I was still trying to understand You were accepted to the METCO program. Um… what?
Inside my brain a dozen questions were zapping around, but the first that bubbled out was, “Where’s that at?”
“About twenty miles west. Listen—”
“Does this have to do with the essay thingy I just won? Because I told Mrs. Marano I wasn’t reading that at any assembly or whatever.”
“Well, that certainly would have helped your application all the more. Liliana—”
“Mr. Seaver, I don’t even know what METCO is.”
“Here.” He handed me a glossy pamphlet. “It stands for ‘Metropolitan Council for Educational Opportunity.’ ”
“Huh?”
He began again. “It’s a desegregation program.”
I ran my finger across the pamphlet. Oh wait! I had heard of this. A girl from the church we go to was in METCO. She talked like she was white. But she did get into college, so. Oh yeah, and another kid from down the street was in METCO too, I think. I saw him once, waiting for the bus when it was mad early and Mom was taking me to a doctor’s appointment before school. But me, really? I was accepted? I sat up straighter. Cool. But I had plenty of other stuff going on and didn’t need to add a new bougie school on top of it all. So yeah, no.
“Mr. Seaver, thank you,” I said in my most polite talking-to-the-vice-principal voice. “But I’m not interested in that program. I’m good here.”
Now he lowered his glasses. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not interested in switching schools,” I said, opening the pamphlet up. Yep, total bougie vibe! “Besides, my parents would never let me go.”
He adjusted his glasses once more, then said, “Your parents are the ones who signed you up, in fact.”
“They did?” My parents?
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Years ago, in fact.”
Why did he keep saying “in fact”? We weren’t in court.
And all of a sudden we heard shouting. And the sound of feet pounding. “Mr. Seaver! Mr. Seaver! Mrs. Marano’s having her baby!” It was Jade.
Whoa! It was like my story idea had come to life! Mr. Seaver bolted out of the bat cave, and I bolted after him. When we reached the classroom, Mrs. Marano was gripping her stomach with both hands, and her jaw was mad tight. Jasmine was bringing her a paper cup of water while Aaron held a little battery-operated fan up to her face. The rest of the kids were going wild, standing on chairs to get a better look. Other teachers stormed in and instantly got on their cell phones. Somehow that gave kids permission to do the same, only they weren’t calling 911. They were taking pictures and going on Snapchat.
I ran over to Jade. What. The. Hell. No way I was going to some other school in some other whack town called Westburg. I would miss this world way too much. Besides, I was the best writer in my class here. I had a winning essay to prove it.
I stuffed the METCO pamphlet into my backpack and reached for my phone. What is METCO?? I texted Mom. She didn’t reply.
Jade was hitting me with questions. “Liliana? Hello? Do you not see that our teacher is gonna have a baby? And what did Mr. Seaver want?”
“Nothing.” I shooed her away.
“Dang. What’s good with you?”
“Nothing.”
Mr. Seaver and another teacher helped Mrs. Marano out the door and down the hall toward the elevator. I could hear sirens outside. Then another teacher came in and took control of our class. She passed out worksheets, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t stop thinking about METCO and Mr. Seaver and how he’d said my parents had signed me up in the first place. Parents—as in Mom and Dad. Did my dad really know about it? Sometimes one of them signed me up for something without telling the other. Plus, right now things were… complicated with him, as in, he’d taken off—again. Truth, he had to know. He was the one who got me all into reading, which got me into writing, in the first place.
And now I couldn’t even ask him. I had to find out more about this METCO program.
2
METCO was nagging my brain for the rest of the day. What if the kids were all whack? What if Jade and I stopped talking on the regular? What if the schoolwork was too hard? What if I threw up on the bus? So finally, during last period, I asked for a pass to see my guidance counselor. I was hoping Miss Jackson could give me some backup for NOT going to METCO. I sat on a metal folding chair in the main office while I waited to be called in. The place smelled like muffins. There was a box of them sitting on Miss Patricia’s desk—she was the school secretary. She gave out pencils and granola bars and sometimes, if you were lucky, muffins. I was lucky, muffin day. I took a blueberry one and mouthed Thank you, and she went back to reading the Boston Globe. I don’t get why old people love reading the paper so much. I started reading the METCO pamphlet, a whole lotta blah, blah, blah:
The mission of METCO is twofold: (1) to give students from Boston’s underperforming school districts the opportunity to attend a high-performing school and increase their educational opportunities, and (2) to decrease racial isolation and increase diversity in the suburban schools.
In order to qualify for the program, a student must be a resident of Boston and be nonwhite. Eligibility does not take into account a student’s record (including academics and behavior), English language proficiency, socioeconomic status, attendance record, or immigration status.
METCO host families are designed to bring the communities together and provide support for students within the program in the town in which they attend school. Students are also assigned “METCO buddies.”
“Liliana?” Miss Jackson asked from the doorway. She sounded surprised to see me.
Most of the counselors here were old and white, except for mine. Miss Jackson was young and Black. So young actually that she kind of looked like she could be a student herself. She had dozens of long thin braids, and she liked to wear skirts with cool patterns like zebra prints.
“Oh, hi, miss. I had a question. It’s about this program.” I waved the pamphlet at her.
She led me to her office in Guidance Row. Her phone rang, and she held a finger in the air. “Excuse me, baby.” So I looked at the pictures pinned on the corkboard beside her desk. They were new since the last time I’d been in there. In one she wore a cap and gown. In another she was screaming, wind in her face, as she jumped out of a plane. I had no idea Miss Jackson liked to do stuff like that, skydiving or whatever. I would NEVER do that; you’d have to kill me first. I don’t even like roller coasters. Miss Jackson finished her phone call and hung up. She was like one of three adults in the whole school who could get away with calling students “baby.”
“Now, what can I help you with, Liliana?”
“Well, I got into this thing called METCO. It’s a program that buses kids from the city to the suburbs.”
Miss Jackson leaned forward, her eyes all kinds of bright. “I’m real familiar with the METCO program, Liliana.” She smiled big. “I did METCO.”
Whaaaat? “For real?”
Miss Jackson put her hands together so that they formed a little tent. “For real.”