Part 24 (2/2)

Perhaps she hadn't been as good an actress as she'd thought, or they hadn't been as dumb as she'd imagined. Perhaps her masquerade had been a bit too obvious, and the boys a mite more perceptive than she'd expected. That was an explanation she could live with.

But there was another possibility, one that pained her because it related to her appearance. She had always seen herself as overweight and unattractive, and had believed that others saw it too. Her parents and Rachel had constantly disputed this, telling her she was crazy, insisting she was beautiful. But how much truth could she expect from them?

She simply believed she was ugly, and nothing anyone could say would change that. In the past, she had attempted dieting, every diet under the sun, even to the brink of starving herself. But regardless of how little food she ate, each time she looked in the mirror, all she saw was ”fat.”

She hated herself, and that was why she so desperately needed to escape her life. Her dreams of the stage, of Steven Butler-these were her fantasies, her salvation. If she could attain them, she would be okay. She had to succeed; her happiness depended on it.

But what could she do about her weight? There was only one answer left, one that she had avoided because it had always seemed grotesque. She'd heard about it over the years from some of the girls in the community, but had never believed she could actually do it. Not until now.

It was seven o'clock in the evening, and Esther lay in bed with antic.i.p.ation. The following night she would once again see Steven Butler. She was so entranced in fantasy, she didn't even realize that she was touching herself. She'd just finished dinner with her family downstairs, and had thought about doing some reading before going to sleep. Her cla.s.s was working on The Tempest, and she'd planned to finish it before tomorrow's session. But she couldn't read, and she wasn't able to sleep either. All she could do was lose herself in thought.

Suddenly, she got up from the bed and went to the bathroom. She locked the door, something she'd never done before, and sat down on the floor. She stared at the toilet for a few minutes, until she built up the nerve to bring herself closer to it. Then, she leaned over the bowl, stuck her finger down her throat, and vomited. The purging took five minutes; cleaning it up, much longer. She wanted everything to be spotless. There shouldn't be a trace of what she'd done.

Afterward, she returned to bed and cried. Yet, despite the awful feelings she had for what she'd done, she was somehow relieved. She was no longer anxious about Steven; she finally had control over her appearance. A few minutes pa.s.sed, and she was able to pick up The Tempest and concentrate. She would sleep just fine.

Esther Mandlebaum now had another secret.

CHAPTER 32.

Brooklyn College was located on Avenue H in Flatbush, the heart of Kings County. Its impressive campus of trimmed lawns, surrounded by neo-Georgian red-brick buildings, lent an aura of another place and time, while its perpetual social problems made it very much a place of its time. From its inception in 1937, the campus had been regarded as a hotbed of left-wing ideology, earning it the nickname of the ”little red schoolhouse” from its critics. By the late sixties, it had become a center for political and racial upheaval, marked by protests against the Vietnam War, and demonstrations by minority students demanding open admissions.

Joshua's first day was devoted to registration and orientation. There was a large meeting in the a.s.sembly hall, at which the dean and other officials gave speeches about registration procedures, college rules, activities, etcetera. Afterward, Joshua was confronted with the task of filling out forms and choosing cla.s.ses. Much of this was simple. There was a list of required courses for freshmen, which took up most of his schedule and left room for only one elective. The instructions were to pick an elective from one's ”major.” There came the dilemma.

Joshua sat, pondering the list of potential majors, while the room emptied out. When he realized that he was one of the only students remaining, he forced himself to decide. He stared, once more, at the dotted line, and filled in ”pre-law.” What the h.e.l.l.

The first recommended course for pre-law majors, he noted, was Introduction to Political Science. He got up to hand in his forms.

The line, which had been quite long just fifteen minutes earlier, had dwindled to three, including him. He approached the desk with his papers, and a tired looking black woman extended her hand to take them without even looking at him. She examined the forms, and flipped through some other papers as she entered his name for various cla.s.ses. It seemed to be going smoothly, until she looked up at him, and said, ”Sorry, poli-sci is full.”

”Full?” he asked, not quite knowing what she meant.

”Full. You'll have to pick something else.”

”What else?”

”How do I know?” Chafing.

”But I'm a pre-law major, and that's the first pre-law cla.s.s.”

”But it's full.”

He looked at his list of cla.s.ses again, and chose the one that came after Introduction to Political Science. ”How about political science-two?”

”No can do, you need the introduction course first.”

”But it's closed.”

”That's true.”

He went to the next course on the list. ”How about U.S. Const.i.tution-one?”

”Need the poli-sci courses first.”

He was getting the hang of this. He looked down the list one last time, searching for a course without a prerequisite. There had to be one. Finally, a t.i.tle struck him, Introduction to Ethnic Studies. Without speaking, he showed her the list with his finger pointed to it.

Her expression was disdainful, as if she didn't approve. He returned a hearty smile-who gives a f.u.c.k what you think? She returned to her rosters, found the cla.s.s, and entered his name.

He walked away, wondering why she'd been so rude. Here he was, finally entering college, an adult, at the gateway to the civilized world, and getting mistreated. By a black person, no less. It had been naive of him to think that blacks supported one another in the white world. Now he knew otherwise. He wondered what other lessons awaited.

His name was Alvin Thompson, and he was a full professor in the department of Ethnic Studies. He was black; in fact, the only black teacher Joshua had. He was about five-ten, of average build, and good looking. To Joshua's eye, he could have pa.s.sed as a double for Sidney Poitier.

In temperament, however, Professor Thompson couldn't be compared with anyone. He was reputed as a firebrand, extremely acrimonious, with no concern for what others thought of him. A proud son of the ghetto. Self-anointed messenger of truth.

On first impression, Joshua thought he was okay. He appeared to be a gentleman, impeccably groomed-conservative, brown, plaid suit; starched white-collared s.h.i.+rt; carmine bowtie; maroon hush puppies. And he was remarkably eloquent, not a trace of ”street-talk.”

He had quite a following, standing room only, flowing into the hallway. Joshua was surprised at that, considering the ease with which he was able to register for the cla.s.s. But then he realized that most of the audience weren't students at the college. They were Thompson's disciples from outside.

The sole subject of the cla.s.s ended up being the endless subjugation of blacks in America, and the ways-a' la Thompson-to change that. One of the first things Joshua learned was never to argue with Thompson. He had tried once, during a lecture in which Thompson was going on about living conditions in urban America, and the white man's effort to deluge black neighborhoods with drugs.

”But that's not completely true,” Joshua heard himself say, not believing that the words had actually left his mouth.

Thompson looked around the room. ”Do I hear a voice of dissension?”

All eyes turned to Joshua.

”Well?” Thompson asked, looking directly at the culprit.

Joshua trembled, wis.h.i.+ng for a trap door in the floor.

”Did you have something to add?”

”No, not really.” Sheepish. ”I was just saying that I don't think that all the drugs in black neighborhoods come from white folks. I think things are more complicated than that.”

”Ah, I see.” The professor scratched his chin. ”You think things are more complicated than that. Well, why don't you tell us what you mean, Mr... .”

”Eubanks, sir. Joshua Eubanks.”

”Okay, Mr. Eubanks, why don't you share some of these 'complications' with us.”

Joshua didn't think it wise to bare his expertise on the subject. ”I'd rather not, sir.”

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