“Aucun de vous n’êtes obliger d’assister cela, mais c’est encourageé. C’est un espace sûr pour chacun d’entre vous de parler.”
This had been when Rochelle and I still sat next to each other in the fourth row, and she’d nudged me with her elbow. “She’s talking way too fast. What’s she saying?”
Anita and Aishani sat behind us and they inched forward to hear my translation. I tried to keep my voice as low as possible; I’d already gotten detention for speaking out of turn, and Madame had threatened to call home if it happened again.
“We don’t have to go if we don’t want to,” I whispered, “but they think it’s a good idea.”
“How is talking to a room full of strangers about my problems a good idea? So fool-fool.”
“Anita, you need an entire room of people to work out all the issues you got.”
“That’s cute, Shani, what’s the capital of Trinidad again?”
Rochelle snorted in laughter and I nudged her. “Shut up,” I muttered.
“Kara!” Mme. Rizzoli’s voice made me look up to the chalkboard at the front of the room. “Detention,” she said.
“But Madame, I —”
I’d spoken in English, which automatically stripped me of morning recess on top of my after-school detention. I kept quiet to avoid more strikes even though I could hear Anita and Aishani sniggering behind me, even though they both kept poking me hard in the back, increasing my frustration with every jab, willing me, tempting me to turn around and snap at them so I could get into even more trouble.
At three thirty that day, five other students had dragged their feet to Madame’s room to serve their punishment. A seventh-grader, Manuela Lao, and her friend Cristina sat next to each other and whispered about the Sharing Circle, about how going to the session would mean getting out of class all Thursday afternoon. It was how I got the idea: if I told the others about the chance to miss class, it would earn me, at bare minimum, a week of amnesty — for a while, at least, I’d be off-limits when they threw shots at each other. And not because they thought I was too soft to handle the teasing, either, but because I’d earned it. That amnesty probably would’ve saved me from being snaked at New Orleans Donuts two weeks ago.
When Madame dismissed us at half past four, I told her I wanted to put my name down on the sign-up sheet for the circle. Her beady blue eyes surveyed me.
“It’s not like you pay attention in class anyway. I’ll let Mr. Esposito know that you’re signing up.”
* * *
By the time Anita and I reached the cafeteria, there were about ten other students milling around the entrance. The long rectangular tables that normally crowded the room were folded and pressed against the far wall and there was a bohemian rug in the middle of the floor with fourteen tasselled cushions surrounding it. Two people were already sitting, cross-legged: one was a blond man in cargo pants and a wool cardigan over a purple dashiki; the other was a skinny brown-haired woman in a smiley-face sweater.
Mr. Silva, the gym teacher, was sitting on a stacking chair in the far corner, reading a newspaper. I groaned softly. I hated him. Hated the way he was always dressed in all blue, from his Maple Leafs cap to his windbreaker pants. Hated how his breath always smelled of coffee. But mostly I hated the way he hated us — not all of us, just some of us. He was the kind of teacher who made me wonder why he became a teacher at all, since most kids only seemed to anger him.
“Please join us!” said the woman. “Come in; don’t be shy.”
The other students walked farther into the cafeteria and started to sit down. Anita and I found cushions on opposite sides of the circle.
“Hi, guys! My name is Liz and this is my co-partner Jason. I’m going to be totally upfront with you: this is my first day on the job. Jason’s been around the block a few more times than I have, so I’m sorry if I seem a little nervous.”
She smiled around at us, and I wasn’t sure if she wanted to comfort us or be comforted by us, but we all simply stared back at her.
“Right,” she said. “So before we really get into it, we’ll do something super-easy, like telling everyone in the circle our names.”
“We all already know each other,” said Anita. “And you just told us who you were.” Her tone was blunt and unforgiving. I had to appreciate it even though it killed me to.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s just to break the ice,” she said. “Hi, my name is Liz.” She turned to Jason, who told us his name for a second time.
Everyone went around introducing themselves like how they do in the AA meetings held in the basement of my grandmother’s church. I’d witnessed the beginning of one of those meetings two years ago when I was eleven, when I helped Nana deliver some of her fried dumplings for Tuesday Evening Bible Study and mistook the meeting for the class. Nana had found me and ushered me back up the stairs.
“The people them sick,” she’d told me.
“They don’t look sick,” I said. “Maybe a little tired.”
“Sick in the spirit,” she clarified. “They must gather together and talk fi rid themselves of what troubles them, of what turn them over to vice.”
“Should we do that then?” I’d asked her.
She looked at me. “We strong. There’s no need fi talk.”
When the last person said their name (Jamal), Liz’s face flushed red with accomplishment. “That was great!” she said.
We said nothing back.
She glanced at Jason, who nodded at her, encouraging her to keep speaking. “So, how many of you are here because you signed up?” she asked.
I looked around the circle. About five kids had their hands half-raised. Liz nodded. “And how many of you are here because a teacher thought this would be a helpful way for you to communicate?”
The rest of the students raised their hands, including Anita. I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking and saw her narrowing her eyes at me from across the circle.
“And what about you?”
It was Jason who’d spoken this time. He turned to me and all of the other students looked in my direction, their blank eyes pressuring me for a response.
“What? — I mean, excuse me?”
“You didn’t raise your hand either time,” he said.
“I wasn’t told to come here by a teacher . . .”
“So you signed up?”
Anita raised her eyebrows and whispered loudly. “Some people have no shame and like to talk-talk their business.”