mother’s and grandmother’s teas, club meetings and receptions, dismissing her with—“It beats me how this child of yours looks so unlike the rest of you . . . Are you sure it isn’t adopted.” Or suppose they were like the college youth she had known in Southern California? No, that couldn’t be. Alva would never invite her where she would not be welcome. These were his friends. And so was Braxton, but Alva said he was peculiar. There was no danger. Alva had invited her. She was here. Anyway she wasn’t so black. Hadn’t she artificially lightened her skin about four or five shades until she was almost brown? Certainly it was all right. She needn’t be a foolish ninny all her life. Thus, reassured, she knocked on the door, and felt herself trembling with excitement and internal uncertainty as Alva let her in, took her hat and coat, and proceeded to introduce her to the people in the room.
“Miss Morgan, meet Mr. Tony Crews. You've probably seen his book of poems. He’s the little jazz boy, you know.”
Emma Lou bashfully touched the extended hand of the curly-headed poet. She had not seen or read his book, but she had often noticed his name in the newspapers and magazines. He was all that she had expected him to be except that he had pimples on his face. These didn’t fit in with her mental picture.
