The Lions of Little Rock

I talk a lot. Just not out loud where anyone can hear. At least I used to be that way. I’m no chatterbox now, but if you stop me on the street and ask me directions to the zoo, I’ll answer you. Probably. If you’re nice, I might even tell you a couple of different ways to get there. I guess I’ve learned it’s not enough to just think things. You have to say them too. Because all the words in the world won’t do much good if they’re just rattling around in your head.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. To understand me, and how I’ve
changed, I need to go back to 1958.
It was a beautiful day in September and I was standing on top of a diving board. The blue sky was reflected in the water below, the white board felt scratchy under my feet, and the smell of hot dogs wafted up from the snack stand. It was a perfect summer day-the kind you see in the movies and I was positive I was going to throw up.
You see, it wasn’t just any high dive. Oh, no. It was the super-huge, five-meter-high platform diving board, the tallest at Fair Park Swimming Pool, probably the highest in all of Little Rock. It might have even been the highest in all of Arkansas. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t been afraid of heights. But I was.
Sally McDaniels had told me she was going to jump off and asked if I wanted to come too. Everyone over the age of ten had already jumped off the board a dozen times that summer. Except for me, and I was practically thirteen. It was easier to nod than say no, so there I was.
Sally was waiting behind me on the ladder. Blond and blue-eyed, she wore a pink suit the exact color of her toenails. Sally wasn’t really pretty, but no one ever noticed because she acted like she was. “Are you all right?” she asked.
No, of course I wasn’t all right. I mean, I wasn’t sick or anything, but I was standing perfectly still, frozen as a Popsicle, counting prime numbers in my head. A prime number is a number that can only be divided by itself and one. There are twenty-five of them under a hundred, and reciting them sure does help me when I’m nervous. “Go ahead and jump,” said Sally.
I didn’t move. A plane flew across the clouds… 2, 3, 5, 7, 11… I wished I were a stork and could fly away. Or a flamingo. Or a penguin. Except I didn’t think they flew.
“Marlee,” Sally said. “There’s a bunch of people behind us.” I hated holding them up, so I took a step toward the edge of the platform… 13, 17, 19, 23… but then I got dizzy and fell to my knees. “Come on,” cried the boy on the ladder behind Sally. “Hurry up and jump.” I shook my head and clutched the board… 29, 31, 37, 41. It didn’t
work. I wasn’t ever letting go. Sally laughed. “She said she was really going to do it this time.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter and kept counting… 43, 47, 53… “Isn’t that Judy Nisbett’s little sister?” someone said.
It must have only have been a minute or two, but I got all the way to 97 before I felt Judy’s hand on my shoulder. “Marlee,” she said quietly, “come on down. I already bought a Coke and a PayDay. We can share them on the way home.
I nodded but didn’t move.
“Open your eyes,” Judy commanded.
I did. Not that I always do what my sister says, but-well, I guess I usually do. In any case, when I saw my sister’s clear brown eyes looking at me, I felt much better. She was sixteen and going into the eleventh grade. I could talk to my sister. She was smart and calm and reasonable.
“Do you want me to hold your hand on the way down the ladder?”
Judy asked. I nodded again. It was embarrassing, but I didn’t think I could do it on my own. Once I felt her palm on mine, it only took a minute for us to make our way down together.
“What a baby!” said the boy who had been behind me as he brushed past us to climb up again. Sally laughed, and I knew they were right. I was a baby.
“Come on,” said Judy. She picked up her book and her bag from the lounge chair where she’d been reading.
“See you at school tomorrow,” said her friend Margaret. “See you,” Judy replied, waving good-bye.