The House You Pass on the Way by Jacqueline Woodson Page B

held a Bible in his hand and her grandmother held a poster that said WE WHO BELIEVE IN FREEDOM SHALL NOT REST. They were heroes. But they were also human. And because nobody wanted to believe that, it was hard for people to see any of the Canans as human. Including her and Trout.
    “I mean—what if they wouldn’t have liked you?” Trout said.
    “That’s just dumb.” Dotti glared at Trout. “You don’t know anything about them.”
    Trout’s eyes didn’t flicker from Mama.
    Staggerlee watched Dotti, who was looking at Trout out of the corner of her eye, as though she was waiting for Trout to pull something. Trout ignored her, and this burned Dotti up more than anything.
    Mama nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s easy to imagine them only as heroes. Sometimes people need the easy way.”
    Daddy pushed his plate away and leaned back. “I don’t think my parents had that kind of hate in them,” he said. “I think I would have inherited at least some of it.”
    “But look at Ida Mae,” Trout said. “She’s—”
    “Can I be excused?” Dotti interrupted.
    “Whose night for dishes?” Daddy asked.
    “Go,” Staggerlee said. “It’s my night. Good-bye.”
    “I’ll help you,” Trout offered.
    “Dotti, help Battle to bed,” Mama said. “Make sure he brushes his teeth.” Dotti scowled, mumbling as she lifted Battle from his high chair. The dining room seemed to get lighter after she left.
    “Ida Mae’s from the same people,” Trout continued as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “And she’d never go out and marry a white guy.”
    “Why does it matter?” Mama said, annoyed.
    Trout slunk down a bit in her chair. “I was just wondering,” she said. “Just trying to figure it all out.”
    Mama reached across the table and put her hand on Trout’s shoulder. “No one person ever figures it all out, honey.”
    Trout shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be the first.”

Chapter Eleven
    “YOU READY FOR OUR WALK BY THE RIVER?” STAGGERLEE asked the next morning. Downstairs, she could hear Dotti clearing away the breakfast dishes.
    Trout was sitting on her bed lacing her sneaker. She was dressed in black again, and Staggerlee wondered if everything she owned was black.
    “I dreamed about the river last night.” Trout smiled. She had combed her hair back from her face and tied it with a ribbon. “I dreamed about bones floating in it. People’s bones.”
    “The slaves’ probably,” Staggerlee said. She leaned against the doorway and watched Trout. “Sorry Dotti’s kind of rude.”
    Trout rolled her eyes. “She’s got her own thing going on. That’s fine with me.” She started making her bed.
    “You don’t have to do that now,” Staggerlee said.
    “Yes I do. Ida Mae said it’s good home training—to make your bed before you go off on your day. I’m not going to leave it unmade so you all can talk about me when I’m gone.”
    She looked over her shoulder at Staggerlee and smiled.
    “We wouldn’t talk about you.”
    “You won’t have anything to talk about.” When she finished, she turned. She was serious again, and Staggerlee felt her stomach flutter. “In that dream, those bones seemed to be calling my name.”
    “Your name?”
    “Yeah.” Trout paused. “I need to tell you something, Stag. I need to tell you why Ida Mae sent me here. If we’re going to be friends, I don’t want it starting out on a lie.”
    “I don’t know if it’s something I want to hear.”
    Trout stared at her a long time. “If you don’t want me to tell you . . . I won’t.”
    But Staggerlee knew why Ida Mae had sent Trout here; she could see it in Trout’s eyes and she could feel it when Trout sat down next to her. There was a feeling growing inside Trout, and Staggerlee knew it because it was growing inside her too. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe it had started before she was born and would keep growing—into the earth—long after she had died. She knew it was secret and