Chapter 6: Revolution in a Southern Skirt

After a few more days of late-night studying under Mrs. Watkins’s supervision, I could finally recite the passage. But today, Mr. Carter didn’t come. I heard he was sick. With one less person to manage me, I should’ve been happy, but I felt uneasy. It was like a cat scratching at my heart. Later, a substitute teacher came, always lecturing about how women shouldn’t stand out. His gaze was always on me. At first, I tried to behave, but he got worse. When I argued that women shouldn’t have to just serve husbands and raise kids, he made me stand outside. I’m a Whitaker—how could I accept that? I stormed to the garden and sat down. In a bad mood, I even thought of Mr. Carter. If he were here, I wouldn’t be suffering this injustice.

I kicked at the gravel, fuming. The sun was too bright, the birds too loud. For once, I missed Mr. Carter’s cold logic.

Mrs. Watkins caught up, nagging, "Savannah, that gentleman was your old English teacher. He’s old-fashioned, but at least he taught your dad."

She sat beside me on the bench, her hands folded in her lap. Her voice was gentle, but I could tell she was worried.

I rolled my eyes. "Can you really listen to what that old guy says? Why should women only serve husbands and raise kids? Why are we supposed to be born less than men? That’s messed up."

I crossed my arms, chin high. I wasn’t going to back down—not now, not ever. The world was changing, and so was I.

Mrs. Watkins gasped, then warned, "Savannah, be careful—"

She glanced around nervously, lowering her voice. But I just smiled, feeling stronger than ever. Maybe it was time for the story to change for good.