In the Silences

by Rachel Gold

“One week? Two weeks? How long does she have to get it perfect before you let her do something interesting?”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said and drew in a very slow breath. “Please, Mrs. Alexander, how many days does Aisha have to give you perfect numbers before she can work online with me?”

  “As many as I think she needs.”

  “By what measure?”

  “Kaz, this conversation is over. One more minute and I’m handing out detentions.”

  I’d have kept going, not caring if I got detention, but the way she said it plural, I worried that she’d write one for Aisha too.

  I went into the bathroom and stood in a stall, not sure if I was going to shake or cry or punch the wall.

  So that white girl from summer camp was just having a tough time—even though she was disruptive and not that smart—but Aisha needed to learn discipline?

  Hell no.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  November 2017

  I thought: I should go to Mrs. Warren. She’d emailed and called Mrs. Alexander, probably a few times. But she already had so much to deal with. She never let Aisha or Tariq out of the house without making sure they were well-dressed. I used to think she was super strict. In a way she was, but I could see how a lot of it came from her fear for her kids.

  Last spring, I’d heard her and Aisha fighting about it. One morning, not long before Dani Mehta broke up with Aisha, I’d gone over early and had breakfast at her house. I was in Aisha’s room packing my backpack when she went down to get her biology book from the living room.

  I heard her mom say, “You’re not wearing that to school.”

  “Why?” Aisha had insisted. “Any of my friends can go to school with torn jeans.”

  “Do not let your white friends get you in trouble. Go put on your nice jeans and bring me those.”

  “Mom, these look better.”

  “Not to your teachers.”

  “It’s not going to matter.” Aisha’s voice went rough with anger. “They aren’t looking at my jeans.”

  “I know, honey, but if you’re proper, then you know and they know it’s their problem, not yours.”

  “They don’t know that,” Aisha said.

  “You’re not leaving the house in those,” Mrs. Warren told her.

  Aisha stomped up the stairs and shut the door. There was a strong no-slamming policy in her house. The jeans she loved were torn at the knee and I agreed they were her best pair. Not that I wanted her wearing them to school for Meta to see.

  My jeans didn’t have any big tears, but the bottom cuffs and the edges of the pockets were fraying because I’d had them for so long. I put my thumbs in my pockets so my fingers fell over the frayed parts.

  Aisha got out another pair of jeans, turned away and put them on. I didn’t watch, of course, but from her breathing I could tell she was crying.

  Mrs. Warren and Aisha should not have to deal with this on their own, or at all if I could help it. I decided to ask Milo if she could help. Milo and Mrs. Warren had become a dynamic duo since the election. They were teaching me about social conditioning and racism and learning about trans issues. Maybe together they knew how to fight this.

  But first, because I knew there was a ton I didn’t know, I asked Aisha if she’d be okay with me talking to Milo about Chemistry. We’d been playing Xbox and stopped to maybe watch a movie. As she flipped through the channel listing, I slipped my fingers under her free hand.

  “What are you going to ask Milo to do?” she asked, eyes narrowing though she faced the TV screen.

  “Milo knows everybody. She’ll talk to the principal or something.”

  “Who will talk to Mrs. Alexander,” Aisha said. “Who will take it out on me.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Aisha sighed. “Mom’s already going to talk to her. She sent a bunch of emails and left phone messages. Mrs. Alexander sent her some brush-off replies so you know there’s going to be a meeting.” She got up and went to the stairs, since her mom was upstairs reading, calling up, “Mom, Kaz wants to talk to Milo about Mrs. Alexander.”

  Mrs. Warren came to the bottom of the stairs, facing into the living room. “I’ll talk to Milo. Kaz, do you want to come to this meeting too?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right. I am done playing with that woman.”

  She returned to her room and Aisha came to sit with me again. She rested the remote on her knee and wove her fingers with mine, then kept moving them restlessly.

  “Wow,” I said. “That all happened fast.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “That you’d tell me you don’t need me to fight your fights and I’m being kind of stupid and you’ve got this.”

  “See, you already know that,” she said. “Except the stupid part, what’s that about?”

  “Apocalypse,” I said. “I can fight the mind control in my own brain—I’m good at it now—but I know I still don’t see things that you see.”

  “Sometimes you see things I don’t. Like Mrs. Alexander treating that white girl differently last summer. And so much about gender. Is Apocalypse also the one who tells you that you can’t be nonbinary? That you can’t be both and all and everything?”

  “Oh. Yeah,” I stared hard at the leg of the couch because my eyes had gotten really wet.

  We’d talked about Apocalypse as a metaphor for the kinds of racism that were super hard for white people to see they were doing. That they needed to get responsible for and fight against. Like all Mrs. Alexander’s assumptions and the teachers who didn’t see how a mostly white curriculum hurt everybody.

  I didn’t want to take away from that, so I hadn’t thought much about how Apocalypse also worked as the mind control that made people think everyone fit neatly into the categories of man and woman, even though they were forcing people into those categories.

  Aisha laced her fingers with mine. “He doesn’t want us to be powerful. Because he can’t really control us. So he’s got to keep knocking us down, trying to tear us up inside, turning us against our powerful selves. You know how you see me? I see you like that too.”

  “But I barely exist,” I mumbled. “How can you see me?”

  “You’re combining things. Out there, there aren’t a lot of examples of you, but there are some. But here, up close, you exist the same way I do—in a ‘multiplicity of senses anchored by hearing.’” That last part was a quote from a book Dr. Wade had loaned me and Aisha.

  We’d talked about how in the world around us, in Western culture, we each got reduced to visible surfaces. Aisha was “the black girl” to everyone white around here and I was “that weird girl” to most people. The further we were from each other, the more cultural weight fell on “black” and “girl.” At school I could see how everyone saw Aisha first as black. Here at her house, that vanished. And alone together, her skin had a color and mine had a color, we both had hair, and we both really liked the interactions of our skin and hair and fingers and lips.

  Some days I watched the cultural weight come down on us. I’d walk over to her house, bringing anything Milo had baked the night before, eat breakfast with her, laugh with her Dad about whatever. We’d walk to the bus stop and wait and when we got on the bus, the first layer of weight came down. At school a second, thicker layer fell, and we walked around under that all day.

  Sometimes we couldn’t get all that weight off until nearly bedtime—like the days she got Hannah Porter’s assignment, the days she got stopped in the hall, the days nobody at our lunch table talked to her except one pitiful question from Sofia, the days I got called “she” and “her” by nearly everyone, even the friends I’d asked to use “they” and “them,” the days I got glared at or laughed at in the women’s restroom or the girls in there huddled up and whispered about me.

  Sometimes I didn’t see the light come back into Aisha’s eyes until we were saying good night. And sometimes I co
uldn’t see it in her eyes because I didn’t have enough light in mine.

  Aisha was trying to tell me the whole world, all of space and time, wasn’t like our country now. Lots of places existed where people hadn’t based everything on how someone looked. Lots of places existed where social roles and categories helped you be yourself in the community. I just wished we could make this place like that.

  * * *

  The meeting got scheduled for after school that Friday. Aisha and I met Mrs. Warren and Milo at the west doors to the school, away from the buses. For work, Mrs. Warren always wore a white blouse under a lab coat, but now she’d put on a silver-gray suit over the white blouse. Milo had forgone her usual flannel for a navy blue sweater and black pants.

  Mrs. Warren took the lead, walking with all the determination, confidence and fury of every Shonda Rhimes badass heroine ever. In the few minutes’ walk to the principal’s office, the air charged with pre-thunderstorm energy. The admin jumped up from his desk and waved us into the inner office.

  Our principal reminded me of Lynda Carter, especially when she showed up on Supergirl as the President and then…well, spoilers, but I wanted our principal to be all that too. She had the same long brown wavy hair and blue eyes so pale they looked colorless. Plus she always wore a suit jacket: navy today with a tan blouse under it. She sat behind her desk with Mrs. Alexander in front of it. Mrs. Alexander had her legs crossed, arms crossed, looking about as happy as a wet cat.

  Mrs. Alexander had taken the chair closest to the door, so we all had to go around her. Me and Aisha sat in smaller chairs in the back. I wore my very best jeans and the military-style button down I loved. Despite the cold, Aisha wore a green and white dress with a cool geometric pattern. She had black leggings on under it and a white sweater, but she still looked cold.

  Milo took the middle chair and Mrs. Warren picked the left chair. Before she sat down she turned the chair so she could see the principal and Mrs. Alexander at the same time.

  After very stiff introductions, the principal said, “I’m sure we all know why we’re here. Aisha, do you mind telling us, from your point of view, what’s been happening?”

  Aisha pressed her hands together in her lap, kept her eyes on the principal and said, “I came in late to class because the hall monitor had stopped me again. He didn’t believe I was young enough to go to school here and spent a long time looking at my ID card or I wouldn’t have been so late. Chloe got stopped too, but he didn’t ask to look at her ID. When I arrived in class, Chloe had been assigned to share her lab partner’s task and I was asked to measure liquids, which makes me late to lunch most days. Other kids have changed assignments but I haven’t, even though Kaz asked to switch with me.”

  “If your assignment was such a burden, why didn’t you come talk to me?” Mrs. Alexander asked.

  “Because my mom emailed you and called you. And then Kaz asked and you said no.”

  “But if you were so troubled by it, you could speak up yourself. You could have shown some initiative.”

  Mrs. Warren’s face transformed to living metal or something harder. “You won’t take that tone with my daughter,” she said. “She’s not the locus of the trouble. And why should she have to ask you when I had been emailing and calling you?”

  “And I told you that all of my students have assignments that involve a level of rote work and discipline,” Mrs. Alexander said.

  “Umm…” The sound slipped out of my mouth and everyone looked at me. I swallowed and said, “The rest of us don’t have anything that boring. And we’re not expected to do it week after week. We rotate every few weeks. And you let those two groups at the front switch just because Tommy is afraid of fire. I’ve asked three times to switch or share jobs with Aisha. She could be learning so much cool stuff.”

  Pretty sure Mrs. Alexander was thinking of ways to kill me about then. With her red-brown hair piled up on her head and her light tan skin going ruddy, plus the red sweater she wore over her tan dress, she resembled a cartoon smokestack about to blow.

  “You could also be leaning ‘cool stuff,’” the principal said to me.

  “Yeah but I’m only going to be a vet and I already know about animals. Aisha’s going to be a medical doctor.”

  The corner of the principal’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “You have that worked out already at…?”

  “We’re both fifteen,” Aisha said softly. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was ten.”

  “And for me it was between vet or animal trainer. But Aisha’s set on doctor and I thought it’d be cool if we both were. And she’s the one who likes chemistry, not me. Or at least she did.”

  “Aisha’s never going to be a doctor or even a nurse if she can’t follow simple instructions for a few weeks,” Mrs. Alexander said. She picked at the sleeve of her sweater, like pulling off lint.

  “Coming from a teacher who can’t perform the simple task of responding to my calls and emails in a timely manner,” Mrs. Warren said.

  “Aisha never complained,” Mrs. Alexander insisted.

  “You singled out my daughter for a task that sounds very much like a punishment, even though being late was not her fault. Did you do that on purpose or were you too ignorant to see what you were doing? I’m here to tell you right now, it’s going to stop and stop immediately.”

  Mrs. Alexander turned to the principal, her upper lip curled. “I don’t think parents or their children should be telling me how to run my class.”

  “Aisha, Kaz, would you wait for us in the outer office?” the principal asked.

  Mrs. Warren nodded and we went into the room outside the door. It was late enough in the day that the admin had left, which meant we didn’t have to sit in the chairs on the far side of the room. Instead, we could stand right outside the door and listen. Aisha took the spot by the door and I stood close enough that our arms pressed together. I took her hand, squeezing her fingers.

  We had no trouble hearing Mrs. Warren as she said, “You should know that there’s nothing more important to me than my child’s education and I will not tolerate any interference with that. So either you fix this issue or I will see that the school board and the local news are aware of the selective rules and guidelines you have here at this school for people of color. If you think this is an idle threat please know that my husband and I have a standing yoga date with a late night news producer; try me if you want to.”

  The principal spoke for a minute or two, I couldn’t get most of the words. I stayed quiet in case Aisha could hear better than me. She whispered, “Something about other complaints and a warning and training.”

  Mrs. Alexander sat near the door and had a loud voice, so I heard clearly when she said, “I live in a very diverse neighborhood and my sister-in-law is African American. I do not need training or consulting or oversight. I am simply trying to teach my students the best way I see fit and that girl needs to learn to follow instructions and do work even if it is boring.”

  “My daughter is not ‘that girl,’” Mrs. Warren told her. “And you think because you’re counting the black folks in your life, I’m supposed to find you less racist?”

  In a low, carrying tone, Milo asked, “I’m sorry if I’ve got this wrong, but help me understand, aren’t you teaching an advanced chemistry class that prepares students for college? How are you preparing Aisha for college-level science?”

  Silence stretched out, wide and deep. I heard Mrs. Alexander’s surprise in that silence; she hadn’t thought about Aisha in college. Not for one minute.

  And she had less than no clue how often Aisha had to face that burning shock from a white person when she showed her smarts or talked about college. No clue the weight and pain that put on Aisha.

  “I prepare all my students for college,” she insisted.

  “What are you doing for Aisha?” Milo asked.

  “I am not going to treat her special just because she comes from some poor, disadvantaged background. She can do the wor
k like everyone else.”

  Mrs. Warren gave a humorless snort. “You don’t know Aisha’s background so let me tell you it’s far from poor. Kaz told us that at summer camp you set up mentorship for kids falling behind. Why do that for a camp and not in class? If Kaz wants to work with Aisha on this project, why not? What made you willing to spend extra effort on that summer camp kid but not on my daughter?”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying. You’re blaming me for stories these kids have made up. I don’t have to justify myself to you. And I do not appreciate being attacked in my own classroom.”

  “You’re not being attacked,” the principal said.

  “Yes, she is,” Milo said, evenly. “She’s in the wrong. I’m sure you see it too. Let’s not try to sugar-coat this. Let’s get it handled.”

  Mrs. Alexander’s voice rose in pitch. “How can you say that? It feels like every move I make is under scrutiny and I can’t open my mouth at all without some kind of terrible accusation coming at me. I don’t know what’s happening to our school system in this country, I honestly don’t. I’m not going to give any student special treatment—”

  “Yes,” the principal cut in. “So I’d like you to rotate the tasks the students are doing so no one student has the same task for more than two weeks, including the time they’ve already spent at that task.”

  “Fine. Will that be all?”

  “For now.”

  Mrs. Alexander stormed out of the office, pausing to glare at me where I was leaning against the wall, having leapt back from the door. She wouldn’t even look at Aisha.

  Mrs. Alexander had left the door half open. Even though Milo spoke softly, I heard her say, “I don’t know the first thing about running a school and I imagine it’s very difficult, but if you’ll pardon me saying, I think you’ve got a problem here.”

  Mrs. Warren backed her up with a heartfelt, “Mmhm.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on that class,” the principal said. “And I’ll talk to Mrs. Alexander when she’s cooled down. If she won’t agree to attend diversity training, she won’t continue teaching here.”