.

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered.

Being a shut in my whole life left me with limited options in regards to friends, but this was ridiculous.

I knew about her phobia, but I didn't understand it. I didn't think I ever would.

"Shush. Just sit still and wait until I'm done." Scarlett hummed under her breath and I sat unmoving as she tugged the comb through my hair. It hurt in some places, but she was actually trying to be gentle. Her dress constantly swayed against my arms and she was so close I could smell her floral scent.

There it was again; that tug and pull in my chest that ached for her. I remembered the first time I ever touched her arm, and how it felt to feel her on my fingertips. She made my throat swell and dry and anytime she got near me or smiled at me, the feeling only intensified.

I didn't know what to make of those feelings, so I enjoyed her proximity as much as possible. Closing my eyes, I endured the turning of my head, the pile of gel being dropped on my scalp, and the constant combing.

"There. Perfect." Scarlett stood back and admired her handiwork, dropping the mitts in the trash. I started to rise up but she told me to remain still as she retrieved the clothes from the bedroom. "Put these on. But don't look in the mirror yet."

I nodded and when she closed the door, I stripped off my worn clothes and Pa's hole-filled loafers. I made sure I was away from the bathroom sink and my fingers trembled when I slipped on the tweed trousers. They fit me perfectly at the waist.

By the time I finished, I was wearing a collared tan dress shirt, slim brown tie, and black dress shoes.

I had never in all of my life worn clothes like that. I felt … dignified. Lastly, I placed the fedora hat on my head and called out to Scarlett, "Finished!"

I listened as she opened the door. I turned around slowly and she gasped.

I blinked, but she didn't say anything. She just stared and stared until I started to feel uncomfortable. "What's wrong? Did I mess it up?"

She shook her head from side to side. "I, uh … you look … presentable. I mean, it'll work, I suppose."

Her cheeks flushed red and in the entire time I'd known Scarlett, I'd never seen her like that. Her eyes traveled up my body and then back down again. When we made eye contact, she turned to the side. "Go on. Look in the mirror. Best I could do with a Negro's hair and all. Don't expect any miracles."

And there it was. She was back to her rude, boorish self and I sighed.

I took a slow step in front of the sink and gazed at my appearance.

My lips curled into a cocky smile and I adjusted my tie.

I, Edward Lincoln Mason, looked good.

Not just any good either. I looked white and handsome and everything a fella my age should be. All of my running and climbing over the past few weeks had given me a broad chest and muscular arms. I licked my lips, held my shoulders back, and strutted back and forth.

Scarlett huffed. "Get over yourself."

"No," I said, wriggling my eyebrows. "I'm dapper and you know it. I mean, look at me. Smooth. Stylish. Suave."

"Suave enough to go out?" she asked hopefully.

Sighing, I weighed my options. On the plus side, the makeover definitely helped, and I just might blend into society. But not knowing was a con. Reliving the hits and kicks and name-calling would not be worth it. I still had nightmares about that day. Every so often I'd wake up in the middle of the night, punching the still air in an attempt to defend myself from people that weren't even there. It was a sort of hell Scarlett didn't understand.

I glanced in the mirror again, this time comparing my skin tone to Scarlett's reflection. I was darker than her, no doubt about it, but it truly just looked like a summer tan.

Could we really do this?

Could I?

I caught Scarlett staring at me again and I grinned proudly at her.

"Are we talking chocolate ice cream or vanilla?"

She shrugged. "I prefer vanilla."

"Really? That's shocking," I commented, tipping my hat. "Scarlett, baby, I was beginning to think you liked it swirled."

Scarlett gasped at my brashness, picked up the nearest hairbrush, and threw it at me.

I laughed and laughed and even though she scowled, I saw the slightest hint of humor in those pretty brown eyes.

.

.

.

The walk into town wasn't long, but I panicked every step of the way. I froze every time a vehicle drove by, and sweated so bad I thought I was having a panic attack. Scarlett tried to keep my mind occupied by chatting about nonsense, but my thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

"It's going to be all right. No one's noticed anything. See? We're almost there."

Easy for her to say. She just pranced along like her life wasn't in danger. I had to remind myself to breathe and I had scratched my palm from digging my nails so hard. We'd reached the center of town, where patrons shopped and ran their daily errands. I swallowed as we stopped on a street corner, tall brick buildings surrounding us.

"I can't do this again." I tried breathing through my nose unsuccessfully and choked back the vomit that was rising from my stomach. I grabbed the metal of the "no parking" sign and leaned over to heave, but nothing came up.

"Lincoln?" Scarlett leaned over, concerned, as I debated high-tailing back to my safe place. I shouldn't have come out there. It was dangerous and I was playing cat-and-mouse with death. I knew who would win and it wasn't the yellow boy dressed in white folks' clothing.

"I can't. I-I—" I felt dizzy and my vision started to blur. My hands twitched, my knees wobbled and a deep ache filled every inch of my body. I inhaled small bouts of air, which hurt my lungs in every imaginable way.

"Calm down, just breathe." The bottom of Scarlett's white dress seemed to blur with the concrete and I had trouble focusing. I was going to die before anyone got the chance to do it themselves.

"Lincoln."

"Lincoln."

"Lincoln."

Scarlett's voice seemed far away, as if she were a distant memory. I swayed back and forth, unable to hold myself upright. One hand fell from the sign while I tried to gasp for oxygen.

A small, warm item was placed in my hand, trying to bring me back to reality. The object moved, slipping its way between my fingers. It felt soft and welcoming and I felt a faint heartbeat against my palm.

It squeezed again and again, as if its motion was pumping blood into my brain. I took a long, deep breath as Scarlett's soothing voice whispered in my ear.

"I'm here, okay? You're fine. Lincoln, you're fine."

A tingle rippled through me as I glanced at my hand.

It wasn't an object.

It was her.

Scarlett was holding my hand, gripping it tightly. My eyes traveled upward as I slowly tried to stand on my feet. I attempted to focus, blinking several times until her image was clear.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded, too shocked to answer at that particular moment. She tried to slip her hand out of my grasp but I clung on to it like a lifeline. I embraced the warmth of her fingertips, the comfort of her touching me.

"Please," I whispered. "I can't … not yet …"

I understood the earth-shattering meaning behind this moment. I knew Scarlett would never, ever touch me, much less hold my hand so intimately. I understood how difficult it was for her to do this, just as it was difficult for me to breathe.

But she was doing it.

She'd laid aside all of her fears and disgust just to make me feel better.

"We need to move," she whispered. "People are starting to stare."

I glanced across the street on the "black side," where folks walking along were focused on us. I nodded, pulling myself together as I let go of the sign. Scarlett squeezed again, prompting me forward.

"One step at a time. See? That old woman in front of us isn't paying us any attention."

She was right. The lady had shopping bags in her hand and she breezed right by, not giving us a second glance. We walked several more feet, each step easier than the last, as a couple smiled and continued about their way.

We were doing it. We were actually doing it!

I never in my wildest dreams thought it was possible.

Scarlett glanced up at me, grinning. "Are you going to tell me I'm a genius now or would you like to wait until later?"

I knew she was kidding, but I couldn't believe her hand was still wrapped in mine. "Scarlett, uh, you don't have to, you know …"

I gestured down to our hands between us and she brushed me off. "Well, I can't have you fainting on me again, now can I? I knew you would wuss out. Such a typical guy. I mean, I knew you were a scaredy-cat, but my goodness. This will go down in weakling history …"

Scarlett rambled on, degrading me and calling me a loser with every sentence that flew from her mouth. I smiled to myself.

Maybe, just maybe, she actually wanted to hold my hand. It was a stretch and perhaps I was asking too much from the universe, but I savored the moment, whatever her reasons.

"The ice cream shoppe," Scarlett nodded, coming to a halt. The Frozen Spoon had images of ice cream cones on their window, but there was one sign taped to the glass. Whites Only. Scarlett smiled and opened the door. A bell dinged as she stepped through the entrance and guided me to the counter, where a young white man greeted us. He had a cone shaped hat on his head and wore a red and white striped shirt.

Several patrons were seated and they peeked at us momentarily before returning to their conversations.

"Welcome to The Frozen Spoon," he said cheerfully. "What can I get for you today?"

"Two swirled cones," Scarlett answered, winking at me as we stood at the counter.

"You got it." Scarlett dug money out of her small purse and paid for the ice cream. The fella turned around to make our cones and I trembled nervously.

"Ha! Thought I'd get vanilla didn't you?" Scarlett joked. "That's two for me today, loser. I swear—"

She never got to finish her sentence because a middle-aged couple interrupted us from behind.

"Aren't ya'll just the cutest?" the woman cooed, nudging the man beside her. "Michael, you remember when we were that young and in love, don't you?"

"I barely remember being young," the man joked.

"Hush you!" she said, swatting at him, laughing. "I do declare, it is so nice seeing young folks going on a proper date. None of that rock n' roll madness they're trying to get everyone into now. You're just so lovely."

"Come on dear, we don't want to hold them up." The gentleman tugged on his wife as she gave a little wave goodbye.

Scarlett was frozen, her face red and pale all at once.

"Two swirlies!" The server behind the counter held out two ice creams, but Scarlett didn't budge.

"Scarlett?"

I felt her hand slip out of mine and before I could stop her, she jetted out of the shoppe, leaving me and the ice cream behind.

I glanced at the man apologetically and chased after her.

"Sir! Sir! Your cones!"

I raced through the door, the ringing bell vibrating in my ear. I glanced up and down the street, but she was gone.

How did she disappear so fast?

My heartbeat quickened. I was nervous for myself for being alone, but I was petrified I wouldn't be able to find her. I raced back down the sidewalk toward where we came from, glancing through store windows and down alleyways.

"Scarlett!" I yelled her name, spinning in circles. I accidently bumped into an older man and my hat slipped off. I didn't bother retrieving it.

I needed to find Scarlett. I sped up and down the complicated blocks, making turns and crossing streets I was unfamiliar with. Fancy brick buildings turned into crumbling shops with broken windows and dangling signs that hinted they were abandoned.

"Scarlett!" I panicked and stood still, wheezing to catch my breath. I placed my hands behind my head, frustrated. "Scarlett!"

"Looking for someone?" A white male appeared from behind a dumpster, dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt. His dark hair was gelled back and a cigarette hung from his lips. He dangled a key ring in his hand, spinning it in loops around his index finger.

"I, uh, I need to find my friend," I explained, glancing around. "Have you seen her?"

"You said Scarlett, right?" he asked, still twirling the keychain.

"Yeah. She's a few inches shorter than me, wearing a white dress."

The teenage boy shrugged. "Can't say that I have. But I do see something that ain't supposed to be here."

I gulped, stepping a few inches back. The two buildings on either side of me seemed to close in. I had to get out of there. Not safe. Not safe.

My head pounded, as if it was telling me to escape as quickly as possible. I got the sinking feeling that wasn't going to happen.

"Seems to me you're on the wrong side of town, Brillo-pad," he sneered, pulling hard on his cigarette. "And that got me to thinking: what's a yellow-looking Negro like yourself doing wandering around these parts? Appears to me you're a thief. You're wearing clothes like a whitey, but here you are sweating like a black pig."

My hat.

My hand trembled as I reached up and touched my hair. The gel was all sweated out and a curled bush stood in its place.

Shit.

"I gotta tell you, I do love me some bacon." The boy flicked his keychain and a small knife flashed out. He held it outward, pointing as he made steps towards me.

I backed up, prepared to make a run for it when strong hands grabbed me from behind. I struggled to move but the large figure held me in place.

"Thought yellow Negros were illegal, Pete," the hot breath sniggered in my ear.

"Why, Garrett, I think you're right." The guy with the knife, Pete, inched his way toward me until we were breathing the same air. He waved his knife in front of my face, running the blade against my cheek. "I believe this one would be worth more dead than alive."

Come on, don't just stand there, I told myself. Do something. Anything.

"Lincoln?" A small, feeble voice called out my name. Pete glanced behind his friend, trying to get a better view. I wasn't strong, but I was fast. I kneed him hard right between the legs. He cried out in pain and I used the opportunity to elbow the guy behind me. I wrangled out of his grasp, pushing his large body to the side. I raced down the alleyway, grabbing a shaking Scarlett.

"Lincoln, these guys … they tried to—" She was sobbing miserably and I held her tightly as she cried against my chest.

"Shh, it's alright. But we gotta go, Scarlett. We have to leave now!" I grabbed her hand in mine and we ducked around the corner just as one of those boys shouted after us.

Scarlett struggled to keep up, but I raced with her trailing behind me. We darted around corners, up and down streets, and through narrow backways until we reached the main street where we first got ice cream.

But we didn't stop.

When you're running for your life, you don't have a choice, otherwise, Death will make it for you.

.

.

.

Scarlett was too upset to go back inside her house and we found ourselves worn out and scared, hiding in the treehouse. It was after three in the afternoon and I knew Mother would be leaving soon.

But I couldn't abandon Scarlett. She had tears streaming down her face, as if she'd been saving them all for this exact moment. I wrapped my arms around her, pressing her closely to my thundering heart.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "That couple … they thought … and I got so mad …"

"Shh," I murmured. She didn't need to explain. She didn't want that couple from the ice cream shoppe thinking we were together and she fled.

"I turned down the wrong street," she moaned. "And these black guys came out of nowhere. I yelled for help …"

She choked on her tears and I felt sickened that someone would try to hurt her. I felt worse that I wasn't there to save her.

"Scarlett, I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry!" I rocked her body steadily, but she paused and looked at me with tearful, blood-shot eyes.

"Why are you apologizing? I'm the one that left."

"I let you leave," I argued. "I let you get away because for a split second I wondered if I wasn't good enough to be the guy holding your hand. You deserve better than me, Scarlett. You deserve a friend—a white friend—who can walk down the street with you and not worry about who's going to attack and if you're ever going to make it out aliv—"

Scarlett shushed my moving lips by covering her hand over my mouth. "You are my friend, Lincoln. You looked everywhere for me and almost got yourself killed for it. I guess I just got scared."

My words were muffled when I tried to speak. "Schrd obr wat?"

"Huh?"

I pulled her fingers away from my mouth. "Scared over what?"

Scarlett's eyes grew wide and her cheeks turned the same shade of red as her tear streaks. She looked extremely uncomfortable and I didn't want to push her over the matter. She'd been through enough today; we both had.

"Well, I'll tell you what scares me," I said bravely. "I'm frightened of living the way I was—alone. I'm glad to have met you and I'm happy you're my friend."

"Yeah?" She looked hopeful and I nodded.

"Yeah," I answered. I sighed and unwrapped my hand from around hers. I placed it between us, my palm facing up.

Scarlett looked at it, debating.

"What do you call a white girl who smiles?" I asked her.

Scarlett shrugged. "I don't know, what?"

"A cheesy cracker," I said, grinning.

She was silent for all of two seconds and then burst into laughter. "That was so lame."

It didn't matter how lame it was because before I could defend my joke, she slipped her hand into mine. We sat there, in the treehouse, and not another word was spoken.

It didn't need to be, I reckoned.

I remember what Pa used to tell me. "Dumb folks that talk a lot ain't really got nothing to say. They just like to hear themselves speak. But the smart ones? Those are the folks that are quiet."

"Why's that?" I had asked.

"'Cause they're too busy praying to God, Son. They're asking for wisdom from their hearts and trust me, God wants you to get straight to the point. He ain't got time for jibber jabber. He can work out the details for Himself."

I glanced at Scarlett. Her eyes were closed and her head was pressed against the rotting wooden walls. I wasn't sure if she was praying or not, but it sure did look like it.

I hoped she was praying.

I was too, and by the time I finished, I confessed how I was falling for a white girl I shouldn't be falling for and I asked if maybe He'd send me a sign to know if she liked me too.

I didn't add any extras, just like Pa said, but I think God heard me.

Scarlett snored softly beside me and her head fell on my shoulder.

Yeah, I think He did.