“Idea number four, stay here and watch TV,” Steffi said.
To Amanda, all three of their dad’s ideas sounded like fun, especially the crafts festival. That he had actually written them down made her have to fight the familiar pang of pity for him. People who said, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again,” didn’t know how sad trying could be. But she hadn’t forgotten the way his face had shone when he had seen the blond lady at the Arts Center. He could take her to the crafts festival, on the hike, to the concert.
“Mandy?”
She made herself say it. “I vote for idea number four.” She plopped herself on the couch beside Steffi, wishing that her dad would put the saxophone away, someplace where she and Steffi wouldn’t have to see it.
“Suit yourselves,” he said shortly. Out of the corner of her eye, Amanda saw him sit down at the dining room table and start typing on his laptop. E-mailing her, probably.
Amanda caught him looking at her with a hurt, puzzled expression.
She fixed her eyes back on the TV.
The Civil War concert was held on Wednesday night; the class trip to Gettysburg would follow on Friday. Amanda’s mother and Steffi were going to the concert, but not her father. She hadn’t told him about it at the Sunday visit, or during any of the brief, awkward conversations that followed, even though he had asked her, flat out, “Any school programs coming up?”
She had said no.
But now that it was the night of the concert, Amanda thought her heart would break, not having him there. He had never missed a school concert or play for her or Steffi, ever. He was always there in the front row with his video camera and proud grin, acting as if a kindergarten Thanksgiving play was the most wonderful thing in the world if his daughter was the third Pilgrim from the left, the one whose Pilgrim hat kept slipping down over her eyes. He’d even give her flowers afterward, making her feel like a movie star.
She almost called him from school half an hour before the concert. There was still time for him to get there, even though it was too late for him to claim his favorite front-row seat.
But she didn’t call him.
Mrs. Angelino had told the fifth graders to try to look as much like Civil War children as possible. Most of the boys had on jeans and flannel shirts; the girls wore cotton dresses, if they had them. A few girls, including Amanda, wore sunbonnets. Amanda’s father had bought her a sunbonnet at a crafts fair once, because he knew how much she loved old-fashioned things. Beth and Meghan had on their matching Irish dancing costumes, complete with matching curly wigs. With their wigs on, you could hardly tell them apart.
The fifth graders were lined up outside, ready to march into the gym and up onto the stage to sing their opening number, “Dixie.” Standing there, through the windows, they could see their families seated in the rows of folding chairs set up for the occasion.
Beth was behind Amanda in line. “Where’s your dad?” she asked. “I see your mom and Steffi, but I don’t see your dad.”
The casual innocence of the question was too much.
“Oh, he left,” Amanda said airily.
“Left? Like on a business trip?”
“No, left. Moved out. Got his own apartment. Ages ago. My parents are separated. Didn’t you know?”
From the gym came the opening strains of “Dixie,” pounded out by Mrs. Angelino on the battered old upright piano below the front edge of the stage. It was the fifth graders’ signal to begin marching in.
Amanda whirled away from Beth’s shocked face and stepped briskly in time to the rousing beat of the tune. When the fifth graders were all assembled on the risers, Mrs. Angelino mouthed to them, “Smile!”
Amanda’s smile was the biggest and brightest.
“Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton!”
Ninety fifth-grade students picked their cotton. Appreciative laughter came often from the audience. Even though Mrs. Angelino took her choreographed motions very seriously, the parents always thought they were funny.
“Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!”
Finally the song was over. At a sign from Mrs. Angelino, they all sat down in place on the risers.
“Welcome to our Civil War concert!” Mrs. Angelino said into the microphone. “Our fifth-grade boys and girls have worked very hard to prepare for you a special program of song, dance, and poetry!”
Amanda felt Beth poke her with her elbow. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Beth whispered.
“How could I tell you?” Amanda whispered back. “You were always busy with your new best friend, doing Irish jigs.”
The audience applauded. Mrs. Angelino must have finished her welcoming speech. A fifth grader from another class came to the center of the stage with her violin.
“That’s not fair!” Beth whispered as the girl began to play some tune Amanda didn’t recognize. “You’re the one who was acting strange, never calling me, never inviting me to your house anymore.”
Mrs. Angelino shot them a warning look, the kind she usually reserved for Lance and Ricky.
Amanda saved her reply until the girl played the last refrain of her piece. “You didn’t even ask me what was wrong! We’ve been best friends for how many years? Five? And you didn’t even ask!”
“Maybe I thought I didn’t have to ask, that if something was wrong, you’d tell me.”
Mrs. Angelino signaled for the fifth graders to stand up again. Amanda and Beth rose with the others.
“Our next song is about the favorite snack of the Confederate soldiers. Parents, see if you can guess what goober peas are. Or ask your fifth grader!”
Amanda was so upset she could hardly get the words out. She wished she and Beth weren’t standing smack in the center of the front row, instead of safely in the back with the klutzy kids like Patrick, who always messed up the motions. It was hideous to have to turn to Beth and merrily pantomime, “Chatting with my messmates.” Having the worst fight of your life with your ex-best friend was more like it.
“Peas, peas, peas, peas, Eatin’ goober peas! Goodness, how delicious, Eatin’ goober peas!”
Amanda vowed never to eat a peanut again.
A very short fifth-grade boy read a poem. Even with the microphone, he was hard to hear. Another boy played the trumpet.
All together, the fifth graders sang “My Old Kentucky Home.” The parents didn’t laugh at the motions for that one—big circled arms for “The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home”; eyes wiped for “Weep no more, my lady.” The music was too sad and yearning, sighing for a home far away.
Like a father far away.
Like a best friend lost forever.
Amanda whispered just one line to Beth during the applause for “My Old Kentucky Home.”
“You shouldn’t have to tell best friends things. They should know.”
“Maybe I’m not a mind reader,” Beth whispered back.
Amanda hated to admit that Beth might have a point.
Mrs. Angelino took the microphone again. “Next we’ll have an Irish jig by our two wonderful Irish dancers, Beth Gibson and Meghan Moore.”
Beth shot Amanda one furious glance and then joined Meghan in the spotlight. Mrs. Angelino turned on the CD of their music, and the two girls began to dance. Amanda could see Beth only from the back, but she was sure Beth was smiling her big, fixed Irish-dancing smile that exactly matched Meghan’s big, fixed Irish-dancing smile. Their feet clattered in perfect unison.
The applause afterward was the loudest yet.
“And now Amanda MacLeish will share with us her original poem ‘Polly’s Lament.’”
She couldn’t do it. But Mrs. Angelino turned toward her expectantly, so Amanda had no choice but to come forward to the microphone.
“Polly’s Lament,” she repeated into the mike.
How did it go? She should have written it down on a piece of paper, just in case, but she never would have imagined that she could forget her own poem that was only ten lines long. She
had also never imagined that she’d be fighting bitterly with Beth through the entire Civil War concert. Or that her father wouldn’t be there to see her perform.
“Polly’s Lament,” she said again.
It was just as well that her father wasn’t videotaping this one. She stood there for what felt like hours in appalled, terrified silence.
Then, from behind her, she heard Beth’s soft voice: “My brother Jeb fights for the South.”
Amanda recited:
“My brother Jeb fights for the South.
My brother Thomas, for the North.
I do not fight for either side.
I watch the soldiers marching forth.”
One line followed another, effortlessly now, and the poem came to a close. Amanda didn’t acknowledge the applause. She fled back to her spot next to Beth.
She had to thank Beth, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. She reached over and squeezed Beth’s hand.
Beth squeezed hers back.
Then it was James’s turn. If “My Old Kentucky Home” was sad, James’s violin solo was even sadder. As James played, Amanda blinked back tears. Next to her, she could hear Beth sniffle.
Beth wasn’t the one who had betrayed the friendship by not asking; Amanda had betrayed it, by not telling. But it had been so hard to tell Beth, when her family was happy and Amanda’s was miserable. Still, Beth couldn’t help having a happy family. And Amanda had tried to tell Beth, though she hadn’t tried very hard.
A tear trickled down Amanda’s cheek. She wiped it away.
The applause for James was the evening’s loudest. Even Lance was clapping. She didn’t know what Mr. Abrams had said to Lance and James, but Lance was definitely clapping for James now.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda whispered to Beth as they both kept on clapping for James.
“I’m sorry, too.”
They gave each other one brief, fierce hug.
For the concert finale, all the fifth graders sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Fortunately, Mrs. Angelino didn’t have them do motions for this song. They just stood there and belted it out. “Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!” You didn’t need motions when you had words like that to sing.
Amanda’s joy at singing with Beth beside her warred with the pain of missing her father.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah!” she sang, her heart filled to overflowing.
August 1, 1861
Dear Diary,
He’s alive!
He lost a leg, his right leg, but he’s alive.
He’s going to come home with us in three more days. The army has no use for a one-legged soldier.
I remember how sad I was when I learned that jeb had lost his arm. Losing a leg is even worse than losing an arm, but I can’t be sad this time. Losing a leg is so much better than losing your whole life.
“I don’t think I’m going to make it, Polly.”
But he did make it! He did!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
He’ll be coming home—home to Mother and Father and Shep and Whitie and Blackie and me.
But he won’t be coming home to Jeb. Jeb’s still away at the war. And even when Jeb does come home, how can Jeb forgive Thomas for fighting for the army that cost him his arm? How can Thomas ever forgive Jeb for fighting for the army that took his leg?
And how can I ever forgive both of them for fighting each other?
17
It rained on Friday, the day of the class trip to Gettysburg. At first Amanda was disappointed when she woke up to hear the rain against her window—not a gentle, misting drizzle but a hard, driving downpour. But maybe miserable weather was more fitting for a trip to the battlefield where over fifty thousand men had fallen.
“Aren’t you lucky,” Steffi said at breakfast. “You get to ride on a bus for an hour and then get soaked trudging through this big, boring field in the rain, and then ride on a bus again for another hour.”
“I wish I could go,” their mother said. Steffi gave a snort of laughter.
“I’m serious! Mr. Abrams e-mailed all the parents yesterday that he still needs more parent volunteers, but I already had plans to show three houses today.”
“I bet a lot of parents made other plans real fast,” Steffi said.
“Amanda, you’d better wear your boots. The field might be muddy. With boots, and your raincoat, and your umbrella, I think you’ll be okay. I heard that it’s supposed to rain all day.”
As she dropped Amanda off at school, her mother reached across the front seat to kiss her. They didn’t kiss goodbye on regular school mornings. The kiss made Amanda feel that she was setting off on a real journey.
In their classroom, Mr. Abrams called everyone over to the gathering place for final instructions.
“You may choose your seatmate for the bus,” he told them.
Amanda and Beth and Meghan had already decided to sit together—Amanda and Beth in one seat and Meghan across the aisle on the way there, Meghan and Beth in one seat and Amanda across the aisle on the way back. Lance and Ricky would be sitting together, of course. James usually partnered with Scott, the boy who was Jefferson Davis.
“Now, remember, we are visiting a battlefield, not a theme park. In the Gettysburg Address, President Lincoln said, ‘We can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.’ What does that mean?”
James raised his hand partway, then put it down again.
Mr. Abrams smiled at him. “James?”
“He means, it’s sacred ground because so many soldiers died there.”
“That’s right, James. Let’s respect that, okay, kids? With behavior that honors their sacrifice.”
Amanda was impressed that he managed not to look at Lance and Ricky as he said it.
“Parent volunteers.” He turned to the parents who were gathering in the back of the room. “Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedules to accompany us today. Kids, please give your parents a hand.”
Amanda turned to see which parents were coming on the trip. She saw Beth’s mother, and Ricky’s mother, and a few other moms.
Then she saw her father.
She had never told him the date of the trip. He must have found out from Mr. Abrams’s e-mail.
He gave her a tentative, hopeful smile.
She didn’t smile back.
The bus was parked in the school parking lot, on the edge of a huge, spreading puddle that was fast becoming a small lake. Lance and Ricky stomped through it, sending up tidal waves of spray.
“Ricky!” his mother yelled.
Ricky didn’t respond.
“Ricky,” Mr. Abrams said quietly.
Ricky stopped. His mother looked stunned. Amanda thought she must be trying to figure out how Mr. Abrams did it.
The parents all sat together toward the front of the bus. Amanda, Beth, and Meghan chose seats halfway back.
“Your father’s here,” Beth whispered to Amanda. “Did you know he was coming?”
Amanda shook her head. She had told Beth about everything now—everything except her dad’s new girlfriend. That was just for Amanda and Steffi to share.
“Is it okay that he’s here?”
“I guess so.” In a way, she was glad he still cared enough to come. But if it meant that much to him to be a part of her life, why had he left? Didn’t that mean he loved the blond, lipsticked woman more than he loved her?
As Steffi had warned, the bus ride was long. But, of course, it was much faster to travel by bus than by Mr. Porter’s horse-drawn wagon. The soldiers would have come to Gettysburg on foot, walking every step of the way in the humid July heat. They had no raincoats or umbrellas to shield them from drenching rain. At least, Amanda didn’t think they did. From what she had read, many of them didn’t even have shoes.
At last they reached Gettysburg and filed into the Visi
tor Center at the park, to use the restrooms, see a short film, and view the elaborate Electric Map that re-created the three days of the battle. During the film, Amanda’s father sat next to Beth’s mother, three rows in front of where Amanda was sitting; as the auditorium darkened, they were deep in conversation. Amanda wondered if he was telling her that he had moved out. Beth’s mother probably knew already, from Beth, but it would still be shocking to hear the news directly from his lips. Would he sound sad as he said it? Or relieved?
Instead of a picnic outside on the grass, they ate their sack lunches on the bus. Amanda could imagine Steffi’s commentary: “So first you rode on the bus for an hour in the rain, and then you ate your lunch on the bus in the rain, and then you rode home for an hour in the rain. Fun!” Amanda left her peanut butter sandwich unfinished and gave her apple slices to Meghan.
After lunch, the class gathered in the Visitor Center to get organized for their tour of the battlefield. Amanda found herself standing next to James. They hadn’t spoken since the day she had her outburst in class.
“Hey,” James said, his voice as friendly as it had always been. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” She knew he didn’t really want to know; it was just a thing to say.
There was an awkward pause. Then James started in. “About Lance? His diary didn’t really bother me. When he called me the name—that bothered me. But the diary—I know he’s not the only person who thinks of black people that way, you know, as not so smart. I try not to let it get to me.”
But it had to get to him, Amanda knew. Unless he really meant what he was saying? With a start, Amanda realized that she had always thought of James as black first, and as a smart person and a good writer and a great math student second. She was always being extra careful of what she said to him because he was black. In a way, that was just as racist as Lance’s not being careful enough.
“Nobody could think you’re not smart,” Amanda said.
The Totally Made-up Civil War Diary of Amanda MacLeish Page 13
