Courage for Beginners

by Karen Harrington

  “Hey.”

  “Can you go through the line and buy me lunch today, ’cause I don’t have any money?” he asks.

  I go through the lunch line and buy Anibal Gomez anything he wants. Who cares. Who cares about those looks from Wayne and Rama. La. La. La.

  What we’re doing is a secret. No one knows about the Sandy Showalter challenge. If they did, they’d think differently.

  I hope I’m in a fairy-tale story where the kind girl gets to sit with her friend, who, after realizing his error, reunites with her over chicken-on-a-bun and two chocolate milks.

  “Why are you following me?” he asks.

  “Because of the lunch.”

  “Lunch only, hold the weird girl.” Anibal says this stinging barb loud enough for his friends to hear.

  Here is a dorky girl who can feel hot waves of immature laughter coming from the vending machine, where the villainous lackeys look on with amusement.

  I stand there in a puddle of stupid.

  A puddle.

  I shake it off and go through the line again and buy a chicken-on-a-bun for Larry. At least that is a small problem I can solve and it gets me paddling away from my puddle of stupidity.

  “You still—” Rama says.

  “Don’t say it. I already know.”

  “I finally understand. You like him. Like, like him, like him.”

  “We have history. We’re really good friends. He’s just kidding around.” Maybe I should show her the texts. Proof of friendship.

  I wonder if I could explain this to Rama so that it would make sense. No, I don’t think that’s possible. It’s a “You have to be there” kind of friendship. Not being friends with Anibal is like asking a fish not to swim.

  Rama says, “Earth to Mysti. What are you thinking now?”

  “I’m picturing his head as a giant cantaloupe.”

  “Yes, that’s a good strategy.”

  “It already looks sort of melon-shaped, don’t you think?”

  I doodle in my notebook. I rain down insults on Anibal, taking the chance that Ms. Overstreet or Ms. Peet isn’t going to ninja-drop into Loser Island and catch me drawing an Anibaloupe.

  My drawing looks more like a monkey that swallowed a melon. Well, I never said drawing was my talent.

  Rama asks, “Will you help me after school? I keep getting to class late because I can’t get my locker to open.”

  “They do that on purpose to torture the sixth graders.”

  “It’s working. I feel tortured.”

  “RamaKhan!”

  “What?”

  “I like saying your name like that,” I say. “RamaKhan! Sounds like a superhero. You should say that to yourself if you feel like a tortured sixth grader again.”

  “MystiMurphy!”

  “See, it’s not the same.”

  “Not even close.”

  Rama walks away and I check my watch. Only a few more hours of this stupid day.

  Here is a girl holding out hope that lunchroom humiliation with a side of embarrassment is forgotten by the end of the day.

  chapter 21

  Here is a girl trying to survive the Texas Revolution.

  I sense danger as I enter Texas History. Potential nefariousness. Maybe I just have a bad feeling. Maybe I’m just hungry and wish I had eaten my MRE. Or maybe I’ve just been watching too many Animal Planet shows about animal instinct in the wild.

  Something inside the animal senses danger and it uses this ability to save itself or flee. The animal, for example, senses tiny vibrations underneath the earth. Vibrations that signal an earthquake or a tsunami. That it should not enter a cave or a part of the forest. It just knows.

  I think my stomach senses something.

  It is gurgling as I head into Texas History. It tells me: Do not go into this cave. I chalk it up as simple hunger. (Later, I will tell my stomach I was wrong and it was right.)

  But right now Ms. Overstreet strolls up and down the aisles of the class trying to get us to focus on the siege of the Alamo.

  “Please tell me some of the major heroes of this battle,” Ms. Overstreet says.

  Wayne’s hand shoots up like a rocket and he rolls off the usual suspects and is rewarded with a smile from Sandy Showalter.

  Ms. Overstreet reaches for her Texas-shaped pointer and aims it at the board.

  “Wake up, the story gets better. I want you to write all of this down and commit it to memory, cowgirls and cowboys!”

  Ms. Overstreet starts her engine and doesn’t stop. I fill my notebook page as fast as I can. I don’t want to give her any reason to suspect I’m an undercover bully, now do I?

  Here is what I write.

  1700s—Spanish built Alamo as a mission

  Texas was part of Mexico at this time, wanted independence.

  Dec. 1835—Group of Texas volunteers fought Mexican soldiers in San Antonio, won, and occupied the Alamo.

  Mexican government mad. Angry as hornets.

  Feb. 1836—General Santa Anna arrives to stop rebellion. Game on, Texans!

  Battle of Alamo. 145 Texas defenders against 6,000 Mexican soldiers.

  Fought valiantly for 13 days.

  The Alamo reclaimed by the Mexican army.

  But the stand gave Sam Houston time to organize a bigger army. Remember the Alamo!

  Sam Houston and his new army went on to defeat Santa Anna at the battle of San Jacinto.

  In conclusion—Don’t mess with Texas!

  “Did you get all that, cowgirls and cowboys? Why was the battle so inspiring?” Ms. Overstreet booms.

  I stare at my notebook. My notebook knows more about the Texas Revolution than I do. Seriously, it could pass a test.

  “Because it wasn’t a fair fight at all. It would be like our Beatty Middle School team being forced to play against the Dallas Cowboys by sending the orchestra onto the field! Very unfair. And yet, the orchestra, holding their violas and violins, still manages to score one touchdown! This is what makes the battle of the Alamo so awe-inspiring. The Texans fought against all odds. And it is their courage we celebrate when we say Remember the Alamo!”

  I would be more engaged in her talk right now, because she is really, really going at this subject with something close to a full-on nerd rage. But my guts are gurgling and rumbling. It’s hard to follow history and inspiration on an empty stomach, even when you have a boot-wearing teacher standing on her desk. So I stare at the life-size poster of Sam Houston hanging on the wall. There is a quote above Houston’s head:

  DO THE RIGHT THING AND BEAR THE CONSEQUENCES!

  “Okay, let’s have a pop quiz!”

  Groans from the class. Growls from my stomach.

  Why did you go into this cave? the stomach asks.

  “Don’t fear, this is just an oral quiz to see if you heard anything or if I was just performing for the sake of my own enjoyment. Okay, Miss Showalter, can you please tell me the original name of the Alamo?”

  Sandy does not answer. She chews the end of her pencil.

  Ms. Overstreet repeats herself in what can only be described as a constipated voice.

  Slow and slightly clenched.

  “It was Mission San Antonio de Valero.” Of course, Sandy’s rescuer is Wayne Kovok. He is granted another nice Sandy smile for saving her from the land of no answers.

  “And in what month did Santa Anna arrive in San Antonio and surround the Alamo?” Ms. Overstreet asks.

  “February 1836,” Anibal states. “He caught them by surprise!”

  “Good. And the Texans held out in the Alamo for thirteen days, fighting Santa Anna’s army in the dead of winter,” Ms. Overstreet continues. “I’d like you all to consider this question: What makes a hero? Is a hero someone who performs a valiant act? Is a hero someone who doubles her resolve during a difficult situation?”

  “Did you know the word hero is derived from the Greek and means ‘protector’ or ‘defender’?” says Wayne Kovok.

  “I wonder what that would have be
en like for the defenders of the Alamo,” Ms. Overstreet states. “Can you imagine the feeling? The fear? The courage? You know, I like what the famous essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson had to say about a hero. Do you want to know what he said?

  “He said that ‘a hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.’ Five minutes longer! Have you ever been in a situation where you gave up? What if you stayed with that difficulty five minutes longer? Does anyone have any thoughts on this?”

  I turn my head to Anibal and the look on his face is one I recognize. It is the “I will not be outdone” face. It is the “I will use my brain to prevail” face. The face that used to help him succeed using his brain alone.

  “Well, to quote the lyrics of a Taylor Swift song,” Anibal begins. I don’t hear the rest of what Anibal says because my brain came to a full stop on the words Taylor Swift.

  Anibal just quoted Taylor Swift to answer a Texas History question.

  Wait, Anibal just quoted Taylor Swift to answer a Texas History question?

  Anibal Gomez found a way to worm song lyrics into a discussion of Texas revolutionaries to impress a girl. If I wasn’t so annoyed that I gave him that clue, I’d be impressed.

  “Very interesting, Mr. Gomez,” Ms. Overstreet says. “Let us consider this question more deeply. Miss Murphy, what do you think of Emerson’s definition?”

  Here is a girl who regrets thinking of lemon cake and not paying attention to the teacher.

  “Do you believe Mr. Emerson was right about his meaning of a hero? That a hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer?”

  I have the attention of the entire class, all of their collective, inquiring eyes on me.

  “We’re waiting, Miss Murphy.”

  She waits.

  I wait.

  I wait to spontaneously combust right here in Texas History.

  Which would make history.

  “I agree with Mr. Emerson,” I say finally, because there are only two options: Agree or disagree, and I’m gambling I’ve chosen wisely.

  “Well, can you expand on your answer?” Ms. Overstreet says.

  Do you know what happens? My stomach answers.

  Not a tiny, look-over-your-shoulder-and-giggle growl. A large, powerful, noticeable growl. Almost like an animal. A growl heard around Texas History, probably into Social Studies next door, possibly into Mr. Red’s class, too.

  “It takes courage to show up,” Wayne says quickly. “And then to stay. I think that’s a decent definition of a hero. A lot of the guys at the Alamo could have gone. Did you know Santa Anna didn’t seal the exits immediately? They could have left. But they stayed.”

  I look to Wayne and mouth the words, Thank you. I won’t be so hard on him with all of his “Did you know” factoids now.

  Anibal grins at his perceived victory. And why not? Sandy is all smiles and chewing on her pencil because she is surrounded by guys who like her.

  chapter 22

  Here is a girl who wishes this day was just a dream.

  The stomach has spoken!!

  Not.

  They call u Texas History Growler

  Who does?

  Just me.

  Right now!!!!

  Taylor Swift? Really?

  Been waitin to use that all day!

  Boosh!

  Get ur own ideas next time.

  Growl!

  Shut up.

  Dad? Home?

  Still in hospital.

  Dude!

  I know, right?

  chapter 23

  Here is a girl drawing a small green dragon in the margins of her math notebook, wishing dragons were real and kind and a form of transportation.

  Math.

  Math has been a safe place for me the past couple of days. Only one person called me the Texas History Growler yesterday and we already know what wannabe-hipster brain came up with that.

  “Okay, let’s get ready to rhombusssss!”

  Mr. Red.

  He tries so hard to make math cool. But in the end, he’s still a teacher who chews toothpicks and reads the sports pages while we take pop quizzes to determine if we can tell polygons from pizza.

  Today Mr. Red has pie-plate-sized sweat stains under his armpits, which oddly led to thoughts of how to be noticed in middle school by ignoring old friends and acting stupid with new ones. I haven’t said anything to Anibal about his being a jerk, as Rama keeps reminding me. Every day, she stands there in the safe girls’ restroom, one hand on her hip and a scowl on her face.

  “You keep saying the nice Anibal Gomez is going to show up. News flash, he’s late!” she complains. And then I think of future days when the three of us will all fall over laughing at how funny this first semester of school has been and how I was in on the joke the whole time.

  Here is a girl who may be kidding herself.

  Now I’ve opened the door and told the thoughts to please leave, but they insist on staying like a song you can’t get out of your head.

  “Who can tell me which of these is a rhombus?” asks Mr. Red. “Anyone?”

  No one.

  Mr. Red is interrupted midphrase by the sound of the loudspeaker. It isn’t the regular morning announcements because they’d already informed us that for lunch you could get an oven-baked chicken patty with whole wheat bun and seasoned green beans, which I’d drawn a sketch of in my notebook. The chicken patty features legs and the green beans danced. I figure if I get caught, there is no chance any teacher can find it offensive, with the possible exception of a vegetarian.

  “Attention, students and teachers,” Principal Blakely announces. “Unfortunately, we’ve had a serious mechanical problem with the air-conditioning and must cancel the remainder of the school day. We’ve made the decision to let students leave by midday. The buses will run at twelve thirty. Other students can call their parents if they are not riding the bus. We have reasonable expectations that this problem will be corrected today and classes will resume tomorrow. Thank you.”

  I have reasonable expectations that this problem will work in my favor. I can check one miserable day off my school survival calendar and spend the rest of the day reading at home. Suddenly, the oppressive heat is a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  Mr. Red’s entire class moves like a herd of slow cattle. Jokes are whispered. Jokes about sweat stains growing into octagons. By twelve thirty the whole school is outside in that beat-down heat known as Texas under the sun. The sky is colorless and dry and looks brittle as a blanket that’s been on the clothesline too long. Across the parking lot, you can make out a wavy mirage.

  Whose idea was it to go ahead and line us up early for the buses, I have no idea. This time delay wouldn’t be so bad if Anibal Gomez and his faux friends weren’t in line, too, with their new green sneakers and overspray of Axe.

  I’m careful not to make eye contact with him, but I feel his presence and smell his attempts at sweaty subterfuge.

  Here is a girl who can’t tell if the heat on her back is from the sun or the penetrating stare of Boy Who Sleeps on Stuffed Animals.

  Anibal mocks some kid’s sneakers for how worn-out they are. He takes his hat off and keeps adjusting his hair.

  Rama gets into our bus line. Man, she must be hot with that scarf on her head. I wonder why she doesn’t take it off, let her hair breathe a little bit.

  “There’s the Sand Girl,” one of Anibal’s friends snaps. I hear the echo of Anibal’s laughter in the crowd. Not only are their insults stupid, they’re repetitive.

  “Hey, Mysti, maybe you could get a scarf and put it over your teeth.” This is Anibal’s clever friend. I name him Boy Who Should Disappear.

  Where is the stupid bus?

  Where is Ms. Peet and her buttons about bullying? Why is it that those who most need to get caught somehow slip through the cracks of authority?

  The crack is narrow.

  Boy Who Should Disappear makes more jabs at Rama. He calls her Osama Rama.
Ouch! Then he looks at me. He calls me the Texas History Growler. So much laughter. So little presence of teachers. So much injustice.

  Rama tugs my sleeve. “Let’s walk.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Something wrong with your feet?”

  There is a joke Dad likes to tell. What has four legs but can’t walk?

  A chair.

  A chair can’t walk and neither can I.

  It takes the bus seventeen minutes to get from the school to Fargo Drive. But I’ve never walked home from Beatty Middle School.

  I’ve never walked farther than the distance from the bus stop to my own brown front door. And it occurs to me right at this moment that even in the car with Dad, I’ve never even left my stupid ZIP code!

  “Sorry, I can’t,” I say, feeling a little as if I’m letting her down.

  But I can’t let Mama down, either.

  Rama starts walking and when she does, she cuts a defiant image. RamaKhan!

  Anibal shouts, “Go with your Sand Girl friend, Missed-teeth. And walk all the way to the dentist.” I look at him and he winks. As if insulting someone and then adding a wink takes away the sting.

  There is a ruffle of laughter.

  Someone tells them to shut up. I don’t know who, but wish I could hug them. “What if we cut your hair?” Boy Who Should Disappear says. A piece of paper hits my head. “Go borrow a scarf from her.”

  Where are the stupid buses?

  “I am going to cut your hair when you’re not looking,” Boy Who Should Disappear says.

  I think of those stupid animal shows again and know an animal would not sit around and take this abuse. Seriously, when do you ever see an animal sit there while another pelts it with rocks or coconuts? Animals are smart. An animal would flee. So I flee. I will try to catch up with Rama even though she is no longer in view.

  Easy.

  It hasn’t been that long, has it? She’d rounded a curve and I don’t see her, but I can catch up, right?

  I hear the shouts of the boys, all making chicken sounds.

  Bok. Bok. Bok.

  I don’t care. They can stay in the heat. Melt into the concrete. Let people walk over them for eternity.