“Hurry on, now. Masta ain’t gonna be happy with you late for that tobacco and all!” she hollered. Dang it, she could blow someone’s ears out with that voice o’ hers. She might as well zap me with some lightnin’. Agh! Bu’ she was right, in her screamin’ ol’ way.
“Yes’m.” I said plainly. I shoved the door open, lettin’ the bright Sun shine in, with the heat seeping in too. “Oh, shut that door, soon as you go, girl! An’ that betta be quick!” she scolded again. Jeez! I’m dang sixteen and I’m purdy sho’ know how to walk and use a door! My sista Jane ain’t ever gonna learn…
I headed out of the shed and slammed the door behind me. I knew exactly what Jane’s expression was. She was shaking her head, grumpy, and angry, but she wouldn’t chase me out of the shed to give a scolding. Too afraid to go out. Actually, she was one of the only slaves that worked inside that shed. She was given things to clean in there meanwhile all them other slaves and me had to work out in them fields and plantations and all.
I dashed to the field, my tattered shoes slowing me down. I would have to stop every once in a while, ‘cause the holes in my shoes would cause my feet to hurt real bad.
“What took you so long?” whispered a voice in the fields.
I looked up a bit and saw the newcomer. One of them new slaves. Actually, I think he was the one Masta was talkin’ about with his friend. He told his bud that, ‘cause this new one was still young and in’cent an’ all, he was gon’ teach him the real way a slave is s’pposed to work. I kinda pitied him, but I didn’t say nothing about that to his face. Bed he’d take advtange of my sympathy.
“Who are you?” I asked, avoidin’ his question. His eyes darted from the tobacco to me, and, I guess, after deciding I wasn’t gon’ hurt him or an’thin’, he replied, “Charles. You’re usually the first one here. Why so late?” I realized his speech seemed a bit slurred, and I started wonderin’ why—I didn’t ask though. “Why must you question?” I demanded, in the most proper tone I could put on, and stepped into the field, about to work in another section of the field…away from this kid.
Before I left, I glance back at him, and he was starin’ after me. “Who are you?” It was his turn to ask me now. I raised an eyebrow, wonderin’ if I should tell him. I thught for a moment, and decided not to. He knew I was late for tobacco and cotton pickin’, and if he had my name, he would definitely tell Masta. New slaves were kiss-ups—the more goody-two-shoes they seemed, the less work they would get…or so they thought. So, instead, I just kept right on walkin’, and called, “See you t’morrow.” ‘Fore I really left, I got one good look at him, an’ realized he got some purple juice on his cheek. That’s why he was so slurry! Though he was eatin’ some mighty fine berries, he got a bite of them drunk ones.
An’ways, as I got to another section of the field, I saw my friend, Ally, so I started workin’ next to her. “He new, ain’t he?” she asked me, real soft, not lookin’ straight at me. If Masta was watchin’ us, he wouldn’t be able to tell that we talkin’. As long as there was no eye contact, no huge movement of our mouths, he couldn’t tell.
“Yeah, heard Masta gonna work him hard, Al.” I responded, picking the cotton from the plant. I glanced as quick I could at her, and saw her shakin’ her head sadly. “That boy ain’t gonna be workin’ in the plantation too long. ‘Fore you know it, he gonna be pulling that wagon in the mud and all.” she mumbled.
“Then that’s what he gets for lettin’ them whites get him back home.” I muttered, with a roll of my eyes. Ally hid a smirk and sighed. “JeNezebel, you know your story of how you got captured too. Don’t go blamin’ the new one for being caught.” She moved onto another plant. I ripped all the cotton off the plant, and went to another one.
“Hey, now, don’t you go shooting it back on me, Ally. Not my fault I was too young to understand.” I shot back, tsking very softly.
“Ah, just keep workin’.” Ally said. I could tell she didn’t want to go so deep into my history. I didn’t nose my way into hers, and she didn’t nose her way into mine. That’s how it worked. Us slaves had them bad stories and them good stories, but no matter what, they were too emotional to tell, when we were stuck in a place like this. We’d get all upset over bad stories, the way we thought they were horrible when we was young, but bein’ a slave was worse. We’d get all worked up over good stories, ‘cause we’d miss those times. But ever since I’ve gotten here, I’ve never cried, maybe ‘cause I just don’t feel like showin’ I can. It’s like a weakness. Ally, though, she can still cry all she wants. She don’t cry out loud, but at night, I swear I can hear snifflin’, and I can tell she be thinkin’ ‘bout times back then. The good and the bad. ‘Specially the bad.
