My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  “Me neither.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” We shake pinkies on it.

  Belinda stands up. “Come on, I want to see your sister’s books!” We grab our bikes and race down Cornelius. When we reach my house, I introduce her to Mamá, who’s tacking the hem of the wedding dress with sewing pins. Still, she stops what she’s doing and insists on serving us cookies, not that we’re the least bit hungry. I’m just happy that Belinda can see how sweet Mamá is, and Mamá can meet my newest friend.

  After Belinda chooses some paperbacks from Marina’s bookshelves, we stretch out on the rug next to my bed and listen to the radio. I ask her if she thinks Tina Briggs is real, but she’s never heard of her either. I tell her about Madeline Manning, and she tells me about Wilma Rudolph, another American gold medalist.

  “Know what? Madeline Manning is sort of my running coach.”

  Belinda sits up and frowns. “Say that again?”

  I feel goofy for bringing it up, but Belinda’s waiting for my explanation. “Uh. It’s kind of like I hear her talking to me — not out loud, but in my head.” She looks at me like I’m batty, so I figure I better keep talking. “Sort of. Not for real.”

  “Me oh my, Peewee. Let me see if you have a fever.” She presses a hand to my forehead. “Yep, call the doctor. This girl has stayed out in the sun too long!”

  I take a tray rattling with china and set it down on the table in front of Mamá. Flowers, doilies, pretty teacups. She looks over everything with shining eyes. “Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to so much fuss!”

  Papá says, “You deserve a fuss, darling! Happy Mother’s Day!”

  Whew. I was jittery as a polecat getting everything together without Marina. She stayed up all night working on Mamá’s present, so it was only right to let her sleep in. She’s at the table now, but with big raccoon circles under her eyes.

  Mamá is crazy about the fruit salad I made and the coffee cake Papá got from the bakery. She drinks nearly a gallon of hot tea with cream and sugar. That’s the easy part. Then Papá announces, “We have a few surprises for you!”

  I bite my knuckles. When he hands her the gift-wrapped slippers, she reads my card and eagerly opens the box. “What a lovely blue, just like my robe! Gracias, mi amor!” She plants a kiss on my forehead, then kicks off her faded terry-cloth slippers and swaps them with the new ones. Right next to her robe, you can tell the blues don’t match — not by a country mile — but she acts like they’re the latest thing from Paris. Whew.

  Marina says, “Papá, you go next.”

  As Mamá peels away the Scotch tape on Papá’s gift, her smile is almost as big as the box. She breaks into a laugh when she sees the picture on the carton. It’s a Lady Sunbeam hair dryer, the kind that fits over your head like a bonnet.

  Marina excuses herself, saying she’ll be right back. I know why; it’s time to show Mamá the secret project she worked on all night.

  “More tea, Mamá?” I ask.

  Papá slices the hair-dryer carton open. Getting the dryer out of the box is no easy trick. There are lots of Styrofoam pieces holding it in place, and it takes tugging and prying to set the dryer free. Sitting on the table, it looks enormous. Mamá leans in close while he shows her the adjustments you can make to temperature, fan speed, angle, and who knows what all. “You’ll never have to sleep in your curlers again.”

  Mamá and Papá are still cooing like lovey doves when Marina shows up, carrying the garment bag that holds the wedding dress. Mamá sees it and gasps. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. This is my Mother’s Day gift to you.” Smiling, Marina unzips the bag. The stitches of the finished hem are tiny and perfect, exactly how Mamá would’ve sewn them herself. At first, Mamá can’t even speak.

  “Santa Claus’s elves paid you a visit last night,” Papá says, grinning. “We never knew they worked on Mother’s Day.”

  “Gracias, hija,” Mamá says, wiping away tears. “You made my job much easier!”

  Ah, what a nice Mother’s Day it turned out to be! Now that the wedding dress is nearly finished, Mamá can count on buying a plane ticket to Argentina. I can tell that she’s on Cloud Ninety-Nine. She nibbles at the coffee cake, eats an extra serving of fruit salad, and props her slippered feet up on the ottoman next to the couch. All the while, Papá tunes his guitar. “What would you like to hear, Claudia?”

  “You don’t even need to ask —‘Besame Mucho.’”

  Oh, brother, things are getting mushier by the minute around here. It’s time for me to scram. Monkey bars, here I come.

  Homeroom bell is about to ring. Grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, Abigail whips out a postcard and hands it to me. It’s signed Yours truely, Conrad — misspelling and all. “We’re on the phone every night,” she says. “His father’s business has a WATS line that you can talk on for hours and hours without paying for long distance.”

  My jaw drops. “You talk for hours and hours?”

  “Shhh! Daddy doesn’t know how late I’ve been staying up!” She does a little dance. “I like Conrad! Conrad likes me!”

  “No wonder you’re always finishing assignments in homeroom.”

  “Yep. And when he comes to town for the party, it’ll be even worse!”

  “Jeez, I hope he helps you study for exams.”

  “Oh, Lu, you’re so funny!” Now she whispers. “Don’t tell anybody, pleeeeease, but his family’s for Wallace.”

  “Don’t they live in Mississippi? Why would they care about Alabama’s governor?”

  “Oh, they care, all right. People love Wallace, up and down the country. Just don’t tell Daddy or he might write my name out of the will!”

  “Heck, it’s not like you’re marrying Conrad. You’re just going to a party together.”

  “You never know,” she says. “Mama and Daddy were high-school sweethearts.”

  I’m starting to think Abigail has lost her marbles.

  “Something’s going on with Connie. She’s not even trying to run fast.” This is me, whispering to Belinda after we’ve parked our hindquarters on the curb under the shade of the tulip trees. There’s not one iota of breeze stirring, and we’re craving air-conditioning like a dog craves a ham bone.

  Instead of answering, Belinda cuts her eyes in the direction of Mrs. Underwood, who stands next to us and could be listening. In her giant sunglasses, Mrs. Underwood reminds me of a housefly.

  “Mercy me,” she says, while scribbling on her clipboard. “I couldn’t put a piece of paper between you two at the finish line. Y’all are going to smoke them on Field Day! Wonder what a good track-and-field coach could do with you two. Y’all got real talent that deserves development. So I was talking to Coach Williams and he made an interesting suggestion: summer track clinic at the state university. It’s a camp for runners.”

  Belinda blurts, “Sign me up!”

  Mrs. Underwood flashes her gold molars. “That’s the spirit! We’ll talk some more after I get the hard facts. Let me see how Angie and Connie like the idea.”

  Belinda and I head back to the locker room. “Are we dreaming?” she says. “Pinch me!”

  But I don’t know what in the dickens to say. While she floats, I’m turning into a nervous Nellie. What would Mamá and Papá say if they heard about this business of track camp? They have no clue that I’ve been running at all, except for that one little ole race at the international club. And look how well that went over with them: like a lead balloon!

  After changing back into my school clothes, I get word that Mrs. Underwood wants to see me in her office. As soon as I push the door open, she starts in. “Olivera, let me shoot it straight. Will you be here next year or are you transferring?”

  “I’m staying right here.”

  “Good. I got to ask because lots of kids are leaving for that private school.”

  “Lots of kids?”

  “So says the grapevine. I just need to know if my talented runners are coming back next
year. Otherwise, what’s the point in trying to put together a track team?” Track team? A few minutes ago, she said track camp, and now we’ve graduated up to track team? Belinda will jump for joy when she hears this.

  “You’ve got speed, Olivera. We really need your legs to put together a program. I’ve got pretty good sprinters in the seventh and eighth grades, but every team needs somebody that can handle distance. That’s you, my friend. So get cracking and ask your mom and pop to sign on the dotted line.” She hands me a permission form for track camp.

  “But what about the other girls?” I ask.

  “Belinda’s my ace for the four-forty. Angie, she burns it up in the sprints.” Mrs. Underwood sighs. “And I’m afraid that ole Connie might be bailing on us. We’re losing her to East Lake next year.” So that explains why Connie hasn’t seemed to care about running lately. She’s already got one foot out the door.

  Golly, everything’s changing so fast. One by one, white kids are kissing this school good-bye. Who’s next, I wonder?

  The first good sign is Miss Garrett’s hundred-watt smile. The more she walks down the rows, swishing her yellow skirt and spreading the smell of flowery perfume, the better I feel. She hands me back my report on the Wallace rally, and there, at the top right corner, glows a red A-plus, along with the word Exceptional. I’m weak in the knees with relief.

  But why, oh why, of all the blooming times it could’ve happened, does Sam have to peek over my shoulder while I’m holding this report?

  “You went to the Wallace rally?”

  “Not so loud!” Lucky for me, the class is chattering away like a tree full of squirrels. I think fast. “What makes you figure I went?”

  “You wrote a report on it!” He does a rapid-fire blink.

  “I needed extra credit, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’re for Brewer!”

  “Of course I am! My sister practically lives at his campaign offices!”

  “That’s why I thought …” he stammers. “But now …” More blinking.

  Miss Garrett zips over to switch the lights off-on-off-on. It takes a while for us squirrels to settle down. Then she starts checking our election notebooks. When she reaches my desk, she gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Glad to see your work improving, Lu.”

  When she moves to the next row, I notice Sam’s got his fountain pen out, writing down our assignment. He needs to get it through his head that I would never root for Wallace. Going to the rally was supposed to be for a cakewalk, nothing else. “Hey,” I whisper to him, “didn’t you hear about the cakewalk?”

  “Huh? The cake what?”

  I’m about to explain when I realize that he looks mighty annoyed, like maybe he thinks cakewalks are the stupidest things ever. If I let on that I went to the rally for something like a cakewalk, he’s going to take me for a flighty girl — one who doesn’t give a hoot that Wallace is one of the worst racists to come down the turnpike, so long as she can play some dumb ole game with cakes for prizes.

  Sam caps the fountain pen and sticks it in his pocket. A little frown between his eyebrows makes me think he’s had it with me. When Miss Garrett starts the lesson, my mind is nowhere near social studies. And then, once the last bell of the day rings, Sam up and vanishes without a good-bye or anything. Now I won’t see him till tomorrow, and he’s gone home thinking I’m a Wallace girl. Oh, crud.

  Next day, Sam is back at it. “All I want to know is, did you go or not?”

  Mrs. Donnelly dusts chalk off her hands. She has just finished writing today’s date, Wednesday, May 13, on the board. “Everyone take a seat, please.”

  “Well?” Sam says.

  “Shhh, class is about to start.” My nerves are fried from all these questions. I pull out my language notebook and face the front of the classroom.

  While Mrs. Donnelly starts passing out copies of our exam schedule, Sam taps me on the shoulder again. “Can’t you just say yes or no, and be done with it?”

  I frown. “Hush, we’ll get in trouble.” In my notebook, I flip to today’s vocabulary list, but Sam won’t stop breathing down my neck.

  “Yes or no? Simple question.” Mrs. Donnelly is calling roll, but Sam acts like that doesn’t matter. He just leans in closer and whispers in my ear, “So you’re saying yes?”

  Barely turning my head, I hiss, “I didn’t say that!”

  “Then you lied? Writing the report would be a lie if you didn’t go!” I just shake my head without uttering a peep, but suddenly it’s like the world has come to an end for ole Sam. “Oh, no. You went! I can tell you did. Oh, God.”

  Jeez Louise, I never knew a whisper could sound so pathetic. And Abigail thinks I’m dramatic.

  I whip around. “Okay, okay! I went, but I hated it!” My face feels like it’s boiling.

  Mrs. Donnelly raps on her desk. “Lu, is that you whispering? Turn around and face the front. My goodness, you know better.” A laugh ripples across the classroom.

  Spider says, “Yes, Lu, you know better.” Kids laugh even more, because that’s how it is whenever Spider makes one of his comments, only I don’t see anything funny about this one.

  Mrs. Donnelly writes a grammar exercise on the board. Students raise their hands to give the answer. All of a sudden, Sam shoves a note at me. My heart thuds as I open it. You really and truly hated it?

  I scribble an answer. Yes, I hated it with a purple passion, okay? I’m serious. Stop asking!

  But before I get a chance to pass it back, Mrs. Donnelly’s eagle eye focuses square on me, like I’m the one and only culprit. “Lu, is that a note?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what’s gotten into you today?” She stands over my desk, looking even more like an eagle now, one with beady eyes. “Care to share it with the class?”

  Cold sweat pops out all over me. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, sorry, but that’s the rule. We can’t have people doing whatever they please during class time. Stand up and read it aloud.”

  My knees are knocking like all get out, but I do as I’m told. Using as little expression as I can manage, I read it: “You really and truly hated it? Yes, I hated it with a purple passion, okay? I’m serious. Stop asking.” I sound like a dadgum robot.

  Everybody hoots. Then Spider jumps up and gets in Sam’s face. “She hates it, boy, so you’d best quit begging her!” And the hoots grow even louder.

  I don’t dare look at Sam. If he’s like me, he’s ready to drop straight down to Calcutta, if only the ground would be kind enough to open up and swallow us.

  Boy, does that ever put a chill between Sam and me. We avoid each other all through science and math and even in the hall between classes. At lunch, he walks by with his tray and pauses at the table where I’m sitting with Abigail and Paige. We stare, his gray eyes and my brown eyes drilling back and forth. Whatever he wanted to say must’ve gotten stuck in his craw. Fine by me, because I doubt I’d care to hear it. Then dumb ole Lu has to go and open her trap. “Why do you even care?” I say with a snide tone. And that’s when I catch something new flashing in his eyes. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s hurt.

  He blinks like crazy. “I thought you were …” But he doesn’t finish. He just hurries with his tray to another part of the lunchroom.

  Different. He was going to say: I thought you were different. Not like those other kids who can’t wait to get out of here and go to an all-white school. Not like half of Red Grove, Alabama, who shows up at a Wallace rally and waves their Confederate flags like there’s no tomorrow.

  “Whoa,” Abigail says, interrupting her conversation with Paige. “What in holy moly was that all about?” Paige just stares at me openmouthed.

  I shake my head and start fumbling with the waxed paper my sandwich is wrapped in. I see that Mamá cut the sandwich into triangles, exactly how I like it. Weird, but seeing those triangles feels like a hug from Mamá, and I sure do need a hug right now.

  I thought you were different. I though
t I was different, too. My eyes well up, and one little ole teardrop slides down my nose and goes splat on the waxed paper.

  Mrs. Sampredo and I wait in the bank line for a teller to open up. Mamá volunteered me to act as a translator since she and Marina were both busy, and now I’m sweating bullets trying to figure out what to say when it’s our turn.

  When we get to the front, Mrs. Sampredo lays a stack of paper bills on the counter. “She’d like to deposit this money in her savings account, please,” I manage.

  The bank teller frowns at me. “Well, where’s her passbook? Can’t do anything without that.” When Mrs. Sampredo digs around in her purse and pulls out a booklet, I realize she didn’t need me to translate this part. Whew, because how the heck do you say passbook in Spanish?

  The teller takes a ballpoint and writes in the pages of the booklet. Even when she hands it back to Mrs. Sampredo, she doesn’t crack a smile or bother to say, “Hurry back,” like folks around here do with most everybody. The marble floor of the bank lobby sends a cold shiver straight through my shoes and up to my belly. I pull on Mrs. Sampredo’s arm. “¿Vamos?”

  Back outside, it’s a bright spring day. Birds sing their hearts out on the courthouse lawn, and the sidewalk swarms with afternoon shoppers. As we head down the block to the insurance office for Mrs. Sampredo’s next errand, I keep seeing our reflection in store windows. Mrs. Sampredo is all decked out in a blue suit and high heels, and her dark hair is teased to a perfectly round ball. That shrimp in tennis shoes walking next to her? It’s me. Poor Mrs. Sampredo is probably sorry she got stuck with ole Lu for a translator, and I wouldn’t blame her.

  At least the receptionist at the insurance office smiles aplenty. She swivels to her electric typewriter and types everything I translate. Her fingers go like drumsticks all over those keys, while I fumble and bumble my words. Then she whisks the paper out of the typewriter roller and clips it to a file. “That does it, honey bun. You’re good to go now.” I think she’s forgotten that I’m just the neighbor kid helping out, and Mrs. Sampredo is the customer.