Isaiah began to sweat.
That was why they were passing laws to keep white and black from mixing, the board explained, why they wanted to ster-i-lize “tainted” people. Isaiah didn’t know what sterilize meant, but it didn’t sound good.
The exhibits said America needed to fix this problem. They called fixing it “selection.” “Selected” and “pure” people were the goal of eugenics. “Selected” people made civilization. “Tainted” people ruined it. The board said that if people were careful about breeding for their pigs and cows, why wouldn’t they be careful about breeding in Americans?
Isaiah thought of Memphis in love with Theta and Theta in love with Memphis, and he understood for the first time just how dangerous their love was for them. Even though they were supposed to be free, they weren’t.
His stomach hurt all of a sudden like he’d eaten too much candy, and he wished he could throw it up. Isaiah glanced furtively at all the people in the tent: white mothers, white fathers, white nurses, white doctors. When they looked his way, he saw the hare-quick downturn of their mouths before they corrected it. He felt it before he saw it. The way you could smell rain before the first drop hit your skin. He shoved his own deep, dark brown hands into his pockets, as if by hiding some part of his body, he could hide all of himself.
In the next second, he felt Theta’s hands on his shoulders, turning him away from the exhibit. He could sense her feelings. She was angry and sad, but she was also scared. Really scared.
“Hey, Isaiah, let’s get outta here. These people are all chumps.”
Isaiah was angry and hurt. These people were mean. They would never give him one of those pretty medals. He’d just have to give himself one, then. Isaiah swiped a brass medal and shoved it into his pocket. He tightened his fingers around the edges, and the future jolted through Isaiah like a fast fever. His body shook with horrors. Camps and barbed wire and golden stars on striped pajamas, bones and shoes and teeth. He didn’t know where this future was, how long from now, only that it was more horror than he could imagine. Foam bubbled up at the corners of his mouth.
“Isaiah!” Theta shouted. “Isaiah!”
As Henry and Ling approached the ticket booth, he smiled at her.
“What?” Ling asked, suspicious.
“Miss Chan, why, I do believe you are the belle of this ball.”
Ling made a face. “Why would I want to be a bell?”
“It’s an expression. You look beautiful.”
“I do not,” Ling said, blushing.
“I’m sorry. I meant to say, who is that hideous beast in drag?”
“Now you’re just trying to annoy me.”
They’d reached the ticket booth. Ling handed over Marlowe’s handwritten IOU. It was creased from constant handling.
“What is this?” the ticket taker said, scoffing at the flimsy paper.
“It’s from Jake Marlowe himself. He signed it. See?” Ling said.
The ticket man shook his head. “Not to me, it’s not. Tickets are two dollars and fifty cents. Each.”
Ling’s mouth hung open. “But… but that’s a fortune!”
“There must be some mistake, sir. Miss Chan was promised a ticket,” Henry said.
Behind them, the others in line grew restless: “Get out of line!” “Step aside—let the paying customers through!” “What’s the trouble? Oh, just someone wanting to come in for free.” “Oh, look! There’s Mr. Marlowe!”
On the other side of the gates, a determined-looking Jake Marlowe cut a striking figure walking through the crowd, shaking people’s hands, welcoming them to his great vision of the future.
“Just a minute!” Henry said, and raced toward the gates. “Mr. Marlowe! Mr. Marlowe!” he called. “Mr. Marlowe!”
Jake Marlowe peered through the golden bars at Henry, his smile faltering. “Mr. Marlowe, it’s me, Henry DuBois? I’m here with Ling—Miss Chan. Sir, they won’t honor your IOU. They say we need a ticket.”
Marlowe stood for a second more, then walked away, glad-handing his way through the crowd.
There were few feelings that Ling hated more than shame, and now her face burned with it.
“Told you,” the ticket man said. “Everybody needs a ticket. Two dollars and fifty cents. Each. Next!”
“I shall write to the mayor!” Henry said to the gawkers and gossipers. “Let’s go. Heads high,” he murmured low into Ling’s ear, and they retreated to a bench a safe distance from the colorful swirl of the exhibition. Ling’s eyes were blurred with angry tears as she stared across the bustling fairground at the pavilions and booths on the other side of Marlowe’s gates, and at the white-domed Hall of the Future, where the glories of science would thrill other people. Where it was all happening. Without her. She’d given Marlowe the benefit of the doubt. She’d defended him to Mabel and the others, and he had looked right at her and denied her. Shamed her.
Henry handed over his handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”
Ling blew her nose. “I knew. That’s the awful part. I knew. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“To hell with Marlowe. I’ll buy you a ticket. Why, I’ll buy you four tickets, and you can go four days in a row and stick your tongue out at that pompous fool every time!”
Ling snorted through her tears. “You don’t have enough money for one ticket, much less four.”
“That’s true. But it felt like the time for gallant speechifying. I rose to the moment rather well, I think.”
Ling was overcome by her love for Henry, jokes and all. It was funny how that could happen, how something strong and good could rise up from under the pain. Henry was her friend. She wished she could say something, I love you or You are the best friend I’ve ever had; I hope I’m a good friend to you, too. She hoped he could feel all that was unsaid between them. Somehow, she thought he would.
Ling handed back Henry’s handkerchief. “Thank you.”
Henry grimaced and held the snotty cloth by a corner before tucking it into his pocket. “Don’t mention it.”
The two of them watched the streams of people entering the gates of the fairgrounds. The children waved little American flags.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Henry said. “I’ll get a little money from David and Theta, enough to buy you a ticket. They’ll let you in.”
Ling stood up, balancing her weight on her crutches. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want in anymore. Not to that club. We’ll make our own exhibitions.”
She gave Jake Marlowe’s sprawling vision of America’s future a last backward glance.
“To hell with Marlowe,” she said.