“I really hate to lose you, Maizon.”
Miss Norman rose and patted my shoulder. “I saw you as a point guard ... starting.”
I smiled and wiped my eyes.
“I guess I should say thank you now,” I said. “To both of you.”
I rose and hugged them both. Miss Norman held me away from her and looked at me a moment. Then she smiled and winked.
“You’re going to be fine, Maizon,” she promised. “Just fine.”
They left and I went back to my desk, leaned on my elbows and stared out the window. I felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off my chest and now I could stumble and float to the next place in my life.
Marie, Charli, and Sheila were walking toward the main hall, arm-in-arm-in-arm as they slip-slided across the now-icy field, wearing thick Blue Hill jackets.
I stared at them. I would miss Charli the most, with her dark shades and easy way. I wondered if Sheila would really go to Spelman and if Marie would change her mind about Ivy League. I wondered if Sandy would forget me or if the girls in my English class would forget Pecola or remember me when they thought of her the way I remembered Margaret’s father when I tried to think of my own. I wondered what would happen to Pauli—if she would one day wake up and find herself lost.
“You must have lived another life a long, long time ago,” Ms. Dell said to me once. “You’re older than your years.”
Sitting there, I thought about Ms. Dell’s words, and for the first time, they rang true to me. Maybe my gift was that I had lived somewhere a long time before this. Maybe that’s where my knowledge came from. Maybe my knowing was my gift the way Ms. Dell’s clairvoyance was hers.
I watched the groups of girls walk across the field, bundled up against the cold and the darkening, clouded-over sky. A sadness came over me suddenly. Did I still belong to Madison Street, to Margaret’s stoop and Ms. Dell and Hattie’s singing?
When I got home, I’d tell them all about Blue Hill and the leaves turning from green to red and gold. I’d tell them about the rhododendrons, about Charli with her gossip and shades, about how boy-crazy the girls here are. Then maybe I’d tell them about that day at the debate club meeting, about Ms. Bender’s husband, about the short walk I took with Pauli across the field. And we’d sit on Margaret’s stoop watching it snow, waiting for the Thanksgiving turkey to finish cooking. Then, later on, we’d sit there again, waiting for Christmas, then New Year’s to come.
And while we were waiting, I’d get a little sad when I remembered the good times and bad at Blue Hill. But I’d make something of it all ... something strong and solid. And somewhere inside that strong, solid thing, I’d find a place where smart black girls from Brooklyn could feel like they belonged.
Jacqueline Woodson has received numerous awards for her middle-grade and young adult books, including the Coretta Scott King Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Miracle’s Boys, and two Coretta Scott King Honor Awards. She was born in Ohio, grew up in Greenville, South Carolina, and now lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Maizon at Blue Hill Page 9
