Fear of the new school churned and intermingled with my homesickness.
But hardest to endure was the missing of Michael, a physical pain that I knew not how to ease.
Chapter 3—New School
On Monday morning, we rose bright and early, and I dressed in my new clothes, admiring Aunt Liza’s handiwork. She had made me two dresses and had bought me a pair of shoes, lace-up shoes with soles that didn’t flap.
Zeke stayed home with Uncle Howard, while Aunt Liza and I walked the two blocks to the school. Stone steps led to double doors flanked by white columns.
On the threshold of the enormous, red-brick building, I smoothed my hair and took a deep breath.
My aunt entered first and turned to give me an encouraging smile. “Come on, Jay. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”
I stepped inside and blinked to adjust my eyes to the dimness. Aunt Liza hailed a student, a girl around my age. The girl smiled at me, revealing buck teeth. Yet, despite that, she was beautiful. Short, silvery blonde hair curled around her face, and serene blue eyes surveyed me. She pointed down the hall and nodded at something my aunt said.
My aunt took my arm, and we walked in the direction the girl had pointed. Before we rounded the corner, I turned to give the girl one last look.
The teeming students hurried orderly to their classes. The girl stood amidst them, as if in an oasis, and gave me a small wave. From this distance it looked as if concern furrowed her brow.
Near her was a male teacher. Shorter than most of the students and balding, yet still with a shock of black hair, he narrowed his dark eyes when his gaze fell on us. No wonder the girl looked concerned.
A sense of dread filled me that I tried to shake off. Clutching the tablet, pencil, and my syrup-can lunch pail so tightly to my chest that my knuckles whitened, I followed my aunt into the office.
She stood at the counter and fidgeted under the scrutiny of the secretary. “Miss Ballard, I wish to enroll my niece.”
Was she nervous for me? I placed a hand on her arm to comfort both of us.
Miss Ballard gave a curt nod. “Yes, Mrs. Barnett. I heard your niece and nephew moved in with you.” She pushed some papers across the counter. “What grade will she be entering?”
My aunt glanced at me, and I swallowed. Technically, I had never finished ninth grade. And now, also, I had missed the first two months of tenth grade.
I swallowed down the fear rising in my throat and raised my chin. “Tenth, Miss Ballard.”
“Where did you last attend school?”
“Sterling School in Covington County.” I looked down at my new pair of shoes. Sturdy brown leather whose soles didn’t flap.
Miss Ballard handed a list to my aunt. “These are the books she’ll need. The prices are beside each one.”
My aunt’s eyes widened. She shook her head as Miss Ballard came around the corner. “There aren’t any cheaper books?”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Ballard nodded vigorously. “You can get them used. As a matter of fact, I have some here you can choose from.”
She walked to a cupboard and pulled down books in varying degrees of decrepitness. She pointed out the prices until my aunt cut her short.
“We’ll take the cheapest ones.” She glanced over at me, apologetically.
I gave her an encouraging smile. At least I had books for school, and that was all that mattered.
“I’ll show you to your homeroom,” Miss Ballard said. She stood by the door and waited.
Aunt Liza straightened my collar and gave my shoulder a squeeze. I gave her a quick hug, breathing in her smell of vanilla. I released her and followed Miss Ballard.
The empty hallways echoed the sounds of our clacking shoes. Sunlight streamed through the large windows but did little to dispel the gloom from the tall, dark, wood-beamed ceilings.
The hallway was eerily silent. For such a large school, the students seemed exceptionally quiet. Either that or the walls were thick enough to muffle all sounds.
She stopped at a door and turned to face me. “Sarah Jane, please let me know if, if . . .”
“Yes, Miss Ballard?”
She eyed me anxiously. Highly efficient until now, her sudden indecision worried me.
“Just let me know if you ever have a problem. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” What did she mean? A problem with a teacher or a student?
Before I had time to ask, she knocked briskly on the door.
“Your homeroom teacher is the geometry teacher, Mr. Albertson,” she said as the door opened.
A girl held the door wide for us to enter. The room was filled with wall-to-wall students.
All eyes watched as the secretary ushered me to the front desk. Mr. Albertson pushed back his chair and stood.
My heart sank. The short, balding man.
His voice, when he spoke to Miss Ballard, reminded me of a crow cawing. His small, beady, black eyes under bushy brows darted from the secretary to me when she handed him the paper with my information, and he scowled.
Miss Ballard flashed me a smile although anxiety still clouded her eyes. She left, and Mr. Albertson eyed me without speaking. Then his gaze fell to the paper.
After a moment, he spoke. “Students, this is Sarah Jane Hunter.” His eyes searched the room and landed on the girl who had held the door open. “Miss Sylvia, if you’d be so kind to see Miss Hunter doesn’t get lost today.”
Titters ran through the class. He nodded toward the back of the room. “Put your things in the cloak room, if you please, Miss Hunter.”
Sylvia rose from her desk and accompanied me to the cloakroom. Hooks lined one wall with a wooden bench running the length of the wall beneath the hooks.
She pointed to an empty one. “That one can be yours.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled. I hung my sweater on the hook as she looked me up and down. I turned away, uncomfortable under her gaze, and placed my syrup can on the bench.
When I turned around, Sylvia had already left. I grabbed my books and hurried out.
Sylvia had settled back in her desk. Uncertain, I waited in the outer aisle, scanning the crowded room for an empty seat.
Mr. Albertson explained a problem at the blackboard, and his eyes flicked over me. He waved one hand toward the front of the room without pausing in his lecture.
I made my way slowly to the front, fully aware of the eyes of the students watching me. I stumbled over someone’s outstretched leg, and one of my books fell to the floor. As I leaned over to pick it up, another book slid from my hands and slammed against the floor.
Mr. Albertson stopped speaking and turned fully to face me.
He pointed to the empty desk on the very front row. “Miss Hunter, will you please be seated?”
Again, titters ran through the class. Mr. Albertson picked up a wooden yardstick as I slid into my seat. He walked rapidly toward me and tapped my desk with the stick. When I jumped, the class erupted into full laughter.
Mr. Albertson banged the yardstick louder. “Quiet!” He took a step back and glowered at the class.
I hugged the books to my chest and sat with my back rigid. The laughter petered out, and I carefully raised the lid a few inches and slipped the books in.
“Miss Hunter!”
The lid slid from my fingers and clattered down.
“Geometry book? Pencil? Paper?” He was leaning over, only inches from my face. Once again he hit my desk before moving away.
I threw the lid open and clawed through the books, searching for the geometry book. Panic seized me when I realized I didn’t have one.
Mr. Albertson picked up the chalk and explained the problem. I lowered the lid and raised my hand.
When Mr. Albertson saw me, he sighed deeply. “Yes, Miss Hunter?”
“I can’t find my book, sir.” I bit my bottom lip.
He strode to my desk and flung the lid open. I leaned as far away from him as possible but still caught his smell, a combination of stale air a
nd mothballs. He rummaged through the desk, slamming it shut after a minute.
“You are correct, Miss Hunter. Please go back to the office and purchase one.”
My thoughts raced. I didn’t have any money. Would they loan me a book?
“Now, Miss Hunter!” The pitch of his voice rose, making him sound more than ever like a crow.
I jumped from my seat and scurried to the door. I pulled the door shut behind me and waited a moment, steadying my breathing.
I peered up and down the hallway. Which way was the office? Why hadn’t I paid attention? All the doors looked the same, the same darkened wood as the ceilings. Grayish-beige paint adorned all the walls.
I shifted from one foot to another. I knew I couldn’t stand here all day. I finally made a decision and headed right. Then, a hallway led to the left, and I started down it.
After only a minute or two, I realized my mistake. This way led deeper into the building. The office had been at the front.
I retraced my steps. I would simply have to go back to class and tell Mr. Albertson.
But when I reached the original hallway, I didn’t know which door led to his class. The only means to distinguish one from another were the metal numbers hanging on the doorframe. Why hadn’t I paid attention to the number?
I sighed and started in another direction, searching for anything that looked familiar. Two boys walked twenty or so feet ahead of me, and I hurried to catch them. They entered a door with a metal sign that said “Boys” before I reached them.
My shoulders slumped in defeat. I heard steps behind me, and fear knotted in my stomach. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms, and turned to face the person.
Chapter 4—Making a Friend
The girl who had pointed Aunt Liza and me in the direction of the office smiled at me. The one with the pale blonde hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. They made my little brother’s eyes look dull in comparison.
She smiled at me shyly, revealing her only flaw, the buck teeth.
“Are you lost?” she asked in a voice as soft as a feather.
I nodded unhappily. “I’m looking for the office.”
“Yes, I know. I’m in your geometry class. My name’s Marla.”
She spoke so warmly that I had to smile back. “It’s nice to meet you. Everyone calls me Jay.”
“Mr. Albertson sent me to find you. I’ll show you the office.” She turned, and I put out my hand to stop her.
“Marla . . .” I swallowed and warmth flooded my face.
“Yes, Jay?” She gave me her full attention.
“I don’t have any money to pay for the book.” I ducked my head and sighed.
When I glanced up, she was staring out the window. Then she nodded and faced me. “We could share a book.”
I straightened and searched her serene face. “Really? Will Mr. Albertson allow it?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have to tell him.” She continued surveying me with her unclouded blue eyes.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt. We can try it for a while until I can get the money.”
Marla glanced at the watch she wore. “Class is almost over. We need to hurry.” She spun on her heel and walked quickly down the hallway.
I followed, struggling to keep up with her long-legged stride. The bell rang. Doors opened and students streamed out. We fought against the stream, dodging elbows and the books students carried by straps slung over shoulders. We reached the classroom as other students came in.
“You need your English and history books,” Marla said.
I grabbed my books and rushed from the room, searching for Marla. She spotted me first and called my name. She beckoned for me to follow her. The hall was almost empty, and I hurried to catch up with her.
We arrived at our next class, out of breath. The teacher had her hand on the door, ready to close it.
“Miss Weaver, this is a new student, Sarah Jane Hunter.” Marla left us.
Miss Weaver’s smile revealed evenly spaced, sparkling white teeth. Auburn hair cascaded around her shoulders making her beautiful.
“Which do you prefer? Sarah or Jane?”
My tense muscles relaxed in her welcoming presence. “I actually prefer Jay.” I followed her into the classroom.
Even though the students all sat at attention, she clapped twice and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Class, this is a new student, Jay. Please give her a warm welcome.”
Acutely aware of the curious stares of the students, I followed Miss Weaver to an empty desk, almost at the back of the room.
She patted my back before stepping to the front. She sat down behind a large wooden desk and pulled a leather-bound notebook to her. She ran a slim finger down the page. “Today four students will be giving speeches. Andrew Mathison is first.”
A slim boy, with a head of hair sticking up in odd places and a sprinkling of freckles, walked to the front of the room. His hands shook slightly.
Miss Weaver smiled reassuringly at him. “Andrew, just release your ego.”
A look of puzzlement crossed his face. “I ain’t got an eagle, Miss Weaver.”
“I don’t have an eagle,” she corrected.
“Me, neither.” He scratched his head.
Miss Weaver’s face twitched as if she tried to suppress a smile. “Not eagle. Ego.”
“Ego?”
“Yes. Ego is ‘self.’ Don’t think about self. Think about your fellow students and conveying information to them. You’re not doing this for yourself.”
“Not for myself?” His look of bewilderment increased. “We ain’t getting graded?”
“We’re not, Andrew,” she corrected again.
“Whew, that’s a relief.”
The class laughed, and Miss Weaver chuckled with them.
When the laughter died down, Miss Weaver tried again. “Andrew, you are getting graded. Now, no more ain’ts.”
He looked down at the paper in his hand. “My report ain’t about ants.”
The classroom erupted in laughter, and Miss Weaver shushed them. “Andrew! ‘Ain’t’ is incorrect grammar. You know that.”
“Yes, ma’am. Reckon I just forgot.” He grinned at her.
She smiled back and motioned for him to proceed.
Maybe this school wouldn’t be so bad after all. I settled back in my seat and let my mind drift. I wondered how Momma was doing and if she missed me and Zeke.
I missed Poppa so much! Sometimes it just didn’t seem real that he had died. But he had, and Zeke and I would just have to make a new life here with Aunt Liza. She and Uncle Howard had been so good to us already. Still, I missed Poppa, the farm, and Michael. I daydreamed of Michael, of what it would be like when we married. Would we move back home, to the farm? Or, would we live here in town?
Then something wet and squishy hit the side of my face. A spit ball.
I cringed. Not another Dan Drake! I looked around, and no one seemed a likely culprit. There were no mean-looking boys sitting near me. Only Sylvia and three other girls. They all seemed absorbed in the slim boy’s report.
The spitball lay on my desk as evidence that I didn’t imagine it. I shrugged my shoulders and did as the four girls were doing. I folded my hands, crossed my ankles, and listened attentively to the rest of the reports.
At the end of class, Sylvia walked over to me, sweeping her thick wavy hair away from her face. “History is next. Do you have your history book?”
The three girls gathered around us as I held mine up. One of the girls snickered when she saw its tattered cover. I hastily grabbed the tablet from my desk and slipped it on top.
Another of the girls whispered to Sylvia, holding her hand so that I couldn’t read her lips.
Sylvia grinned and nodded her head before she gestured to me. “Come on.”
She headed from the room without waiting for a reply, her three friends jostling for a position by her side. Walking behind them, I noticed they all wore light-colored
stockings, all except one girl. She didn’t have on stockings at all but wore a pair of socks folded over at the ankles. I had never seen a girl with bare legs before, leastways, not in public. My stockings were thick and dark. My shoes laced up.
None of them wore laced-up shoes. Their shoes had straps that buckled. I noticed their clothes for the first time—skirts and pull-over sweaters. And all had bobbed hair with varying degrees of waves and curls.
My eyes swept the hall, and I saw two or three other girls dressed like me—long hair, dresses instead of skirts, and dark stockings. They walked with their heads down, not laughing and joking like the four girls in front of me.
I scoffed. What did hair and clothes matter anyhow? It didn’t matter if someone dressed richly or poorly, we were to treat everyone the same. If Sylvia and her friends didn’t know that, well . . . they just weren’t raised right.
When we reached the classroom, I looked for Marla. She, too, wore the light-colored stockings and the buckled shoes. Yet, she sat alone. If no one liked her, it wasn’t because of her clothes or hair.
The history teacher gave me a seat next to Marla. I dismissed Sylvia and her friends from my mind. I would stick with Marla.
Chapter 5—Dan
The rest of the day dragged, and I was yawning when I walked down the cement steps after the last bell. Glad to be leaving the gloom of the building, I paused as my eyes adjusted to the sun’s slanting rays.
Someone called my name and the voice sounded familiar. Surely it couldn’t be. My eyes searched the area.
My mouth fell open, and I blinked, not believing what I saw.
Dan Drake!
He wore an army uniform and leaned against the Phaeton, his arms folded.
I simply stared for a second while he straightened and took a step toward me.
“What are you doing here?” I finally managed.
“Hello to you, too.” He chuckled softly. “I’ve finished up basic training and had a three-week furlough. I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
Clothed in Thunder Page 2
