Been There, Done That

by Mike Winchell

  And I had a very gifted teacher, Sgt. Leonard Fields, who saw something in me that I didn’t even see in myself. I wasn’t just a smart kid. I wasn’t just a boy that could follow rules. I could be a leader. I was a leader. And I don’t know if I would have ever learned that if I hadn’t been forced outside of my brother’s shadow.

  Varian Johnson

  THE STORY

  SPEAKING UP

  While Dad talked to Francine, her head nodding at whatever first-day-of-middle-school advice he was doling out, I sat in the backseat and reviewed my schedule. I didn’t know why—in the three weeks since orientation, I’d memorized the time and location of each class. I’d even found the school layout online and had mapped my path from room to room. I still didn’t understand when I was supposed to go to lunch, but Francine and I had already decided to ask a teacher about it.

  I folded my schedule and crammed it into my backpack. Dad had joined the long line of cars snaking into the parking lot. We lived within walking distance of school, but Dad really wanted to drop us off on the first day.

  Or if I’m being honest, I wanted Dad to.

  As we inched forward, kids streamed by—some walking, some riding bikes and skateboards. Ahead of us, a kid exited his car and ran off to join a few boys passing by. He didn’t even look back as his mother pulled out of the line.

  Dad sighed. “What do you think, guys? Want me to let you off here?”

  “Sure,” Francine said, already unfastening her seat belt.

  “Maureen?” He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

  I shrugged, which was about the best I could offer.

  He turned to my sister. “Stay in. I’ll drop you off in the front.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “Be patient, Francine.” He tugged the ponytail protruding from her gray knit cap. “It won’t kill you to wait.”

  After a few minutes, we reached the front of the line. “Try to have fun,” Dad said as we exited the car. “Think of it as an adventure.”

  I followed Francine into the sea of students, pretty much placing my feet where hers had just been. We waved to a few of the kids we knew, but kept moving toward the gym. That was where we’d agreed to meet Nikki and Tasha. Most of our other friends were attending a different middle school.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Francine asked. “You haven’t said much all morning.”

  “I never say anything.” I wanted to remind her that talking was her job and thinking was mine—at least, that was what Mom and Dad always used to say. But there was no point in telling her what she was already supposed to know.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said. “Most of our classes are together.”

  “Four out of seven isn’t exactly an overwhelming majority.”

  Francine smiled at me as she readjusted her knit cap. It was too big, but that hadn’t stopped her from buying it. With her cap, old-school hip-hop T-shirt (she didn’t even know who Run-D.M.C. was until she googled them), and scuffed-up Converses, she seemed determined to make sure no one confused us for each other today.

  Which, quite frankly, wasn’t going to happen.

  Francine and I were identical twins. Even though we looked nothing alike, in my opinion—Francine was a quarter of an inch taller, I had a small scar on my chin from when I fell in the bathtub, and there were like a thousand other differences—all most people seemed to focus on were the similarities. Our eyes. Our mouths. The way our heads tilted when we were thinking, and the way our shoulders bobbed when we laughed. It had taken six years to get the kids and teachers at O’Conner Elementary to see us as different. Now we were starting all over again.

  I slowed down as we neared the gym. Nikki and Tasha were waiting for us, like they said they would be. And they were wearing knit caps.

  “You three dressed alike?” I asked.

  Francine turned toward the girls. She sighed—or maybe even growled—then plowed forward. I had to hurry to keep up.

  “Why are you guys wearing those?” Francine asked. “When you asked what I was wearing, I didn’t think you were going to copy me!”

  “I was having a bad hair day,” Tasha said. “And when I texted Nikki this morning, she said she wanted to wear one, as well.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Nikki added. “It’s not like you’re the only person that can wear a knit cap to school.” She turned to me. “I’ve got an extra if you want to wear one, too.”

  I shook my head. From the way Francine was glaring at them, I could tell that was the right answer.

  The bell rang, and we shuffled into the building. It was hard not to feel boxed in, being surrounded by so many students. The hallways at O’Conner had never been nearly as crowded.

  Unlike all those cheesy teen TV shows, we went to our first period class before homeroom. It was life science, a class that Francine and I had together, and thankfully she didn’t argue when I picked the seat behind her. But when Mr. Diggs took roll and said, “Francine Carter,” she raised her hand and shook her head.

  “Please call me Fran.”

  My eyes bored a hole into the back of her head. Since when was she Fran?

  “Fran it is,” he replied. “And should I call you Maur?” he asked me.

  He laughed. No one else did.

  “Maureen is just fine,” I said.

  After roll, he spent the next forty-five minutes talking about the beauty of the circle of life. Not the most interesting topic, but at least it kept my mind occupied.

  Then came homeroom.

  Mrs. Barbosa went over a few school rules (which I’d already learned from my orientation packet), then she let us read until the bell rang. I tried to catch Francine’s attention (and no, I was not about to start calling her Fran) in order to get her to ask the teacher a question about lunch, but she was too busy reading Pride and Prejudice to look my way. It was the latest of the big, old, boring books she’d picked up this summer. She’d tried to get me to read it, but there was no way I was reading something like that over my summer break—not when I had Dad’s entire comic book collection to go through.

  Anyway, Francine never looked my way, so finally I raised my hand to ask the teacher myself.

  “Yes, Fran?” Mrs. Barbosa said.

  I didn’t bother correcting her. “I’m a little confused about when I’m supposed to go to lunch.”

  She motioned for me to approach the front. A few seats ahead of me, Scott Casey read a graphic novel at his desk. I didn’t really know him—he had gone to elementary school with us, but was always in a different class. He was also one of the smartest kids in our grade.

  I slowed down and tried to see what he was reading. He must have sensed me looking at him, because he hunched over and covered the book.

  Mrs. Barbosa snapped her fingers. “I don’t have all day.”

  I sped up, almost tripping over Scott’s backpack, then handed her my schedule. “You’re supposed to go between fourth and fifth period,” she said.

  “Yes,” I began. “But does that mean that I’m supposed to go to class first? Or am I supposed to go to the cafeteria, and then go to class?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you’re supposed to go to class.”

  “Okay, so I go to fifth period first, and then we go to the cafeteria.”

  “Didn’t you hear me—you have lunch between fourth and fifth periods.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you trying to be smart?”

  “No, ma’am,” I mumbled. “I just . . . never mind. I understand,” I lied.

  After the bell rang, and before Francine walked off to her next class without me, I grabbed her. “Why didn’t you ask the teacher about the lunch schedule?”

  “I figured I’d follow everyone else,” she said. “It’s just lunch. How hard can it be?”

  Pretty hard, it turned out.

 
Apparently, I was supposed to go to lunch straight after fourth period, not go to fifth. (Unlike in elementary school, we didn’t all line up and go to the cafeteria together.) So first I got yelled at by an assistant principal for being in the wrong hallway at the wrong time, and when I finally made it to the cafeteria, there were no open seats by any of the kids I knew. The few times I approached a friendly looking table with a free seat, someone would shake their head and say the seat was taken. And there was no way I was sitting at any of the boys-only tables. I ended up throwing away my food and going to the library.

  The next morning, Dad dropped us off a block from school. Francine stayed with me until we reached the schoolyard, and then bolted to the chorus room. In addition to all the other changes, she’d also decided to join Glee Club.

  At lunch, I decided to skip the cafeteria entirely and go to the library instead. I’d brought a granola bar, an apple, and a couple of Dad’s Teen Titans graphic novels. I figured I could keep this up for at least a few months.

  When I got home from school, there was a note from Dad waiting on my bed. Be ready by 6:00, it said.

  At 6:02, Dad pulled into the driveway and honked the horn.

  “Your father’s outside,” Mom called from the kitchen. “He wants to take you to dinner.”

  “Be there in a second,” Francine yelled back.

  “Not you,” Mom said a few seconds later, now in our doorway. “Just Maureen.”

  Francine blinked as she seemed to process Mom’s words, but she didn’t argue. Maybe she realized that “independence” cut both ways.

  Dad took me to my favorite restaurant, Antonio’s. He ordered the lasagna, and I ordered shrimp linguini. He even ordered me a Coke, which was supposed to be off-limits during the week.

  “So how’s school going, kiddo?” Dad always used kiddo when he was trying to be hip.

  “It could be better.”

  “I know you’re not eating lunch,” he said. “And you’re not making friends.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Francine?” I crunched up my nose. “So first she abandons me, and now she rats me out?”

  “She didn’t abandon you—”

  “Look how she dresses. Look what she’s reading, the clubs she’s joining. It’s like she doesn’t even want to be my—” I stopped because I could feel my voice wavering.

  “It’s okay,” Dad said softly. “Finish your food. Then we’ll talk.”

  After dinner, Dad steered me toward a nearby bench. It was muggy outside, but he wrapped his arm around me like he was trying to keep me warm. “Do you know why your sister’s acting so strange?”

  I really hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those “when a girl turns into a woman” conversations.

  “When you graduated from elementary school, do you know what your class rank was?” After I shook my head, he said, “Three. After the Casey kid and some other girl. Fran was seventh.”

  “Who cares about rank? It wasn’t even a real graduation.” And I can’t believe you just called her Fran, I thought.

  “It mattered to her,” Dad said. “You’ve always gotten better grades. You were better at piano—though to be honest, both of you stunk at it—and you always placed better in all the science fairs and school contests.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Think about how hard it must feel to always come in second. But now she has a chance to come into her own, without any preconceived notions weighing her down.” He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t some computer fluke that caused you two to have so many separate classes. Your mother and I requested it. We thought it would be good for both of you.”

  I pulled away. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Honey, you’ve got to find your own voice,” he said. “You can’t do that around your sister. So we figured we’d give you a little nudge.”

  More like a shove, I thought.

  “We thought you’d benefit from a little separation,” he said. “But we’ve already talked with the school. We can still change up your schedule, put you and your sister in more classes together. But we’d rather not do that.” He turned so he was looking at me. “Just try,” he said. “Talk to people. Try to be friendly. You might like it.”

  Even though it was a school night, Dad kept me out until almost ten. We ate ice cream, then caught a movie. When I got home, Francine was already in bed.

  She sat up when I walked in. “I’m sorry for telling Dad—”

  “It’s okay.” I sat down on her bed. Our bookshelf was weighed down with all our medals and trophies. Golds for me. Silvers and bronzes for her. I always thought it was cool the way we won awards. It was like we were the Wonder Twins from that old Super Friends cartoon Dad had shown us on YouTube. With our combined powers, no one could stop us.

  I took a deep breath. “Are you going to make me call you Fran?”

  She cocked her head to the side, and there, in the dark, she really did look like me. “Don’t be silly. For you, I’ll always be Francine.”

  • • •

  The next morning, I told Dad that we’d be okay walking to school. Once we got there, I was the first to peel away. “I’ll see you in class, okay?”

  Francine nodded, and I walked over to a group of boys reading comics. Scott Casey sat at the edge of the group, his face hidden by his book.

  “Mind if I sit down?” I asked. I was already pulling out Dad’s Robin: Year One graphic novel.

  Scott looked up at me. “Um . . .”

  “We’re in the middle of a meeting,” one of the kids said.

  “Is this a comic book club?” I asked.

  The kid snorted. “Manga,” he said. “We don’t do comic books.”

  “Robin isn’t even a real superhero,” another boy said. “He doesn’t have any real powers. And he’s a sidekick.”

  “Um . . . okay,” I said, my face getting hot. “Never mind.”

  I walked off. I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry, but if so, no way was it going to happen in front of those losers.

  I rounded the corner, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes. There were other kids at school. I could try again. Or try tomorrow. Or even—

  “Robin’s cool.”

  I opened my eyes. Scott Casey stood a few feet away, his comic book tucked under his arm. “I mean, his name is kind of lame, but he’s really smart. And he knows all these fighting techniques. And he’s not even really a sidekick anymore. He’s a superhero on his own.”

  I nodded, trying to piece together why Scott was here. And then I reminded myself that I was supposed to be talking, not just thinking. “Which Robin is your favorite?”

  “Tim Drake. Yours?”

  “The same.”

  Scott took a step closer. “I don’t even know those guys really well. I just joined their club so I’d have somewhere to sit during lunch. All my other friends have second lunch.”

  “You could always join me in the library,” I said, half-joking.

  His eyes widened. “Could I?” he asked. “There’s actually another girl in the group that likes superhero comics, as well. Can she tag along? She’s really cool.”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “And I’ve got a couple of Batman comics in my locker,” he said. “Maybe we could trade. I mean . . . if it’s okay with you—”

  “A trade would be good,” I said. The bell rang. “See you in homeroom. And at lunch.”

  He nodded and walked off. I’d never seen him smile so much before.

  I headed toward the building. Francine stood by the door, her arms crossed.

  “I saw you and Scott,” she said. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing major,” I said. “We were just talking.”

  “Since when did you become a talker?” Francine asked with a grin.
“I thought that was my job, remember?”

  I grinned back. “Yeah, well maybe it’s about time I use my own voice. That is, as long as you can think for yourself.”

  Francine gave me a playful shove, then we entered the hallway, side by side. She slowed down as we neared a group of girls from Glee Club, but I kept on toward class.

  I didn’t even look back.

  Mike Winchell

  DANCES AND TALENT SHOWS

  What’s your thing? What’s that natural gift that sets you apart? Do you even know yet, or is it still a hidden talent? And what can everyone else do? During your school days, there’s no better place to show what you’ve got than a dance or talent show.

  Author-illustrator Don Tate and author Kelly Starling Lyons both know how it feels to wonder what that special talent is, and how thrilling it can be when you finally discover it.

  Don Tate

  WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

  WIZ KID

  I was a shy kid who struggled with expressing himself. It was like wearing an invisible straitjacket, a coat of insecurities wrapped so tightly around me that sometimes I couldn’t breathe. Breaking loose would prove to be one of the toughest challenges of my life. A challenge that would be met on a yellow brick road with a scarecrow and a tin man.

  One day, our seventh-grade music teacher asked our class to divide into groups of three or four and brainstorm ideas for a musical skit. We would perform in front of the entire class. I ended up with Earlee Allen and Zyvonne Robinson, two of the most popular and outgoing girls at school. We chose to perform “Ease on Down the Road,” a song from The Wiz—although when I say we, in reality, it was they. As a shy kid, I didn’t want to perform anything in front of anyone. The thought made me want to pee my pants.

  The Wiz was my favorite movie. It was a black retelling of The Wizard of Oz, starring entertainers of color who looked like me: Michael Jackson, Diana Ross, Lena Horne, and Richard Pryor. While watching the movie, I felt a great sense of pride. But pride was no challenge to the constraints of my invisible straitjacket.