The Color of Hope

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, July 30





Samara Johnston let herself into the house at five thirty, wondering if her mom would be home anytime soon. She’d spent much of her day at the school gym, thankful for the extra instruction Coach Willoughby had given her, even after the volleyball clinic had officially ended. Sam would miss that part—the coach’s care and attention—but she wouldn’t miss the other girls making fun behind her back. It was easier to stay to herself than to hang on the periphery, seemingly invisible. Not that it was anything new. Her sophomore year would start in a little over a week. There’d be more of the same.

Felt good in a way just to admit it. No false hopes. No rosy imaginings. In years past she’d told herself she’d find a good friend. She’d even pushed herself to make a friend, to speak in the halls, sit with different girls at lunch. But somehow, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie, she only felt isolated and heartbroken.

She’d never fit in. Would never have the latest styles in anything. She wasn’t into dating or pop music or social media. And it didn’t help that she looked different—her slight frame made her look more like a middle schooler, and her features were a hodgepodge. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been asked, “Are you black or white?” Was there a right answer? Would they like her if she were one or the other?

“Both,” she’d say, and whoever was asking usually shrugged and moved on.

There was no doubt this year would be like all the others. The question was how long she could take it.

She opened her backpack and dumped the books she’d gotten from the library onto the coffee table—and heard her stomach rumbling. She headed to the kitchen, first taking her cell phone from her bag. Should she call her mother? Her prepaid phone had precious few minutes, but she wondered if her mom was bringing carryout. Or maybe she’d gone grocery shopping this afternoon. Sam had asked her to buy some fruit and vegetables, and chicken and fish, like Coach Willoughby recommended.

Her steps quickened to the refrigerator, but she sighed when she opened it. Same limited options as this morning. She dialed her mom but got no answer. So she boiled two hot dogs, sandwiched them with white bread, and ate on the sofa, burying herself in one of her new library books—Jane Austen’s Emma.

A car door slammed suddenly, startling Sam, and she realized she’d fallen asleep. She jumped up and looked out the front window, hoping, and her heart fell. Hank, her mother’s boyfriend, was with her. Couldn’t she and her mom have a weekend together alone? She grabbed her book and dashed into her room, shutting the door. Moments later the TV and radio were blaring. How could they possibly listen to both?

Her door flew open, and her mother stood in the doorway. Petite like Sam, Teri was only in her early thirties. But with her long, straight dirty-blond hair, tired eyes, and drawn cheeks, she looked years older. “Sam, did you eat all the hot dogs?”

Sam looked up from her bed, propped up on an elbow. “Yes, but there were only two left.”

“I told Hank I’d get him one, and they’re gone.”

Her mom blew smoke from a cigarette, clearly agitated. She always smoked more when she was nervous, and she smoked a lot when Hank was around.

Sam stared. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know what else to eat, and I was hungry after volleyball and—”

“Why didn’t you eat the fish sticks? I bought those for you.”

“Mom, I don’t even like fish sticks. I really wanted fresh fish or chicken or—”

“Sam, life is not about getting what you want all the time.”

“Teri!” Hank called from the living room. “Where’s the hot dog? It doesn’t take that long, does it? And don’t forget the mustard and relish.”

Her mom sighed. “Now I’ve got to run to the store.”

Sam wanted to ask her to bring back apples or bananas, but she stayed silent as her mom pulled the door shut.

She opened her book and found her page, trying her best to block out the noise . . . and let a tear slide onto her pillow.