Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  Before I could ask her where this “annex” was, the principal swung open her door and strutted out of her office. She silently handed a yellow file to the secretary, who blinked three times fast before she sprang out of her seat to reach for the yellow file.

  Not wanting to interrupt their office dance routine, I set off to find the class on my own. The other students making their way through the halls didn’t seem to notice me or my confusion. They just chatted breathlessly to each other before the final bell rang.

  A-level humanities was my first class. Ms. Veltz was the teacher. Classroom number A-04. A for annex, I assumed.

  For the first time, I noticed the school hallways. The tiled floors were gleaming. The lockers seemed brand-new and the equipment in the lab I peeked into looked high-tech. City High students wouldn’t have believed their eyes if they’d stepped into this place. The crumbling plaster and broken bathroom faucets at my old school couldn’t hold a candle to St. Claire’s pristine building.

  The kids joked around and chatted nonstop the same as the kids at my old school. But still everyone here was different. They wore their hair differently, held their book bags a bit unlike City High students did, and even laughed in their own way.

  I assumed the annex was the newer part of the building that was connected to the main building by an enclosed footbridge. That footbridge reminded me of the ones built to connect office structures in downtown Newark so corporate employees could walk from work to the car lot without mingling with urban locals.

  The annex was even cooler-looking than the main building. The classroom door locks were computerized, and some of the rooms had flat screens on the wall. I saw room number 4, so I walked in and chose a seat halfway down the first row.

  As students piled in, some glanced at me and smirked before whispering to each other. I fiddled with my notebook and new Bic pens.

  “Your tan is rockin’, girlie,” I heard a high-pitched talker say.

  I thought it would be too obvious if I turned to look at the person she was referring to. Just as long as they didn’t compare their tan with my natural one, everything would be fine, I thought.

  The teacher walked in without a word, but her presence hushed the gabbing. With one swift movement, she reached for a long piece of chalk and began scribbling on the clean blackboard: “Ms. Dalton, American History.”

  My heart leapt to my throat. I was in the wrong class. My chair scratched the floor as I stood to leave the classroom.

  “Is there a problem?” Ms. Dalton looked squarely at me.

  “I—I’m in the wrong class,” I stammered, uncomfortable being the focus of attention.

  “Okay, before you head out there and get lost again, can anyone help this new student find her class?”

  “I got her, Ms. Dalton,” a confident voice from the back of the room called out.

  “Okay, Allie, she’s all yours,” said Ms. Dalton. “Good luck on your first day.”

  I walked out as the bell rang. My escort met me in the hallway with an outstretched paint-stained hand.

  “Hey, I’m Allie Snierson, a sophomore,” she said before she caught my expression.

  “Oh, that?” She referred to the blue on her fingers. “I was just doing some painting this morning. I do my best artwork early in the day.”

  “That’s cool.” I tried to sound interested, but I was too concerned about being late for my class. “I’m Mia Chambers. I need to get to room A-04 and I thought this was it.”

  “Oh, common mistake,” said Allie. “That class is downstairs in the basement—each floor has the same room numbers. Confusing, but easy once you get it.”

  Allie looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. With each leisurely step she took, her feet landed with her toes pointed outward. She didn’t seem to mind that her fingers were blue or that her nail polish was chipped. She walked slower than a tourist and let her arms swing at her sides. Allie obviously didn’t share my memories of speed walking through crowded New York City streets with my mom.

  The obsessively obedient girl in me began to get super worried. I didn’t want to be late to class and risk making the wrong impression on my humanities teacher.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I don’t want to keep you from your class, so I think I can make it from here.”

  “Sure.” She must’ve gotten my hint. “But let me just tell you how to get there.” Allie pulled out a mini sketchbook that was tucked in the back of her uniform skirt’s waistband. A pen materialized from her long, messy-chic auburn hair, and she began sketching faster than even my mom could walk.

  “Just walk down the corridor and make a left when you see this door. Ms. Veltz’s class should be on your left. She’s the lady with short curly dark hair and thin lips with a mole right above her right eye.” Allie sketched everything she said until she’d illustrated a clear picture. “I think she’s wearing a long skirt with butterflies or some mess on it today.”

  She then drew a figure wearing a flowy ankle-length skirt with a nondescript pattern on it. She tore the sheet out of the pad and handed it to me. “For reference,” she said, smiling.

  I smiled in spite of my on-edge nerves.

  “Thanks, Allie.” I chuckled and looked into her friendly eyes for the first time. Her slow-down-and-smell-the-roses vibe seemed to have influenced me for at least that brief moment. Then I sped down the stairs to Ms. Veltz’s class.

  Thanks to Allie’s sketch, I was there in less than one minute. I slipped in and quietly grabbed the closest empty seat as Ms. Veltz’s back was turned. Ms. Veltz went for the same name-on-blackboard technique Ms. Dalton had used. Maybe it was in this school’s teacher’s handbook or something.

  “For the few of you whom I hahve not hahd the pleasure of meeting, my name is Ms. Veltz and this is Humahnities, glorious Humahnities.”

  Sure, her hair was bent into dark fluffy curls, just like the wig Bibi had worn years ago when she was battling breast cancer and undergoing chemo. Ms. Veltz even had the plump mole over her right eye and a flowy skirt exactly like in Allie’s picture. But Allie had failed to mention what to me was the obvious detail—Ms. Veltz’s faux British accent. But I guess visuals were to Allie what sound was to me. Like bats, I used sound as my own road map. The tap-tap sounds of the double-Dutch ropes helped me decide when to jump in and how fast to jump. I could identify a song after hearing no more than three or four notes. And people’s voices sounded like notes on my keyboard.

  “To staht this brand-new yeahr, I’ve got a teaser for what this clahss will be like,” Ms. Veltz was saying as she handed out papers for the first person in each row to pass down.

  “This, ladies, is a pawp quiz,” she continued. “I just wont a hahndle on your understahnding of the ahts, literature, and philawsophy.”

  I reached for the pile that the girl sitting in front of me blindly held over her head. That was when I realized that this pawp quiz was stapled and two pages long.

  “Try your best—you wohn’t be graded,” Ms. Veltz added, and left us to it.

  I skimmed the pages. The questions about great ancient civilizations—some multiple choice, a few short essay ones—seemed to cover every continent except Africa.

  So much for my chance to impress the teacher with my knowledge. That was not to say that those African history books Mom and Dad had gotten me years ago were wasted. I realized now that if it hadn’t been for finding out about stuff like those ancient African universities where Greek philosophers learned, I would have been sitting here thinking Africa had been in the Dark Ages while folks everywhere else in the world were getting their learn on. But I guess if nothing else, I could hold my head high because I knew that Black people did have a lot to do with civilizing the ancient world.

  An extra perky, extra lean girl was the first to spring out of her desk to hand in her quiz. I was barely finished with the first page when an unmistakable whiff of cucumber-melon lotion (Stacie’s favorite) wafted by me as the early bird bounced by on he
r way to Ms. Veltz’s desk.

  “Oh great—Emma Bishop,” the exasperated girl next to me mumbled to herself, rolling her eyes.

  “Thahnk you, Emma.” Ms. Veltz looked proud. “And do tell your fahther, our deahr mayor, that I’ll be sure to bring my famous cahsserole to his next function.”

  Suddenly it hit me harder than before—I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

  At lunchtime, I grabbed an empty table. I created a protective fortress of textbooks and notebooks so it didn’t feel like I was sitting alone. If I’d had my stuffed teddy bear, I would have been clutching it for dear life. But this would have to do for now.

  “The freshmen don’t have their lunch hour until next period, which means you must be a new student here.” I looked up from my turkey sandwich to see a blond celeb clone standing over my Fort Knox of books.

  “Y-yeah, I’m new—I mean, new to you,” I began clumsily. “Mia,” I told her.

  “Mia.” She tried it out. I could tell she’d expected me to have a more ethnic-sounding name. “Mia,” she repeated, but this time giving it an unmistakable edge. “I’m Jennifer Octavian—junior class,” she announced as if her name were in lights and “junior class” were some blockbuster feature film. “You just moved to town?” she asked.

  “No, I’m from East Orange—I transferred from City High.”

  Bingo. Jennifer’s eyes widened with new interest—just when she was going to write me off as boring.

  “East Orange City High, as in True MC?” Jennifer was obviously intrigued. She raised a freshly waxed eyebrow. Bibi had taught me how to detect what she called people’s “lightning”—the body language that comes before the thunder of the voice. For example, when I snacked on animal crackers around Stacie, the corner of her mouth would quiver before she asked, “Ca-I-avesum?”—Stacie-ese for “Can I have some?” And my dad almost always smoothed his goatee when he was about to debate you on your last point. So I braced for Jennifer’s thunder once her eyebrow rose and twitched.

  “Well,” she began with a twinkle in her eye. “Big change from metal detectors and random locker searches, huh?”

  “That’s not—” I started.

  “Mia, hey!” Allie the artist moseyed up to the table, tray in hand.

  “Hi.” I was glad to see her. I slid my pile of books over, beckoning her to have a seat.

  “Oh, so you two know each other?” Jennifer looked disappointed. Maybe it wasn’t badass enough for someone from East Orange. I wasn’t sorry to let her down.

  Allie and I both shot her a blank look.

  “So, Mia—anytime you want to run your ‘true life story’ by me—” Jennifer held up her fingers to mime air quotes “—I’d love to hear it. See you around.”

  “Who is she now, Barbara Walters? What did she mean by that?” Allie was confused.

  “She thinks the rapper True MC and I have more in common than our mutual hometown.” I watched Jennifer join a table of ultra trendy girls. While they leaned in to hear what she had to tell them, they cast occasional glances at me. “I transferred here from East Orange City High,” I explained to Allie.

  “I haven’t proven it yet, but I’m pretty sure Jennifer Octavian is an embedded tabloid reporter working for the St. Claire Dish or some kind of gossip rag.” Allie picked the onions out of her sandwich. The blue paint from this morning was now completely washed from her hands.

  “Well then, she probably just scooped her next cover story. I could picture the headline—” I put one hand in the air for dramatic effect “—East Orange You Glad You’re Not Mia?”

  Allie dropped the long droopy onion ring she was holding and cracked up. “No, it’ll be something like ‘Blood Transfer,’” Allie said in that trademark movie-trailer-announcer voice. “New Urban Student Brings Terror to Quiet School.”

  “Good one!” A belly laugh escaped from me for the first time in days.

  “But seriously,” Allie said after we got over our laugh attack. “How are things going so far? Did you find that class okay this morning?”

  “Yes—thanks to your diagram. By the way, what are you, some kind of courtroom sketch artist?” Allie smiled despite her mouth full of food. “But yeah, things went okay—aside from this tough pop quiz,” I continued.

  “I got one of those this morning, too.” Allie swatted an invisible fly. “But that’s just St. Claire trying to live up to its academic reputation. They can’t keep that up. After about two weeks the teachers realize that tons more papers to grade means less personal time for them.”

  I decided that Allie was just one of those people who find no use in worrying. It was refreshing hanging with someone with her perspective. We made plans to have lunch together again the next day.

  By the end of my first day, I couldn’t have left the building faster if my name was Marion Jones. But somehow, another girl wearing the gray uniform skirt beat me to the bus stop. I was a half a block away from the stop when I saw her standing in the bus shelter.

  St. Claire has another mass transit commuter, other than me? I thought. It was like one of those rare Bigfoot sightings. The next second, the bus pulled up and she boarded. I could’ve run and made the bus, but I decided against it. I mean, why run the risk of tripping, falling, and losing a front tooth? Then think of how many dental visits it would take for me to regain my ability to pronounce my last name clearly again. So not worth it.

  It was nice to learn that there was another bus commuter—and especially cool that there was another sistah on campus. Aside from myself, the three or four black students I’d spotted, and Mr. Rick—the hardworking custodian who had flashed a secret smile at me earlier—I hadn’t noticed many African-Americans at the academy. Yes, this was a huge difference from City High, where there were three or four white students and teachers—altogether!

  The first thing I wanted to do when I got home was call Stacie to tell her about my day. After briefly chatting with my grandma, I dashed up to my room and dialed her cell number.

  “Hello?” Stacie responded as if she hadn’t checked her caller ID.

  “Hi, Stace, it’s me.”

  “Hey, M-I-A.” She spelled my name out like she often did—only today, I couldn’t help picking up on its double meaning. “How did things go today?”

  “Gurrrl, lemme tell you—it is night and day from City High. Aside from the uniform and the all-girls thing, it was like an all-around culture shock.”

  “Let me guess.” Stacie was enjoying this. “They were comparing tans.”

  “Yes!” I squealed, excited to be speaking to someone who understood without explanation.

  “And they were checking against your arm to see how close their complexions got to yours!” Stacie continued.

  “Hell no!”

  It was nice bugging out with Stacie like we used to before things got so complicated. I wanted it to last longer.

  “So whatcha doing now? Can I come over?” I asked.

  “I’d love that, but Eric and I are supposed to hang out. Rope-a-Dope practice went a little longer than we thought and I’m kinda running late.”

  “Oh, that happened already?”

  “Yeah, gurl, at 3 p.m.—the usual time.” I could tell Stacie felt awkward breaking the news. I glanced at my alarm clock, not realizing the time. I’d forgotten to factor in my commute time.

  “We took a vote about whether to practice later so you can make it, but most of us can’t meet that late,” said Stacie apologetically.

  Starting this month, the squad planned on meeting once a week to practice for upcoming fall community exhibitions at churches, youth centers, and street festivals. Aside from co-choreographing our routines with Stacie, my job was to book gigs for the squad. Since June, I had already successfully booked four appearances for October and November.

  Stacie’s responsibility was getting the Rope-a-Dope costume design hooked up. She’d always been a natural at fashion. She was the reason I’d stepped it up in the wardrobe department. I considered Stacie
to be my personal stylist.

  It was tough downplaying my long legs and arms. I was medium height at five foot five, but my limbs made me look infinitely taller. Stacie showed me how to work around that when shopping for clothes. I was grateful to her.

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. That out-of-place feeling I’d been experiencing all day took hold of me again. “I understand. Thanks for voting on it, though.”

  “We’ll work something out.” Stacie tried to sound upbeat. “I’ll see if we can meet late at least twice a month. I’ll call you later in the week to let you know what the upshot is.”

  “Sounds good.” Now it was my turn to try to sound upbeat. “Tell Eric I said what’s up.”

  After we hung up, I heard my parents’ car pull into the driveway. I knew that as soon as they walked through the back door, they’d be calling me downstairs. My dad especially would want to hear all the details about my first day at school. I knew he’d crack up when he heard about my humanities teacher’s fake accent. I’d been all ready to act out the whole humanities class scene for Stacie, but we’d had to cut our conversation short.

  I was glad Stacie wasn’t sulking over the fact that we were now at different schools. But it was weird how over me everyone seemed. Eric was now the person Stacie brought home to hang with her siblings, and the squad that I helped to start needed to be convinced to include me in practices at least once a month! Nice to know how unforgettable I was.

  “Mia.” I heard my mom’s voice travel up the stairs to my room. Eager to talk some more about my day, I went down to greet my parents.

  CHAPTER 6

  The mystery commuter from St. Claire was on the number 60 bus the next morning. But oddly enough, I didn’t even notice her until the near-empty bus got close to our Millwall Cliffs stop—and she was sitting right in front of me!

  I heard her before I saw her. She was softly humming along to a song she was listening to on her iPod. Her singing voice sounded studio-recording great. Even though she was only lightly humming a few notes at a time, there were layers of emotion in her voice. Had I been an A & R exec from a top record label, I would’ve signed the girl on the spot.