My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  “Irina or somebody else from the international club?”

  “Nope, this is even better!” She sounds positively giddy.

  “Okay, I give up.”

  “Conrad! Conrad Mays!”

  “You mean Phyllis’s cousin? Why in the Sam Hill is he calling you?”

  “Don’t say it like that! He asked Phyllis if I was going to the party — me, little old me!” Conrad Mays is a hotshot from Mississippi who comes to visit his Alabama relations now and then. Last year at the sock hop, the boys in our class acted like the dance floor might electrocute them, but ole Conrad swept in and danced with nearly every girl. Naturally, this led to some of them falling in love.

  I lower the TV volume to zero. “Aren’t you watching the election returns?”

  But she cuts in kind of quick. “I better get off the phone so I won’t miss his call!”

  “Okay. Bye.” The sound on the TV is still off, but the numbers on the display board behind the news desk haven’t changed much. I have half a mind to dial up Belinda to see what she’s doing, but here come the Sampredos.

  Mrs. Sampredo sets a plate for me, but I tell her I’ve already had supper. After they eat, Mr. Sampredo pulls out his pipe. “Brewer has the lead, huh? That’s good. Better for everybody if he wins. Why didn’t your sister come over to watch?”

  “She’s watching at the Brewer campaign with the other volunteers.”

  “And you don’t volunteer?”

  “Not really. I’m not old enough.”

  Mrs. Sampredo wants to know where’s my friend, the nice girl who went with us to Birmingham. I tell her she’s at home. I don’t bother explaining that right about now, Abigail’s probably drooling over every word that falls out of Conrad’s mouth.

  When Papá arrives, Mrs. Sampredo offers us coffee and snacks. She sets out her dainty espresso cups and frilly napkins. Papá tells funny stories about today’s customers.

  Now and then, I glance at the TV to see if anything exciting is going on at the news desk. Never happens. To pass the time, I munch on crackers with guava paste that the Sampredos brought from their last trip to Miami. Pretty tasty. Mrs. Sampredo always talks about moving to Miami, since that’s where lots of Cubans live, but for some reason it hasn’t happened yet. I hope it never does, or Mamá would lose her best friend.

  Papá glances at my notebook on the coffee table. “Aren’t you taking notes?”

  I shrug. “Not anymore. It’s slower than Christmas.”

  They drink cup after cup of coffee and swap stories about Cuba and Argentina, which I always love hearing. Mrs. Sampredo says, “I wish Claudia could be here with us!”

  “She’s busy on that bride’s dress,” Papá says. “You know how she is, nothing short of perfection will do.” He sets his coffee cup on the tray. “It’s getting late. Have you seen enough of the returns, Lu? I don’t think you’re even watching.”

  “I tried, but nothing ever happens,” I say. “And anyway, the morning paper will have the final results.”

  We cross the intersection under the streetlight. When a breeze stirs the May leaves, raindrops wink.

  “I sure hope Brewer gets enough votes to avoid a runoff,” Papá says.

  “Me too.” Actually, that’s what I try to say, but a giant yawn eats my words.

  Today, I wake up to find out that Governor Brewer didn’t get enough votes in the election, meaning there’s going to be a runoff between him and Wallace. Nope, I don’t blame Marina for being down in the mouth. That gloomy cloud follows me all the way to school, and when the bus stops to pick up Ricky, I’m relieved that he sits far away. I couldn’t stand hearing any of his smart-aleck comments this morning.

  In homeroom, Abigail is at her desk, in a frenzy to finish schoolwork. “I stayed up late talking to Conrad and forgot to do my definitions.” She twists a strand of hair and shoots me a guilty grin. For the first time, I notice blond streaks running through her light-brown hair.

  “Are you starting on Nordic Gold already?”

  “Lu, I don’t have time to talk!”

  Oh, brother. Next thing you know, she’ll get false eyelashes or something, and I’ll look even more behind the times next to her. Abigail claims romance is supposed to happen at boy-girl parties, but how, if I look like a fourth-grader? If I brought it up, though, Abigail would probably force me to read those Groovy Gal magazines. “Lu,” she’d say, “there’s a whole education under your bed, and you’re letting spiderwebs grow all over it!” She doesn’t get it. Mamá would never let me do glamour stuff on myself.

  Sam slides into his desk. “What did your sister think about the election?”

  “Uh … she’s not a happy camper.”

  “Me neither.” He unzips his book bag and lays his fountain pen and notebook on the desk. “So do you ever hang around at the campaign offices?”

  “Just that once. Do you?”

  “Most every time my parents go. I like it over there.” He flips the notebook over. “But I guess you’ve got your running to worry about.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I see you from the band room.”

  “Oh.” Now I’m the one blinking. “Do you ever run?”

  “Nah. I’m more of a music person than a sports person.”

  “I love music, too!”

  “Yeah? Like which bands?” Those gray eyes are fixed on me and — eek! — my mind goes into a spin. “The Beatles?” he says, trying to be helpful.

  “Heck, yeah!”

  He shows me the back cover of the notebook, where it says, in neat block letters, GIVE PEACE A CHANCE. “This song has my favorite lyrics, but for the sound, I prefer most anything on the Sgt. Pepper’s album.”

  Next to GIVE PEACE A CHANCE, there’s a cartoony picture of a dove and a guitar. “Wow, did you draw that?” I ask.

  “Yep. I wanted to express my feelings about the war in Vietnam and stuff.” Red creeps up his neck, and he blinks a jillion times. I watch while he fiddles with the drawing, adding more lines to the dove’s wings.

  “You’re good!”

  He shrugs. “Not that good, but I try.” He looks up and smiles. I think bumblebees are flying around inside my head.

  The bell goes claaaaaang, and Mrs. Donnelly scurries in to start the day. Dang it, just when Sam and I finally broke out of our shyness and really got to talking. While Mrs. Donnelly writes stuff on the chalkboard, it finally dawns on me how I should’ve answered his question. Sly and the Family Stone is pretty much my favorite band now, but “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison is the song I love most. Maybe I can tell him later.

  Golly, Sam talked to me! Really talked! A bubble of happiness practically lifts me out of my desk. The day goes by with me riding that bubble. Then in sixth period, the election quiz lands on my desk. There are ten questions.

  Number one: “Did any candidate for governor receive a majority of votes?” No. That was easy-peasy.

  Number two: “What is a precinct?” I drum my pencil on my chin. Precinct sounds familiar, but I can’t exactly define it. I’ll come back to this question later. The answers to three, four, five, seven, and ten roll off my ballpoint pen in a flash. But number six stops me in my tracks and number nine really throws me for a loop: “Name the call letters of the television station you used for watching the election returns.” Whaaat? Nobody ever pays attention to call letters — you just turn on the TV and flip channels till you find your program. I rub my arms and stare at the blank spaces.

  Miss Garrett says, “Five minutes.” I hear Sam’s fountain pen scratching away. The second hand on the wall clock is red, and the red hand shows that time is flying. Red’s also the color of Miss Garrett’s grading pen, the pen that slashes Xs across wrong answers. That pen has never written anything but A-pluses on my test papers. Seven out of ten is 70 percent, and Lu Olivera doesn’t make C-minuses!

  Two minutes. I scribble guesses on numbers six and nine, and hurry back to the one about precincts. I should know thi
s. It was all over the returns last night, but reaching for the answer is like trying to grab Ringo when he doesn’t want to be grabbed. Then Miss Garrett announces, “Time’s up. Pass your quizzes forward.”

  There are groans across the classroom. I turn around, and Sam’s sticking his fountain pen in his pocket. “How’d you do?” I ask him.

  “Pretty good, I think.” He blinks those gray eyes and smiles a shy one.

  “You knew all that stuff about precincts?”

  “Sure. They said it every other minute last night. Didn’t you watch the returns?”

  I frown. “Of course.”

  On the bus, we edge around the school driveway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. For the first time in ages, I’m not daydreaming about running. Lu, you messed up. You blew that quiz. And now Sam thinks you’re a total dummy who doesn’t have the foggiest idea what a precinct is.

  The next day in PE, something’s wrong. It’s like my battery is on the blink and I’ve forgotten how to run. Although I pump my arms and legs with everything I’ve got, huffing and puffing, wishing and praying, I’ve got no speed today.

  Madeline Manning, are you there? No answer. All I get is the trill, trill, peep, peep, chortle, chortle of mockingbirds as I shuffle around the driveway like a little old lady on crutches. Meanwhile, Angie blasts around the final curve at rocket speed, with Belinda not far behind. When I finally reach the chalk line, a hundred years later, Mrs. Underwood has the saddest of faces. “Olivera, what happened to your giddyap and go?” I wish I knew how to answer that.

  It gets worse. In the locker room, Missy says, “Somebody forgot to eat their Wheaties!”

  “Good one, Missy!” Phyllis says.

  Loser Olivera, that’s what they think I am, and today it feels true.

  I reach into my purse for a comb and rake it over my porcupine quills. Even worse than what Missy said is Phyllis agreeing with her. Jeez, why did she turn against me? Meanwhile, Abigail’s in front of the mirror, fluffing her hair and not saying boo. Maybe she didn’t hear Missy. Or maybe she’s pretending that she didn’t.

  Then comes social studies, where all it takes is seeing Miss Garrett, with her fingers clenched around her grade book, to figure out that we’re in for it. There are moans all over the place when she hands out our graded quizzes. I turn mine over carefully, curling the corners of the paper so nobody else can see. In bloodred ink, there it is: a big, fat C-minus. I feel faint.

  Sam got a one hundred on his quiz. I caught sight of his paper when she laid it on his desk.

  In a huffy voice, Miss Garrett says, “I’m appalled at these grades. I have to wonder if you all really and truly watched the election returns. How disappointing.” Her eyes go straight to me when she says this, and I think I might die. She continues. “I’ve decided to offer extra credit. But it won’t be a walk in the park. You’ll have to write me a report on something related to the election. The worse your grade, the more effort you need to put in.” Kids stir in their seats and start chattering. “Hush,” she says in a sharp voice that makes everybody freeze. “Be grateful for this chance and get to work.”

  Paige raises her hand. “But what can we write about exactly?”

  “Fair question. Those of you who attended the Wallace rally have an excellent topic.”

  At the same time that Willa lets out a gasp, Spider says, “For real?”

  “Hang on, Miss Garrett!” Charles says. “That’s discrimination!”

  “Why, Charles? Wallace is the only candidate that held a rally here. If you didn’t go, just write a report on something else. Stop being obstinate.” She looks crosser than a cross-eyed bear.

  Charles shakes his head firmly. “No, ma’am. You said it’s an excellent topic, but you know us black kids wouldn’t go to no stinking Wallace rally!”

  Miss Garrett snaps, “Charles, would you like to go see Mr. Abrams?”

  “Send him!” Nick says.

  “Nick!” Miss Garrett’s eyes are drop-dead serious. “I won’t stand for your disruptions either!” Suddenly it’s quiet as a graveyard. The vase on her desk is full of black-eyed Susans with friendly little faces, but Miss Garrett doesn’t look so friendly today.

  When the bell rings, we practically tiptoe out of there.

  Sam stops me to ask if I plan to drop by campaign headquarters today. I tell him I’ll have to check with my mom, but this is a total fib. I can’t waste a minute of time today. I’ve got to park myself at the kitchen table for as long as it takes to write the best report on a political rally that Miss Garrett has ever seen.

  The newspaper is spread open on the breakfast table. A big antiwar protest broke out yesterday at our state university, and I’m stuck here listening to Papá and Marina argue about it. Poor Mamá isn’t any happier than I am. She stirs her tea and sighs.

  “You’re wrong, hija,” Papá says. “A civil society requires order. If you ask me, Governor Brewer did the right thing in siding with the police, not the protestors, who ought to be more worried about their studies than anything else.”

  Marina says, “Papá, come on! This is a matter of freedom of speech! It’s why we have a First Amendment!” While Papá and Marina go back and forth with law-and-order this, freedom-of-speech that, Mamá and I exchange a look. We both sigh. I know Papá’s not against people having their say. He just doesn’t agree with the way the university students did it. Jeez, it sure gives me the willies to hear my family squabble. Don’t I get enough of that at school, between Nick and Charles? Now my eggs taste like plastic.

  Mamá follows me out to the sidewalk as I head for the bus. “Don’t worry, hija,” she says. “Your sister knows better than to get mixed up with protests.” I can just about read her mind: We’re foreigners. We’re not supposed to get involved.

  “I know, Mamá.” I plant a kiss on her cheek and make a dash for the corner, where the bus has just pulled up.

  Me and Mamá, we’re birds of a feather. Worry birds.

  At the end of homeroom, the school intercom comes alive with a crackle: “Assembly commences in fifteen minutes.” We hurry along the covered walkway to the high school, and then to the very back of the auditorium, which is where we lowly sixth-graders have to sit.

  Abigail plops down next to me. “Look at what came in the mail.” She shoves a postcard in my hand. “It’s from Conrad!” There’s just one line, written in the worst chicken scratch: See you at Phyllis’s big bash. — Conrad. Not too personal, if you ask me, but I don’t want to burst Abigail’s balloon. And anyway, what do I know about boys? Zero.

  Mr. Abrams is at the lectern. “Final exam schedules go out on Monday. Teachers will distribute them in homeroom.”

  Next, Mr. Barkley gives a talk about science fairs. Then Mrs. Underwood explains what to expect on Field Day. She reminds teachers they’ll have events, too, which makes us kids laugh, because did you ever see teachers trying to do sports?

  My mind wanders and so do my eyes, flitting across hairdos and hair bows sticking up over the tops of the auditorium seats. Belinda is two rows up. I spot her by her ponytail.

  Abigail whispers, “Have you chosen your outfit for the party yet?”

  “No, have you?”

  “Sure have. I’m going to Birmingham to get myself white bell-bottoms from Pizitz. Daddy raised my allowance.”

  “Ooh, nice!”

  “You should get your parents to raise yours, too.”

  “Very funny. You know my parents. I’d have to do extra chores.” Not that doing extra chores would help me much. After all, Mamá is saving every penny for her trip to Argentina.

  The whole auditorium is rustling and whispering now. Once the program winds down, the high-school kids start filing out first. Our turn won’t come for eons.

  Abigail has more advice. “You’d better start thinking about Phyllis’s birthday gift, too.”

  “Already? The party’s not for weeks.”

  “Lu! Get your head screwed on straight! How are y’all going to be friends ag
ain unless she believes you still care?”

  “Are you bonkers? Missy would never let Phyllis be my friend again!”

  “Don’t forget that Missy’s going to East Lake next year.”

  “Phyllis probably will, too.”

  “Her parents haven’t decided yet. I overheard her and Missy talking. And you know what else I overheard? They think you like Sam!” She gives me a sideways look. “I figured you don’t, or you would’ve already told me — right?”

  “Well.” I pause. “I could like him, but only if I found out he likes me back.”

  She lets out a squeal. “Lu, why didn’t you tell me, you little ninny?” Then she grabs my arm. “The party — that’s where you’ll find out for sure if he likes you! Haven’t I been telling you this? I bet he’ll ask you to dance. That’s why you’ve got to get your outfit planned! You need something groovy. Something mod.”

  “I don’t have anything groovy or mod.”

  “Then you’ve got to go shopping, silly!”

  The auditorium is almost empty. We slowly make our way toward the exit. Abigail doesn’t get it. What I wear to the party will be something handmade by Mamá. It’ll be perfectly stitched, all right, but you can bet your sweet bippy it won’t be groovy or mod.

  Marina is yanking laundry off the clothesline. She hands me one edge of a bedsheet and we shake it a few times. Pop. Pop. The sheet bubbles out and catches the breeze. “I need you to go to Landon’s to get those slippers for Mamá before they sell out. Mother’s Day is this weekend.”

  “By myself?”

  “Why not? There’s nothing to it. Just get those Dearfoams we saw in the ad.”

  We meet in the middle with our corners. “But whenever Mamá sends me on errands, I can never find what I’m supposed to buy.”

  “Good grief, don’t act all helpless with me. I have papers to write.”

  “Okay, okay.” I take a stack of sheets in my arms and head for the back door. Shopping: I could murder it. But what I hate even worse than shopping is crossing Marina when she’s in a testy mood.

  “Lu, keep it quiet in there,” she calls after me. “Mamá’s got a headache.”

  While I put the laundry away, a new thought comes to me. I know what else I can do on this shopping trip: look for Phyllis’s present. Something extra cool, just like Abigail suggested, something to make her remember what good friends we used to be.