A couple of boys Jay knew called to him. “See you in class!” he said, and made to run off.
“You mean after school,” I said. “We’re in different grades now.”
“Oh, right. Well, after school, then.”
I watched him join his friends, watched them slapping each other on the back and laughing. Another lonely place opened up inside me, right alongside the empty space Gran used to fill. Remembering I was supposed to be brave and make a change this year, though, I decided to try talking to the girls. I hugged my notebooks to my chest.
Before I could take more than a few steps, a hard shove from behind sent me stumbling. I caught myself from falling but scraped both my palms and my knee on the brick wall. My notebooks toppled down around me in a scattered pile. The girls laughed, and I felt my face burn.
“Clumsy!”
I looked up to see another girl standing over me. Her eyes flicked over my clothes and face and hair. Then she went and stood with the others. I didn’t recognize her; her dress looked brand-new and crisp, and her shoes shone in the sunlight. She must be one of the new girls from the private school Mama talked about.
“You pushed me,” I said, brushing the dirt off my hands and ignoring the sting in my palms from where the skin was raw.
“Oh, really? I didn’t see you,” she said, her two long black braids scraping her chest. “Old-fashioned things bore me.”
The other girls laughed again. One of them said, “Nice, Lettie.”
I was frozen. Kids at school had called me a teacher’s pet before, but I’d never had anyone say anything about my clothes being old-fashioned.
“This isn’t old. My mama—mom made it for me.”
Why did I say that? It just made them laugh harder. Classes hadn’t even started, and this was already a disaster.
Lettie leaned over and sniffed me before I could move away. “It smells like old lady. Did she make that for you out of an old-lady dress?” When I didn’t respond, she made a sound like a bird chirping. “Oh my, she did! Was it your grandmother’s dress?”
Gran. I had to blink to hold back tears—Lettie would think I was crying because of her, and no way was I going to let that happen.
One of the girls I remembered from last school year whispered in Lettie’s ear, and her eyes grew big before they all broke out into giggles. Before I could say anything else, though, the bell rang for class to start. I ran up the stairs and inside, thankful that the clanging drowned out their laughter.
I found my classroom and chose a seat on the end of a row, so I would only have people on three sides of me instead of four. That way, I wouldn’t feel so surrounded.
Of course, Lettie and her friends came in not long after I did; I knew I wouldn’t be lucky enough to be in a different class from her. As everyone around me talked to their friends about what they did over the summer, I took out my composition book and wrote: September 3, 1963.
That’s when I felt eyes on me.
I scanned the rest of the room again. Kids were dropping books onto the floor, scraping desk chairs back, but I couldn’t figure where this feeling was coming from. Until, finally, I did.
A girl sat in the back of the class, staring at me. She looked a little older than me; the front of her striped dress already showed signs of her growing up. She gave me a tiny smile, so small I wasn’t even sure I saw it at first, but it was there. The smile seemed real, so I returned it.
The door to the class opened once more, and a tall, thin, brown-skinned woman walked in. She wore a yellow knit suit with matching buttons and short white cotton gloves. The woman headed straight for the big desk at the front, the heels of her shoes clicking on the tiled floor. She stood there with her hands folded in front of her, and the class got quiet. Even the smiling girl turned her head toward the movement.
“Good morning, class,” the woman said, taking off her gloves. Her voice was clear and strong. It rang out, and I was sure even the kids in the back could hear her. “I’m your new teacher, Miss Watson. Let’s get started by taking attendance.”
Miss Watson started calling our names, and while I knew most of the kids from around the island, I tried to keep up with the new ones as she said them. Lettie’s last name was Anderson, so she was one of the first ones called. The smiling girl was Susie Goins. Sooner than I expected, she got to me.
“Jezebel Turner?”
Before I could speak, I heard Lettie’s voice sing out. “Cheep, cheep, cheep.” Lots of the girls laughed.
The first school day of the year was about three minutes old, and already I wanted to be away from here. Back home with Jay and Doc, learning to work root. Maybe Doc had some sort of potion to keep away the kind of high-post girls who make you feel bad, just for being you. If such a spell existed, I’d learn it.
Raising my hand, I answered, “I’m here.”
Miss Watson made a mark in her book.
After we finished taking attendance, Miss Watson talked for a while about what we’d be learning this year in mathematics and language arts, and we had our first lessons in those subjects. I took lots of notes because I didn’t want to forget a thing.
Then she moved on to history. That’s when she told us about the eleven Negro kids who were going to study with white kids at the white schools for the first time today.
“This is important, class,” she said. “One day, this thing happening now will be history. Other children will learn about it in their schools all over the country. You must remember your history. Write it down. Tell it in your own words.”
A boy whose name I couldn’t remember raised his hand. “Why do we need to write it down? I don’t even like history.”
A couple of his friends forced out laughs, but they didn’t last long.
Miss Watson sat on the edge of her desk and smoothed down her skirt. She answered not like a teacher talking to a student, but like she was talking to another grown-up. “History, Thomas, is the story of who we are. And sometimes, Negro history is told by people who don’t think we’re important. People who don’t think we make a difference in the world.” She gazed around the class then, like she was making a point to look at each one of us. “But we do matter. What we think matters. Our voices matter. And our stories matter too much to let someone else tell them. People need to know that.”
Miss Watson stood up and opened a drawer in her desk. “Let me share something with you. This is a poem by Langston Hughes, a Negro poet,” she said, pulling out a small book. “It’s called ‘I, Too.’ Does anyone know about poetry?”
We all shook our heads. Last year, we learned about novels and short stories and plays. But no poetry. And nothing written by any Negroes.
When Miss Watson read, the whole room was silent. Her voice was soothing, but smooth and strong too. It filled our classroom. I imagined her voice dancing on the air and drifting out of the opened windows to help anyone who needed to hear her. I wondered if her voice was her magic. If it was, she was powerful.
The bell rang, breaking her spell. Miss Watson closed her book. “That’s all for now. Time for lunch, everyone.”
I put my books in my desk. It was strange not having Jay in class with me. He would have already had lunch by now, and would be outside with his friends having recess. For not the first time that day, I felt really alone. I took my paper bag and headed for the cafeteria. Since I brought my lunch, I didn’t have to wait in line for food like some of the other kids.