My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  Mamá says, “I won’t have you going around making trouble.”

  “But, Mamá, if people don’t stand up to oppressors, how else will justice —”

  Papá jumps in. “Ladies, let’s give it a rest for now, shall we? We’re all on the same side, Marina. Your mother and I worry sometimes that you might stick your neck out too far.”

  “We’re not like everyone else,” Mamá warns. “If the white people in this town got mad at the McCorkles for protesting, just imagine how they would treat us!”

  Abigail whispers to me, “What did she mean about the McCorkles?”

  “You know he went to jail, right?”

  “Sam’s dad? Why?”

  Sometimes I forget that Abigail didn’t live in Red Grove, or even Alabama, when these things happened. I get Marina to explain. “Lots of protestors got arrested,” she says, “but they didn’t do anything to deserve it. See, the people in power were trying to stay in power, so they made things as hard as they could on anyone speaking out.”

  Abigail says, “Oh,” and I get the feeling that for once in her life, the cat’s got her tongue.

  A few miles pass before I remember that Abigail didn’t get any empanadas. “Mamá, the empanadas were all gone by the time Abigail went through the buffet line.”

  Mamá says, “Don’t worry, Abigail. I’ll make some just for you. It might take me a while, though, because I have to finish this wedding dress first!” Every dollar she earns from this wedding will help her buy a plane ticket to visit our family in Argentina. She and Mrs. Sampredo gab about how long it’s been since Mamá’s last trip down there — more than five years.

  And that’s when I notice Papá’s eyes in the rearview, smiling again. I flop back against the backseat and breathe easier.

  Abigail whispers, “Don’t forget about the cakewalk this Friday. We can go straight from my house, and if you come over early, you can help me bake the cake.”

  “Cool by me.”

  The miles zip by. Pretty soon, my mind drifts back to when my speed kicked in and the hall turned to a blur under my feet. Gosh, running fast is the best feeling in the world! It’s sinking in: I want to prove Mrs. Underwood right on Field Day — that I can run like the blue blazes. Whatever the blue blazes is, that’s how fast I want to be.

  Homeroom is wild this Monday morning. Half the boys are drumming on their desks with pencils. Boom boom boom chakalakah boom boom boom chakalakah. But no matter the racket, Belinda’s eyes stay glued to the pages of her book. Golly Moses, she’s the first bookworm I’ve met who can hold a candle to Marina.

  Right before the first bell, Abigail bursts in. “Yoo-hoo! I just went to the office and changed my schedule for next year.”

  “You did?” I say.

  “Yep. Next time we go to the international club, I’m going to be ready, because I’m taking Spanish now!”

  “Hey,” Sam says, whirling toward her, “so am I.”

  “Cool beans!” Abigail answers. “How do you say it in Spanish, Lu? Beans fritos?”

  I snort. “Not fritos — that means fried!”

  “You should hear her talking with her mom and dad,” Abigail says. “She can say anything in Spanish. Ask her.” Sam eyeballs me to see if Abigail’s telling the truth, but I’m keeping my trap shut. The truth is, my Spanish isn’t so hot.

  Still, now that I have Sam’s attention, I’d like to hold on to it. His fountain pen is out and so is one of his spiral-bound notebooks, where he’s always doodling on the back cover. He follows my gaze. “Sometimes I like to draw stuff, just for kicks.” He smiles at me. Now my pulse goes boom boom boom chakalakah.

  At eight on the dot, Mrs. Donnelly calls roll, leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance, and starts in on announcements, which usually bore us cross-eyed. But I hear a smile in her voice when she reads that Spider’s been appointed to the math honor society. Pretty much everybody breaks into cheers, which end with Spider standing up to take a bow. Next, she calls out the names of kids who made it into the marching band: Chad, Sam, and Melody. We clap about that, too.

  When Mrs. Donnelly gets to the part about a new dress code for next year, one that allows us girls to wear pants, every biddy in the room starts cheeping. “Don’t get too excited,” Mrs. Donnelly warns. “Only pantsuits will be allowed, not blue jeans.”

  Tons of girls go, “Awwww, shucks!” No skin off my nose; Mamá would never let me wear blue jeans to school even if the dress code allowed it.

  Missy says, “Big woo, this doesn’t even pertain to me.”

  Connie says, “Because you’re going to East Lake?”

  It’s a perfectly innocent question, but Missy gives her a glare straight out of the deep freezer. “Why else?”

  Mrs. Donnelly cuts in. “Everyone take out your composition folders.”

  All this time, I’ve been sneaking glances at Belinda, who must not give a horse’s patootie about dress codes. She’s too buried in the pages of that book.

  “What’s taking so long?” I’ve got energy to burn and no way to burn it. But Mrs. Underwood’s off in the distance, having a chitchat with the band director. While the cat’s away, the mice are lazing under the tulip trees.

  “Hush your mouth, Lu!” Abigail says. “The longer she beats around the bush, the better.”

  “Not for Lu,” Paige says, poking me in the ribs. “She’s teacher’s pet.”

  “Am not.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, and you know it, you little stinker,” Abigail says with a sly grin.

  I grin back because it’s kind of true, but I still can’t believe that Mrs. Underwood thinks I’m anything special. Mrs. Underwood!

  Missy is over there telling everybody that her mother is in charge of the committee deciding on new school uniforms for East Lake. Connie gets bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when Missy announces that the skirts will be plaid and the blazers will have fancy crests on the pockets, just like prep schools up north. “I wish so bad I could go,” we overhear Connie say.

  Abigail rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t go there just for the uniforms,” she tells me and Paige.

  The band director yells, “One, two, three,” and then the drums go to town. Finally, Mrs. Underwood steps up to the chalk line and lets out a bellow. “Visiting hours are over, ladies!” Over the groans, she barks at us to line up. The whistle goes off, and within seconds, the fastest girls charge their way to the front.

  Belinda and I run side by side and keep a watch on the leaders, but when we reach the marching band, swirling flags block our view for a stretch. Half the marchers take a hard turn, bringing the brass section to the edge of the driveway. Trombones blare in my ear. And here come the tuba players, swinging their big ole horns left and right, in time to the music. That’s when I catch a flash of Sam — or at least the side of his face — on the shiny brass curves of his marching tuba. I stare longer than I should, and it slows me down a step. Jeepers, I hope I’m not going boy crazy!

  At the flagpole, Belinda and I haul it. Before long, we pass Angie, but Connie, she’s a fireball on legs today. Our sneakers spit gravel as we zoom around the last bend, gaining on her, inch by inch. She knows it, too; every so often, she checks over her shoulder to see where we are. Mrs. Underwood’s at the chalk line, hollering and clapping. “Come on, girl! It’s your turn to shine!” Whoosh. Connie sweeps across the finish before we can catch her, and Mrs. Underwood does a jig.

  In the locker room, Connie glows like somebody found her plug and stuck it in a socket. Can’t blame her. I’d be tickled pink, too. Guess word travels fast, because in social studies, Chad and Nick greet her with a goofy chorus of “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean,” except they sing Connie in place of Bonnie. She blushes like nobody’s business.

  Miss Garrett stands over Nick and Chad. “All right, enough of that!” Then she claps her hands to get the attention of the whole class. “Get settled in, everyone. It’s time for your homework check.” Just as I’m pulling my election notebook out of my book bag, I hea
r Miss Garrett snap, “Who wrote this?” Kids start snickering, and I whirl around. On the chalkboard, I read the words “Loser Olivera” right before Miss Garrett’s eraser wipes them clean.

  I know darn well who wrote it: Missy. Or Phyllis. Why do they have to be so mean?

  Sam nudges me. “That was dumb. Just ignore it.”

  I shrug like it’s nothing. The bell pierces through all the chatter, and that’s when Missy and Phyllis sashay through the door with their hair freshly fluffed and tied back with ribbons.

  Oh. So it wasn’t Missy who wrote it? Great, now some other meanie is on my case.

  At the bus loading zone, Belinda says, “We’re not letting Connie have it that easy again, are we?” She’s in a bouncy mood, and I wish I could feel the same, but I’m stuck on what I saw on the chalkboard. “Girl, you better not be moping about a silly ole race!”

  “I’m not!” I manage a teensy smile.

  The doors of Belinda’s bus pop open, and kids hurry up the steps. “Toodle-oo till tomorrow, Peewee!” she says, waving her fingers at me. Peewee. She called me Peewee. I smile, and this time, it feels real.

  “Lu, come on. It was just a joke,” says Abigail.

  “But who did it?” I have to remember to keep my voice down on the phone because Mamá’s in the dining room on the sewing machine and she’ll pester me with a million questions.

  “Beats me,” Abigail says. “It happened before I got to class.”

  I pace back and forth, as far as the phone cord will let me. “Missy wasn’t there, but I bet you anything she made somebody else do it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know!”

  “Don’t you dare cover for Missy!”

  “Why would I cover for her?”

  “Because you’re scared of her?” I say.

  “Hush your mouth! You’re more scared of her than I am!”

  “She’s getting worse — that’s why!”

  Abigail doesn’t argue with that. “Just play it cool for a while and she’ll forget about you.”

  “Play it cool how?”

  “You know — don’t show off or anything.”

  A ball of confused feelings churns inside my gut. Abigail’s good at lots of things, like making friends and stuff. Missy’s good at fashion and hairdos. Can’t I be good at something, too — like running?

  “Calm down,” Abigail says. “Missy’s going to East Lake next year, remember? So everything will go back like it used to be.”

  “I know. Sorry to be such a worrywart.”

  “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” Abigail says, and I can tell she’s grinning like an imp, which is one of my favorite things about her.

  The kitchen table is covered with posters that Marina is making for Governor Brewer’s campaign. Her blue marker squeaks around the loop of the B in Brewer. While I watch her, I chugalug a glass of orange juice. “Guess what, Marina?”

  “What?” She pushes her hair back from her face and starts on the R.

  “I might be getting a new friend. And she’s got brains, so you can stop pestering me about that.”

  “That’s cool! Who is it?”

  “You don’t know her. Belinda Gresham.”

  She looks up from the poster. “Maybe I do, or at least, I might know her parents. Is her dad Dr. Gresham?”

  “Doctor Gresham? She never said anything like that.” Come to think of it, Belinda and I haven’t talked about anything except running and crazy ole Mrs. Underwood. I keep meaning to ask her about that book she’s always got in front of her face, but I haven’t done it yet.

  “You could check in the phone book under Gresham,” Marina says.

  “Good idea.” I grab the phone book and rustle the pages to the Gs. There’s just one listing for a family named Gresham, which means her dad must be Dr. Gresham. “It says they live on Beaumont Street. Where’s that?”

  “Over on the west side of town.”

  “Never been there.” I guess that’s where lots of black people live.

  Ringo shows up and starts rubbing against Marina’s leg. “Well, if she’s your friend, you ought to visit her sometime. And bring her over here to see us.”

  “Maybe.” That gets me to thinking about Belinda’s house. I bet her bedroom has bookshelves up the wazoo, crammed with paperbacks. I wonder what she’d think of my bedroom, with weird things like yellow newspaper clippings stuck to a corkboard. “You know why I’m getting friendly with Belinda? We’re both pretty good runners. Mrs. Underwood’s getting us ready for Field Day.”

  “She’s a runner, too?” Marina asks. “I knew you were good. I was at the international club, remember?”

  I clamp my hands over my ears. “Don’t remind me of that night.”

  “Why not?” She caps her marker and stops to pour food into Ringo’s bowl. “You raced against boys! That had me busting my buttons.”

  “It did? Not Mamá and Papá — they were spitting mad.”

  “Aw, heck. Mamá’s old-fashioned. She doesn’t even think girls belong in sports. Get used to it, Lu, or it’ll drive you bananas.”

  “But what about Papá? He loves sports.”

  “True, but he loves Mamá even more.”

  I let out a long, ragged sigh. Mamá and Papá have been in this country plenty long by now, long enough to get with the program. This is supposed to be the land of the free, or haven’t they heard?

  Like a good little sister, I pick up the posters Marina made yesterday and head downtown to drop them off at Brewer’s local campaign headquarters. It’s a short walk, especially for a speed demon like me, itching to get back to air-conditioning on this scorching-hot day. Abigail has promised to meet me there.

  At headquarters, stacks of mail are everywhere. Boxes of bumper stickers peep out from under tables. Mimeograph machines rattle. Coffeepots gurgle. On the walls, there are giant posters of Governor Brewer in his elegant best, smiling over the words FULL TIME FOR ALABAMA. It seems like his eyes follow me as I cross the room, so I move faster.

  Toward the back of the room, I spy Marina. She’s got a phone pressed to one ear and a finger stuck in the other, on account of so many volunteers gabbing on phones nearby.

  I plunk the posters down on a stack of boxes. Marina nods at me, all the while talking to somebody about voting in next Tuesday’s primary election. As soon as she gets off the phone, she says, “Thanks, Lu. You saved me a trip to the house. Want a doughnut or some lemonade? They’re in the break room.”

  “Not now. Abigail’s coming by in a minute.” But when lots of minutes go by and Abigail doesn’t show up, Marina puts me to work sweeping up paper. Later, the door opens and here comes Sam’s father, with Lonnie in tow. I look for Sam, but he’s not with them.

  Lonnie makes a beeline to where I’m sitting. “What are you doing here?”

  “Not much. What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “He’s out there helping that friend of yours with her bike.”

  “He is?” I stow the broom and head outside.

  Sure enough, on the sidewalk not too far up the block, Abigail is holding her bicycle steady while Sam crouches next to it, checking one of the tires. “I know how to pump it,” he says. “Let’s walk over to Handy’s and I’ll do it for you.”

  Abigail sees me coming. “Sorry I’m late, but this stupid bike keeps giving me fits.”

  Sam unfolds his lanky self. “Hi, Lu.” A little something stirs inside me, kind of like a fish in a bucket doing flip-flops.

  The three of us walk down to Handy’s, a gas station with a convenience store. It’s only a few blocks away, but Sam insists on rolling Abigail’s bicycle for her. The way his fingers clamp around the handlebars reminds me of how he holds his tuba. Wish I could work up the nerve to ask how it’s going in the marching band. But with Abigail chattering nonstop, it doesn’t matter if anybody else talks. She has two hundred things to say about the yearbook stuff she’s workin
g on, two hundred things I’ve already heard. But Sam doesn’t look the least bit bored.

  At Handy’s, he pulls the air hose out of its stand and — pfffft — pumps up Abigail’s tire, pretty as you please, like it’s his everyday routine. His hands get smeared black from the tire, which Abigail makes a big fuss about.

  “Don’t worry. I can wash up later.” He wipes sweat off his forehead, and now he’s got a black smudge over one eyebrow.

  Abigail digs into her pockets and pulls out some coins. “At least let me buy you a soda.” She rushes inside Handy’s and leaves me and Sam out in the heat. He props the bike up on its kickstand and leans over to squeeze the tire again. He keeps poking this and that all over her bike in case anything else is on the verge of giving out.

  A thought washes over me. Maybe he likes her. Maybe that’s why he got excited about the international club — to be with her.

  Abigail hurries back with an orange Fanta and a grape Nehi. “You pick,” she tells Sam.

  “Gosh, you didn’t have to,” he mutters, taking the frosty bottle of grape soda out of her hand. He chugs it so hard that his Adam’s apple bobs.

  Abigail offers to split the Fanta with me, but I don’t want any, even though it’s hotter than a firecracker out here. It’s just that I’m remembering how eager Sam got yesterday when she announced she was taking Spanish. He just about killed himself agreeing with her on everything. Suddenly, it’s clear as day. Of course he likes her. Who wouldn’t? She carries that little red address book all over creation because she wants to keep in touch with people, and she always knows what to say. Always. Plus, she’s got those big blue eyes and that nice, soft hair that never needs Dippity-do.

  Every smidgen of hope I had for Sam liking me is going down the tubes in a hurry. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.

  “There’s doughnuts in the break room at the headquarters if y’all want some,” Sam says.

  “You must spend lots of time over there,” Abigail says.

  “Kind of. My parents are always volunteering.”

  We start walking back, but Sam tells Abigail she ought to test the tire, so she sets off pedaling up the block. She weaves back and forth from one lane to the other, yip-yipping like a coyote. Sam looks at me and grins. It’s the first time I remember seeing his teeth. Gosh, nice teeth. Also, very nice eyes. Also, wavy brown hair that curls around his ears a tad. Even in this heat, I feel a blush coming on. But right behind it comes a wave of lonesomeness when I remember that he probably likes Abigail, not me. The fish in my gut does one more flip and then lies there, cold.