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“You can’t stick the one black girl in the attic,” Rose said. “That’s segregation. None of us are free until we’re all free.”
“Reading the wrong book is almost worse than not reading any book at all,”
Fern had an idea where this was going, and it smelled bad, like an old Band-Aid.
“What do you think librarians do?” she asked. “Check out books? Certainly not. We deliver knowledge to those who need it, which is what I’m doing. Now, skyclad, please.”
The reborn Miss Wellwood lectured them at breakfast, lunch, and dinner about their generation’s godlessness, berating them for turning to witchcraft and superstition, for creating nothing but vulgarity and bad taste. Most of the girls picked their fingernails, barely listening, but Fern constantly ran her finger around her collar to make sure Miss Wellwood couldn’t see the red string.
“This isn’t a decision between right and wrong,” Diane said. “It’s a decision between bad and worse. You think you want to keep this baby, but doing that means you’re giving up everything: an education, meeting the right guy, being with your friends, having a career, starting a real family.”