by Robin Farmer
CHAPTER 7
Carrying all my books weighs me down. Still, I sprint the last few blocks to school. Can’t be late on my first day back. I wipe my brow, it’s a steamer of a day.
At the traffic light, winded, I catch my breath and watch a few stragglers jaywalk toward the four gray stone buildings that dominate the entire block. The rectory anchors one end with the lower and upper schools in the middle and the church on the other corner. I kick an empty milk carton. It skips across the road and lands with the other trash lining that curb: stomped-on cigarette butts; broken soda bottles; hoagie, cheesesteak, and Tastykake wrappings; newspapers. Litterbugs everywhere. As much as I love my hometown, Philadelphia really deserves its “Filthadelphia” nickname. Too bad I can’t throw my worthless feelings onto the trashy heap.
My watch tells me that the late bell will blare in two minutes. Coming to my senses, I dart to the annex and up the steps. I glance up at Veritatem Cognoscere—Latin for “Truth and Courage”—engraved in the gray stone above the entrance. Pigeon droppings on it make me snort.
Stepping into the emptying hallway, my nerves flutter. Wish I could go home. The late bell rings. Dashing up the stairwell, I see Donna lingering by the window fixing her makeup.
“Wow,” I say, “I’m glad to walk in with you instead of by myself.”
“Yay! You’re back. My mom said you should have been expelled, but I defended you.” She pauses from applying mascara to flash an I’m-on-your-side grin. Her mother’s comment irks me so I turn the doorknob. In the doorway, I glance back to see her zipping her mascara in her pencil case. I wait.
“Did you see Cher’s feathered outfit on TV last night?” Donna searches my face as we move down a shiny hallway I missed so much. “My boyfriend thinks I’d look better in it.”
Unlike Cher, Donna’s thin body has all angles and no curves. Cher has a waist while Donna is built like a rectangle. Because we’re so late, I don’t have to answer. We give each other a here-goes-nothing shrug and enter class.
The air is full of invisible razors. I hold my breath. Sister Elizabeth looks us up and down, but says nothing. Her eyes ride my back as classmates greet me on the way to my desk. Someone has carved a tiny heart into the edge of the wooden top of my desk. I cover my mouth, exhale, and mentally note to report it ASAP to avoid blame from the slap-happy demon.
Loading my books under my desk, I’m disappointed that being back feels less than expected. Maybe I’m numb to keep from being scared. Or angry. Not that anyone can tell. All I have to do is look down and hair is all anyone can see.
I look up into Sister’s glare, which could cut concrete. Here we go. I study my protractor while listening to rustled papers and whispered conversations. Time stretches.
“Let us begin the school day in prayer,” Sister Elizabeth finally says.
Our desks creak as we stand mindlessly, making the sign of the cross over our torsos. “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
Repeating the “The Lord’s Prayer” for the millionth time, my mind drifts. My favorite part is “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” I’m not sure why.
Next, we turn to the flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance with our right hand over our hearts.
I overheard Daddy say that after he read The Autobiography of Malcolm X the first time, he stopped reciting the Pledge or standing for the national anthem. I haven’t read yet what prompted that. When I remember Mom taking the book, my chest tightens more.
Malcolm feeds my mind with heaping portions of awareness, confidence, and pride for my heritage. I’m starved for such information at HSB, where four years earlier Mother Superior came on the PA with an odd request. I recall it as if it were yesterday:
“Will all the colored students please report to the main office immediately?”
Bonnie and I exchanged curious looks. We were the only ones in our fourth-grade class of fifty-two students.
The PA sputtered off. I wondered what all of us had done wrong?
We scurried to the office and squeezed in with about forty other anxious students.
Waiting, I stared at the wall of honor noting our best attendance record set ten years earlier when 169 students were absent out of 3,000. That’s when HSB could brag about being one of the largest parochial grammar schools anywhere.
We have way fewer students now. Some sisters and lay teachers say enrollment is dropping as the neighborhood changes. They look like their teeth hurt when they say that.
“Please take this home. It’s about a meeting regarding your future here.” Mother Superior handed each of us a sealed envelope and promised damnation if we opened it.
Handing Mom the letter later that day, I repeated what Mother Superior said.
Mom read the letter silently, then said, “This is a school run by God’s people?” Mom held the letter as if it reeked. “This shit burns me up. They won’t send their kids to a crappy public school, but they want us to.”
Mom never told me what the letter said. All I know is she attended that meeting, Charles and I are still enrolled, Black kids are still coming, white folks are still moving, and Malcolm X can help me understand why reciting the Pledge of Allegiance shouldn’t be part of my school routine.
“. . . with liberty and justice for all,” we say.
Desks groan and a few skid as we settle down. An ambulance wails in the distance and most of us make the sign of the cross.
“Roberta, do you have something to give me from Mother Superior?” Sister Elizabeth’s face and vibe are February cold.
Ah jeez, here we go. “No, Sister Elizabeth.” I take in her joyless expression, then return to fiddling with my protractor. She frowns like she just remembered she left the oven on in the convent.
“Step into the hallway.”
Now I’m light-headed with rubbery legs. Am I heading for another showdown? Sister trails me to the door then whirls around to evil-eye the class.
“Challenge yourself not to sound like a convention of wild boars.”
Sister tugs the windowed door shut behind us. She steps away from the door, motioning me to follow. I’d rather have witnesses while we talk, but okay.
She clears her throat for me to meet her eyes, which appear normal at the moment.
“We will start over and wipe the slate clean. Bear in mind, I will not put up with your smart aleck attitude. I blew my stack, which is most unfortunate. I—we—behaved badly. You’re a smart girl. Don’t throw your future away.”
I’m back to staring at the shiny black and white tiles.
“Let’s get one thing clear. If you think the world revolves around you, here is a news flash: It doesn’t.”
Huh? I lift my head and meet her sour gaze. She waits, lips pursed. Seldom are nuns good looking, which may be why they decide not to date. Sister Elizabeth has two exceptions in the looks department: To-die-for electric blue eyes and an eye-catching Hollywood complexion that looks like makeup. More golden than white, her skin is downright pretty, which I’ll never say out loud. The rest of her face is bland with teeth the color of ancient piano keys and a nose shaped like President Nixon’s.
Sister pushes her glasses up, juts out her chin, and pockets her hands. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
I will my mouth not to hang open. She expects an apology? She’s four cents short of a nickel. Heat rises from my cheeks. Why can’t adults admit when they messed up? I think of our fight, my parents’ fight, the fight with Mom last night. I better count to 100. Studying the water fountain, I count backwards. I’d drink poison before apologizing to her.
“All righty then.”
Her I’m-done-frown makes me reach for the doorknob. Throat clearing turns me around. Her shark eyes glint.
“A wise man is like a nail,” she says. “His head keeps him from going too far.”
A tight smile escapes me. “Yes, Sister Elizabeth.”
She cocks her head at my sudden per
kiness, clueless that her words of wisdom shape a payback strategy I didn’t even know I had until now. I will strike back for everything she’s put me through, just not with my hands. And not yet. I’ve Christmas gifts on the line. Dora and Chuck didn’t raise a dummy.
I feel confident, calm, and guilt-free as I glide to the best seat in class.
CHAPTER 8
When Sister finishes taking roll after our talk in the hallway, she looks up directly at me.
“Roberta, you need to get your permission slip signed right away for the field trip next month. Get it off my desk on the way out.” Her eyes and tone are tight and harsh.
All of my cool flies out the window. I’m stuck with her for nine more months and I’m no match for this prejudiced monster who not only humiliated me and refused to apologize, but busted up my family. Temporarily though, right, God? Just like that, my chest tightens, again. I’m trapped in an icky web of powerlessness.
The first period bell rings. Taking the permission slip on my way out, I avoid eye contact with her. In the noisy hallway, in a sea of bodies, my breathing eases. I exchange quick hellos and hurry to speak with Mr. Harvey before English class, where I always feel welcome.
Balding with thick glasses and a runny nose, Mr. Harvey’s looks have muy poco to do with us considering him the hippest lay teacher ever. Cool without trying, he lets us know our opinions matter. He talks with us, not at us.
On the first day of reading class, he stood on his desk with a globe in one hand and a stack of books in the other. “Books let you travel without moving your feet. And, oh, the places we’ll go.”
Coordinator of the annual writing contests for each grade, I had already dubbed him my favorite teacher before I set foot in his class. He called me a gifted writer after I won second place in the sixth-grade contest for my short story about two friends with gang-banging brothers.
Inspired by my desire to keep my brother Charles safe, the story was a no-brainer. The newspaper is full of articles about Black teen males dying from gang activity—corner guys with dangerous smiles who boxed each other with fancy moves instead of studying. Boys like Charles, who loves religion and science, are considered sissies by them.
Mr. Harvey sent my story to the newspaper. It wasn’t printed, but he impressed my parents. At a PTA meeting, he told them I marched to my own beat, quite a compliment because he hadn’t taught me yet. He protested when I lost the writing contest last year, too.
“Hey, Mr. Harvey.”
Hunched over a test checking off incorrect answers, he flips it facedown so I can’t see whose test it is. Unlike most teachers, he respects our privacy. We do the Black Power handshake. His execution is water ice smooth.
“Welcome back. All caught up?”
“Yes. I heard there are some changes to the writing contest.”
“Indeed. It’s open to the archdiocese. Top school winners will compete for huge prizes. There may be other rule changes. I’m fairly sure it will be an essay contest.”
I pump my fist in the air. “Yay! Wish we could pick the topic. I’d like to write about race relations!”
Mr. Harvey clasps his hands behind his neck, leans back in his chair. “That’s provocative. We have many racial issues with policing, community—”
“No, Mr. Harvey, race relations here, in this parish.” My voice quivers.
Usually when I’ve got a deep problem, it pops up at the worst time. Like now. Before I know it, I’m two seconds from boo-hooing like a kindergartner.
“Let’s step out,” he says, rising.
Students stop streaming in to allow us to exit. Once we’re out there, Mr. Harvey holds out his hanky. I shake my head. He’s a chronic nose-blower.
“Sister Elizabeth hates me. I’m stuck with her.”
“Kiddo, I’m sorry about what happened with you and Sister Elizabeth.” His voice is butter soft like Daddy’s when something bothers me. “You know you can always talk to me. Come find me during recess.”
The bell rings.
“Thanks, Mr. Harvey.” I put on my game face as we enter class.
English may help. There’s no better Band-Aid for a wounded soul than disappearing into a world of words. Sister just reminded me I am Humpty Dumpty in living color, only nothing rhymes and I just look fixed. Everything, even breathing, still feels broken. At my desk, in my favorite teacher’s class, I dump my feelings into a lockbox where my heart used to be. Being numb and silent protects me.
I hide behind my hair listening to the discussion about our assigned reading, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” It’s a short story about a Utopian society that functions due to a cruel requirement. One poor kid has to be kept locked up in a windowless room. That child’s mistreatment keeps everyone else happy.
Mr. Harvey keeps glancing my way: probably concerned I’m not chiming in as usual. At this moment, I feel like the poor kid in the story. Glancing around, I bet my allowance no one’s world here was rocked like mine in the last week. Heck, I’d wager against anyone in HSB. Better yet, the entire archdiocese.
I feel less yucky by recess. For the twenty Black girls in the eighth-grade class, recess means jumping double Dutch until it’s too cold outside. It’s the best activity we can do without messing up our hair. Plus, I get to see Bonnie, who I desperately need and miss. This is the first year we no longer have the same classes.
Bonnie’s grades nosedived last year after her father became ill—didn’t help that she refuses to wear her glasses. Despite serious squinting, she has trouble seeing the lessons on the blackboard. Even with ugly glasses, she’s cute with a reddish complexion, amber colored eyes, and a curly ponytail. It’s hard to hide pretty. Boys like her sassy personality, too—even a few white ones. Boys don’t matter more to me than making the scholar roll, which beats the honor roll, thank you very much. I dig being on top.
In the yard, I’m the buzz. Duking it out with Sister boosted my popularity, from the nerds who fantasize about hitting anyone to the girls who mistakenly think I struck a blow for feminists to the scowling boys destined for juvie who consider me an honorary hoodlum.
I wind my way through admirers. A few boys jab the air as I approach.
“You so bad they don’t even throw you out of school for knocking Sister’s block off,” says Douglas, fifteen and in eighth grade. He isn’t a sociopath, yet. But he’ll get there.
“Make way for Cleopatra Jones,” says pasty-faced Ben, who expects Black students to act like the stereotypes he sees on TV and in movies. He must be thrilled with me.
Their approval of my fight with Sister feels like rubbing against a wound that hasn’t scabbed over. I’m a nun-boxer by accident, not design.
Geoffrey spots me and ambles away from his buddies playing wall ball. He raises a clenched fist at me. His friends snigger at his Black Power symbol.“Bet Sister will think twice before correcting you. Black Power is no match.”
“What are you talking about?” Confusion contorts my face.
“You decked her. You know, by any means necessary, all that Black Panther stuff.”
I try to count to ten and give up at five. “Black Power doesn’t mean violence. The Black Panthers did a lot of good in the community. By any means necessary is something that Malcolm X said about justice—”
“I watch the news. Those Black Panther X guys carried guns,” Geoffrey says.
“They also carried law books.”
Geoffrey squints at me. “My dad says they were thugs. Anyway, how come you didn’t get expelled?” He smirks. “If you’d been white you would’ve been.”
“If I were white the fight wouldn’t have happened.”
Bonnie swoops over and pulls me away. “Forget him, he’s cruising for a bruising. Guess he doesn’t come to school with enough black eyes and busted lips.”
“He said my fight with Sister was ‘Black Power.’ He saw the whole thing.” I suck my teeth in frustration as we head toward our rope crew.
“He’s harmless, but Sis
ter Elizabeth isn’t. She’s beyond mean. Sabrina had to take a note into the faculty room and overheard lay teachers talking about her. They said her brother is really sick, but she only visited the hospital once.”
“I bet it was while I was suspended.”
Bonnie nods. “Her sub was a pushover. We dug him.”
“So she took her frustration out on me.”
“Just remember that Sister is” Bonnie snaps her fingers, “the human version of period cramps.”
We giggle-choke as we round the grotto of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
On the other side of the stone alcove, smiling faces and jump ropes slapping the concrete greet us. Exchanging hellos, my mood lifts. Every Black eighth-grade girl is here, even Vietta, although she doesn’t know how to jump. It’s the one time I see everyone. My girls are as smart as me, but for some reason they’re in the lower tracks. We claim this corner of the yard. Black boys come, too, especially the few loudmouths who stare and make lewd remarks about our bouncy body parts.
“You’re up first,” Bonnie says, cutting her eyes at Derrick, the one we all agree is a bad influence on the rest. I tie my sweater around my waist to keep prying eyes off my jiggly butt.
Rocking my body to the pit pat rhythm of the overlapping ropes, I feel the groove and time my entry just right, jumping in with knees high. Steadying myself, I execute spins and fancy footwork. Out the corner of my eye I see more boys approach, whispering behind their hands.
The longer I jump, the less I care. About fresh boys. Geoffrey. Sister. Mom. My reputation, just everything. Jumping loosens the tightness in my back and brain. Frees me. Every time my feet clear the ropes with precision and pizazz, I’m feeling more like my old self—a girl enjoying spending time with her friends at recess; a girl who loves school and looks forward to her afternoon Spanish class; a girl who doesn’t hurt to be me.
CHAPTER 9
Double Dutch and reading Malcolm’s riveting story has kept me sane for the past few weeks. Three more and I kiss punishment adios.
