The hills are beginning to look like giant bowls of Trix
New Boy
A new boy
has started eighth grade—
Victor.
He’s in the class with all the geniuses.
Victor is taller than most of the boys,
but that’s not the only reason he stands out.
He carries a stack of books under his arm,
instead of taking only the ones he needs
from his locker between classes.
Victor sits by himself at lunch,
reading.
Every few minutes he brings his sandwich to his mouth
and takes a bite,
then puts the sandwich back on the wax paper
without taking his eyes off his book.
I know he eats alone because
he’s new
or shy
or the only boy in school
with an Afro.
We’re Having Mr. Pease for Lunch
Our home ec class is going to make lunch
for a teacher. First
we have to decide who to invite
and what to make.
“Let’s ask Mr. Pease,” Karen says.
“He’s not married and doesn’t have anyone
to cook for him.”
Everyone thinks that’s a good idea,
and Miss Whittaker’s face turns rosy.
Stacey volunteers to give him the invitation
because she has pretty penmanship
and fancy stationery.
Miss Whittaker says we should plan a balanced menu
and make simple dishes that we can prepare ahead,
so on the day of the lunch
we’ll just heat them up and arrange them nicely.
She writes three headings on the blackboard:
Appetizer or Salad
Main Course
Dessert
We call out our ideas,
wearing our aprons that we sewed last spring
and our hairnets.
Potato Salad
Meat loaf
Chocolate cake
Salad
Spaghetti
Banana splits
Potato chips
Macaroni and cheese
Rice pudding
Ham sandwiches
Barbecue ribs
Tuna casserole
Roast lamb
Pork chops
Roast chicken
Beefaroni
Miss Whittaker steps back
and studies the blackboard,
twirling a strand of her hair.
“I have an idea—what about . . .”
Salad with iceberg
Oyster stew
Pudding parfaits
lettuce and
tomatoes
Corn bread
Everyone thinks Miss Whittaker’s menu is a good idea.
“We have four kitchens and sixteen girls,” she says.
“Each kitchen will make one item,
and one girl in each group will
plan the ingredients and the shopping
and supervise the cooking.”
I’ve never heard of oyster stew or pudding parfaits,
so I can’t make them
(but I will taste them),
and a salad with only three ingredients
is too easy.
“My kitchen can make the corn bread,” I say.
“I make it all the time at home.”
“Then you will supervise,” Miss Whittaker says,
touching the chalk to her chin. “Thank you, Mimi.”
The other girls in my kitchen—Karen, Joyce, and Debbie—
say okay, fine, sure. It’s hard to tell if they’re happy
because we’re making corn bread
or because they’re not in charge.
How to Make Corn Bread
This is how we make corn bread,
Papa style:
Assemble your ingredients:
cornmeal
sugar
eggs
milk
baking powder
baking soda
salt
buttermilk
flour
butter
Buttermilk?
Preheat your oven.
What are we doing with a frying pan?
Put the skillet in the oven.
In the oven? Are you sure?
Why?
This is how we make corn bread.
Now, mix all the dry ingredients
in one bowl.
And all the wet ingredients
in another.
What are we doing with the frying pan?
It’s for the corn bread.
You’ll see.
But we make corn bread in a brownie pan.
Where’s the brownie pan?
Are you sure we’re making corn bread?
Then fold the wet ingredients
into the dry,
but don’t stir it too much.
It’s all lumpy.
That’s okay. It’s supposed to be.
This is how we make corn bread.
Is this Japanese corn bread?
Now, take the skillet out of the oven—
use the pot holders or you’ll burn your hands.
Put some butter in the skillet
and swirl it around.
It sizzles, like when you toss snow
at the woodstove.
Then, put the batter in the skillet.
Put the skillet back in the oven.
Where’s the brownie pan?
I don’t think we’re using one.
She’s using a frying pan.
That’s weird.
Bake it thirty minutes, until
the top is golden.
I’m not eating this.
It’s not real corn bread.
This is how we make corn bread.
It comes out of the oven like
warm crunchy softness.
You should taste this corn bread.
It’s really good!
Victor
I stop at Victor’s table at lunch.
He’s eating an egg salad sandwich
and reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
He looks up at me,
chewing.
“Hi, Victor,” I say. “Do you want to sit with us?”
I turn to where Stacey’s sitting
so Victor can see who we are.
“Oh,” he says,
and shrugs. “Thanks.”
He looks at his book
but doesn’t close it.
I look at Stacey and shrug.
She shrugs back.
Then I say to Victor,
“Well, we want to tell you . . .
you should carry only the books you need
and keep the rest in your locker.”
I want him to look up
so he can see my smile,
and know I’m only trying to help.
Crush
A few days later, Stacey and Timothy and I
put our trays at the table next to Victor’s.
He turns his chair to us
bu
t keeps his book open.
“We don’t bite,” Stacey says.
Victor chews his sandwich. Today it’s cheese and ham.
“Where are you from?” I ask,
taking the lid off my obento
slowly. No one laughs or gags,
but Timothy asks if he can have a kappamaki.
Victor swallows. “Rhode Island,” he says,
and points to the kappamaki. “What’s that?”
“Cucumber sushi. Take one.”
I wonder why I ate so many cafeteria lunches last year
when I could have eaten this yummy food instead.
And maybe if I’d shared it,
I could have made more friends.
“You must be here because of the college,” Stacey says.
Victor picks out a piece of sushi.
“My father works in the admissions office,” he says,
and pops the sushi in his mouth.
The bell rings, and lunch is over.
We say good-bye to Timothy,
and Stacey says, “See you later?” to Victor.
He nods. “Later.”
“He’s so cool,” Stacey says in my ear as we walk to history.
In class, Debbie whisper-sings, “Mimi and Victor sitting in the tree . . .”
I give her a Mifune look. She doesn’t understand
that the girl who wants to k-i-s-s Victor
is not me.
Fall
1969
Sit-in
Stacey and I are on our way to study hall
when Timothy passes us in the hall
on his way to shop.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“A table. Wanna see?”
Then Stacey says, “Be careful, Timothy—
this girl gets crazy ideas.”
I look cross-eyed at her and say,
“There’s nothing to miss in study hall,”
and go the opposite way with Timothy.
The shop classroom smells so good—
like sawdust and oil and hot wood
and boys. It reminds me
of working with Timothy last spring.
I feel like I belong in this room,
and sit at one of the tables.
The boys at the table look at me
but don’t say anything.
Mr. Sperangio comes in.
I must stick out, because he sees me right away.
“I believe you’re in the wrong class.
This is shop.”
“I know. I want to be here.”
The boys laugh.
“Look here, young lady,” he says,
“you can’t do that.”
“But I know how to use all the tools,
so you won’t have to train me.”
“That’s not the point.”
The boys stare and twist and laugh
and look at Mr. Sperangio
to see what he’ll do next.
“You need to go back to study hall.”
I put on my best smile, and
say, “But I’ll learn more here
than in study hall.”
The boys say, “Oooh.”
“This is not a conversation,
Miss Oliver. Either go to study hall
or the office. It’s your choice.
But you can’t stay here.”
“What difference would it make
if I sat here and listened?”
“Do you want detention,
young lady?
Because that’s what you’re asking for.”
I don’t want detention again.
I do want to take shop.
So I get off the stool.
“That’s a wise decision,” says Mr. Sperangio.
At lunch, Stacey says, “You were late for study hall.”
And I tell her about shop.
She says, “I love drama. I’ll go with you next time.”
That’s another thing I love about Stacey—
she knows there will be a next time.
Civil Disobedience
Stacey and I hook our pinkies outside shop.
“Ready?” I ask.
We know what will probably happen
if we go in. “Yeah,” she says,
and we stroll into the class.
The boys watch us.
Mr. Sperangio watches us.
Stacey and I sit at different tables.
Silence
and then Mr. Sperangio’s footsteps
squeak toward me.
“Young lady,
I thought we already settled this.”
I glance at Stacey,
then say to him, “I just want to sit in your class.
I want to take shop.”
“So do I,” Stacey says from across the room.
“This is getting interesting,” says a boy at my table,
and leans forward on his arms
to watch what happens next.
Mr. Sperangio puts his hands on his hips
and frowns, his face growing pink.
“This isn’t going to happen
in my classroom. You girls are in defiance of the rules
and need to be disciplined.
Either go back to study hall or go to the office.
Stacey and I look at each other
and stay on our stools.
Mr. Sperangio huffs.
“Well, ladies, you’ve made your decision,
so come with me to the office.”
But when Stacey and I hop down
from our stools, he looks surprised.
“Well,” he says,
“you’re sure about this?”
“We’re sure.”
“Okay then, let’s go,” he says,
and we follow him to the door.
As we leave, Andrew Dutton asks,
“Why can’t they stay?”
and then I think we might have a chance
of taking shop.
The Principal’s Office
Mr. MacDougall presses his fingertips together
like a daddy longlegs on a mirror.
Stacey and I
and Mrs. LaVoie and Papa
are in the principal’s office. My heart is pounding,
and Stacey is breathing fast,
and I’m wondering if it was a good idea
to defy Mr. Sperangio
even though we were always respectful.
But it’s too late now—
we can only go forward.
“How could you do such a thing?” Stacey’s mother asks.
“Mimi, I thought you were a nice girl.”
“She is a nice girl, Mother,” Stacey says.
Then Papa says, “They were exercising their civil right
to protest.”
“Protest what?” Mr. MacDougall asks.
Then I say in a voice as clear as I can make it,
“We think girls should be allowed to take shop,
and we want to speak up about it.”
Mr. MacDougall’s fingers do push-ups faster,
and then he sits forward.
“First of all, that’s silly. Secondly,
there are other ways of changing what you don’t like.
You take it to the school board.”
“But you have to say it’s okay first, don’t you,
Mr. MacDougall?” I ask.
“That’s right. I do. And third,
what if no other girls want to take shop?”
“No one has to do anything,
sir,” Stacey says. “But the boys could take home
ec
if they want.”
“She wasn’t raised this way,” her mom says,
and looks at Papa,
who says, “I don’t understand what the girls did wrong.”
“They defied a teacher,” Mr. MacDougall says,
“and the rules,” looking down at his desk.
“We can’t have students defying authority.
It sets a bad example.”
Then he looks at Stacey and me.
“You two will be suspended from school for two weeks.”
He looks at Mrs. LaVoie, who has gone pale,
and then at Papa,
who says, “Isn’t that a bit harsh? Certainly,
there are other ways to handle this.”
“That is my decision,” Mr. MacDougall says.
“It will give the girls time to reflect
on what they’ve done
and how to behave differently.”
I knew we could be suspended,
but I didn’t think we would. And now
Stacey bursts out crying,
but Mr. MacDougall talks over her.
“Besides, what boy wants to take home ec?”
Suspended
Staying home isn’t so bad.
Timothy brings my schoolwork every night,
and Papa takes it back to school the next morning,
all done.
I haven’t talked to Stacey in three days,
ever since we got suspended.
I miss her, and I hope she misses me.
I hope she forgives me
for getting her in trouble.
Tonight, Timothy comes when I’m washing the dishes.
He says, “Miss Whittaker said you can make three balanced meals
Full Cicada Moon Page 11
