My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  My brain is plumb worn out from switching between languages. “Sorry about my Spanish,” I say when we’re back out on the sidewalk.

  “No, no, you were a big help,” Mrs. Sampredo insists. “Come on, let me buy you something.”

  “That’s okay — you don’t have to!”

  “But I want to. You need something pretty. A nice dress, maybe?”

  “Gosh no! That’s a lot of money! Mamá wouldn’t like it.”

  “Tsk. Your mother needs to relax. She’s always going by the rules.” She takes my arm, and we stroll down the sidewalk together. “You know who I blame for this? The nuns.” I can’t help it — this makes me hee-haw. “Those nuns in Argentina were very strict, and your mother was too obedient.”

  “In Cuba, did you have nuns for teachers, too?”

  “Of course. See this red mouth of mine? I got in trouble every day for wearing lipstick or chewing gum or giggling with my friends. Almost every day I had to see the principal.”

  “For real?” I stare at Mrs. Sampredo in her roundy-moundy hairdo, trying to picture her sitting in front of Mr. Abrams’s desk, if Mr. Abrams was a nun.

  She glances down at my sneakers and school jumper. “Come on. Let’s find you something nice, something pretty.”

  Uh-oh, she’s heading for Landon’s. Belinda and I pinkie-swore to never set foot inside that place again! “Not that store,” I blurt. “It makes me sneeze!”

  “Tsk, they probably never vacuum in there.”

  Down the block is the five-and-dime store, which Marina claims has the biggest collection of junk she’s ever seen. But she’s forgetting they sell some pretty good cheap stuff. Since Mrs. Sampredo insists on buying me something, I try to decide between a tube of lip gloss and a bottle of nail polish. She makes me get both, and then we settle on stools at the lunch counter in the back of the store. I love it back here. A big mirror on the other side of the counter lets me watch customers roaming the aisles, eyeballing gazillions of trinkets crammed into nooks and crannies.

  Mrs. Sampredo orders lemon-meringue pie. I ask for a double scoop of Neapolitan ice cream. It arrives in a sundae glass, topped with a pouf of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.

  Funny how one thought leads to another. The cherry reminds me of that stupid cake Abigail and I made. The cake reminds me of the cakewalk, which reminds me of Wallace, which reminds me of Sam. And he’s the last person I want to think about right now — the very last. Today at school, he kept to himself all the livelong day. His gray eyes never once blinked at me. No notes. No nothing. I’m invisible again, and there’s nothing to be done. Stupid cakewalk. How dumb of me to think it didn’t matter that it was for Wallace.

  Now my nose stings, and my throat feels like I swallowed a golf ball. Oh, brother, if I bust out crying, poor Mrs. Sampredo won’t know what to do! So I dig my spoon into the ice cream and bring a mound of cold sweetness to my mouth, hoping the golf ball in my throat will shrink and disappear.

  Mrs. Sampredo watches me, smiling. “It’s good, eh?” With my tongue half freezing, I can only nod.

  In the mirror, I spy a broad-shouldered lady hunched over a bin of plastic flowers. Her back is turned to us, but I do believe I recognize that shirt. Sure enough, when she turns around, it’s Mrs. Underwood. I wonder if I should say hello, but a minute later, she catches sight of me and heads right over, still clutching those plastic flowers.

  “Mercy me, who do we have here, feeding her face full of ice cream? If it ain’t Speedy and her momma. Did you know this little girl of yours is a jackrabbit?”

  Mrs. Sampredo’s eyebrows shoot straight up. I jump in to explain. “Um, this isn’t my mother. She’s a neighbor, and she doesn’t speak much English.” In Spanish, I explain to Mrs. Sampredo who Mrs. Underwood is.

  Mrs. Underwood looks downright amazed. “You mean you two can understand each other?”

  “Yes, ma’am, sort of. I speak a little Spanish.”

  “I do declare, Olivera! You’re full of surprises. Tell your momma, your real momma, that we need to get you in a tracksuit next year when you start seventh grade, you hear me?”

  When she leaves, Mrs. Sampredo crinkles her forehead. “Did she say something about a rabbit?”

  “Jackrabbit. They run fast.” This just brings up more questions, so I end up explaining all about camp and the track team, and that I want to be on it — really bad.

  “If you want it so bad, what are you waiting for?”

  “Because I need permission from Mamá and Papá.”

  “And they won’t give it to you?”

  “I haven’t asked yet,” I fess up. “Mamá’s been working so hard on the wedding dress and all that sometimes she gets headaches. I don’t want to worry her. Plus, remember how mad they got when I ran at the club?”

  “Yes, but you were running in your good dress that took your Mamá many hours to sew.”

  “But that’s not the only thing. She thinks girls shouldn’t do sports at all.”

  “So strict!” She shakes her fist, and I’m pretty sure she’s blaming the nuns again. “If you’re good at running, nothing should hold you back.” She clutches my hand. “You leave your mother to me.”

  I drop my spoon. “Are you saying you’ll talk to her?”

  She taps a long red fingernail on the counter. “Just leave her to me.”

  Spider’s hall locker is two down from mine. Today when its doors swing open, bold green and red words flash all over creation: SAY IT LOUD: I’M BLACK AND I’M PROUD. They’re written on a poster taped to the inside of his locker, and along with the words there’s a picture of James Brown, number-one soul man, dancing across a map of Africa. I’ve heard that song, “Say It Loud — I’m Black and I’m Proud,” on WLS-Chicago, but at the local station, Spider’s not allowed to play it. His uncle says it’s too radical for Red Grove. Well, if I know Mr. Abrams, this poster will be too radical for our school.

  Spider and I finish at our lockers at the same time and head down the crowded hallway toward the lunchroom. Nobody’s paying us any mind, so it seems okay to ask him a question. “Hey, how come you play ‘Stand!’ practically every afternoon?” I have to crane my neck to talk to him because he’s a good foot taller than me.

  “That’s just me trying to get the message out.”

  “To who?”

  He grins. “To whoever needs to hear it.”

  “Oh.” The hairs on my arms prickle. Does he mean me?

  “To open their minds to what’s real, dig?”

  “Dig,” I answer, but I’m not exactly sure what he means by real. If you listen to the words of “Stand!” it’s all about … well, standing up against things that are wrong, speaking up for the truth, and not just sitting around on your duff when you know better.

  “Tell the truth,” he says, and I near about faint, because I just know he’s going to grill me about the rally. “Why did you break that boy’s heart?”

  “What boy’s heart?”

  “You know, Sam, the man. You wrote him that get-lost note the other day.”

  “That wasn’t a get-lost note. It was … something else.” Aw, heck, I’m tied up in knots and don’t know how to explain anything to Spider.

  “No lie?”

  “No lie.”

  “I could’ve sworn you gave him the boot, for real!”

  I shake my head. “Anyway, why did you make fun of us?”

  “Heyyyy, I’m sorry!” As soon as he says this, I choke up. I’m not sure why, exactly, but everything sort of piles up on me at once. I try to stop sniffling, but it’s too late to hide it from Spider. “Whoa! Don’t cry!” he says, jumping back like he’s seen a snake, which tickles my funny bone. And now I feel silly as a goose because I’m blubbering and laughing. Spider doesn’t know what to say to that.

  Mr. Abrams is stationed at the doors to the lunchroom, like a bulldog ready to pounce on whoever walks by. Half the boys get barked at. “Tuck that shirttail in!” or “Get that hair cut!” Then he
catches sight of me and Spider. Uh-oh. According to most white grown-ups, black boys like Spider aren’t supposed to talk to girls like me. Wearing that bulldog face, Mr. Abrams takes one step in our direction, and in a flash, I’m Split City before he can notice that I’ve been crying.

  A sharp left takes me to the glassed-in trophy case near the school’s front doors. My heart’s going like a jackhammer. We didn’t break any rules, but I want Spider in the lunchroom, at his table, before I dare pass by Mr. Abrams again. For about five minutes, I pretend to be 100 percent fascinated with the trophies, which are mostly plastic goblets with tiny statues of boys doing sporty things. The only girls in the whole case are either cheerleading or baton twirling. Next year, some of those plastic girls better be running track.

  In the glass, I watch reflections of kids scurrying past on their way to lunch. There go Nick and Chad and Robbie. Sam and his marching-band buddies. Belinda, with a book under her arm, next to Angie and Willa. Missy and Phyllis, in their matchy outfits. And all by her lonesome, Connie. But I see no tall boys with big Afros, so I guess the coast is clear. When Mr. Abrams starts yakking with a teacher, I zip past him, unnoticed.

  Abigail says, “Finally! I was about to send out a search party.” As usual, Paige is at the table, and so is Libby, a seventh-grader who’s on yearbook staff with Abigail.

  “Sorry to take so long. I was hiding from Mr. Abrams.” I unpack my sandwich.

  “What for?” Abigail says.

  “He saw me walking down the hall with Spider.” As soon as I notice Libby eyeing me, I realize I’ve said too much. “It wasn’t on purpose!”

  Paige says, “How do you mean, not on purpose?”

  I shrug, pretending like it’s no big deal. “We were at our lockers and started talking.”

  Libby looks disgusted. “You want your reputation ruined?”

  Abigail gasps. “Lu wouldn’t do anything bad!”

  Libby purses her lips. “Well, if people see you, they’ll come to certain conclusions. Plus, if you talk to those boys, they’ll just take it as encouragement.” She punches a straw into her juice carton and keeps staring me down.

  Those boys? And encouragement for what? That’s what I’m thinking, but Libby scares me, so I keep my trap shut.

  In a meek voice, Paige asks Libby, “Did you know Spider is president of the math club?”

  “So?” Libby scoffs. “That doesn’t make him a saint. Y’all can do whatever you want, but I’m not coming back next year.”

  Abigail says, “You’re not?”

  “Nope. I’m enrolling at East Lake.” She flicks crumbs off her hands in three swipes, almost like she’s wiping off our whole school, kit and caboodle.

  Abigail says, “Paige, are you going to East Lake, too?”

  Paige shakes her head. “Mom says we’re sticking it out.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I chime in.

  “Me neither,” Abigail says, looking a little down in the mouth. “Daddy’s dead set against it.” With her fork, she pushes around what’s left of her mashed potatoes.

  “But you’re starting to buddy up with them,” Libby says to me, “so I guess you don’t mind staying.”

  Them. I swallow hard. Belinda — is that who she means? Libby doesn’t know the half of it — that Belinda and I run together every weekend or that we talk on the phone almost every day. Should I say something? But wait: we’re foreigners — we’re not supposed to get involved. That’s what’s running through my head. I take a deep breath, hoping my heartbeat will slow down.

  Part of me thinks, Keep your trap shut, but the words come out anyway. “Well, if you want to know the truth,” I say, in a weird, down-inside-a-well voice, “I don’t mind staying.” Libby’s mouth goes slack and her eyes get a hard shine that looks extra scary. To my surprise, the voice from the well keeps going. “Belinda — she’s — she’s one of my best friends.” That’s when Abigail pinches me under the table. Maybe I’ve said too much.

  In her brightest voice, Abigail says, “Y’all, should I buy some fake nails? I sure don’t want Conrad to get here and see these stubby things.” She spreads her hands out for inspection.

  “Jell-O’s supposed to make nails grow,” Libby says.

  “Try unflavored gelatin,” Paige says. “You dip your nails in it.”

  “But that’ll take too long! The party’s in two weeks!” Abigail prattles on about some glue-on nails she saw at the five-and-dime. “Ninety-nine cents for a pack, but the glue is extra.” They go on talking about the party and glamour stuff, but I can’t shake off the look on Libby’s face when she said the word them. Belinda’s not a “them.” Spider’s not a “them.” I sure do hate it when people say things like that, and now I’ve made it plain. Gulp. What have I done?

  After lunch, I find a note jammed under the door of my hall locker. Sam? Everything goes dizzy while I quickly unfold the paper and start reading: Really sorry that I hurt your feelings! For just a flash, I think it is from Sam. Then it says, Listen at 4:30 and I’ll play you a song. Stay cool, little sis.

  Spider, you’re so nice. Why can’t everybody be like you?

  Once again, Ricky is pestering Denise. He wants her phone number. He wants to sit with her on the bus, anything. “Come on, baby, pleeeease!” The bus hasn’t even arrived yet, and he’s already about to give her a dadgum stroke. She shakes him off and runs to me, as if little old me could hide anybody from that big brute. Ricky takes ahold of both of us by our sleeves and grins like a tomcat with a newly caught mouse. “Looky here. I got me a Spanish girl, too!”

  “I’m from Argentina, you ding-dong!”

  “Same difference.” He grabs a hunk of my hair and tugs on it till I’m forced to look at him. “You wanted proof that Tina is real, and I’ve got it!” I try to pull loose. My book bag drops to the sidewalk, and a ballpoint pen rolls out. Denise wallops him with her purse, but he just laughs like a maniac and keeps a grip on both of us. Somehow my foot comes down on his — hard — and he jumps back. “Owwwww!” He hops around, wincing.

  Denise cackles. “She stomped the mess out of you!”

  When he’s done yowling, every smidgen of jokester has left his face. “You’re paying for this!” he yells. The bus pulls up, and the doors pop open. Ricky pushes other kids aside and scrambles up the steps. After I find my seat, he comes barreling back down the aisle and shoves a piece of newspaper under my nose. By now, the bus has started rolling. “Don’t you ever call me a liar again or I’ll make you double sorry.” After the way he treated me and Denise, I’m not about to look at anything he shows me. Staring straight into his eyes, I ball up the newspaper and throw it on the floor. “What did you do that for?” he screams.

  Everybody quits their yakking and stares. At the same time, the driver jerks the bus to a stop. “What’s going on back there?” He doesn’t wait for an answer — he just orders Ricky to sit up front in the hot seat. Whew, glad to get that burly devil away from me.

  When we get rolling again, I reach down for the balled-up newspaper and smooth it out. It’s from the sports section of the Montgomery Advertiser. The part about Tina is a tiny snippet in a long column of scores and game statistics:

  Tina Briggs, Upperdale, Alabama, 880 yards, 2:47.

  This proves it: she’s real, all right. A chill passes through me, and I lean my head on the window. Oh, brother, what have I gotten myself into?

  When I get home, Mamá is hunched over the ironing board, pressing the wedding dress. The steam iron goes hisssss as it glides across yards of white fabric. I notice the medicine bottle on the dining room table. Oh, dear! I hope Mamá’s not getting another headache. “How was school?” she asks, without looking up.

  “Nothing special.” I’m jittery about a gazillion things, but no point in telling her my worries. Instead, I help myself to some cookies and hustle off to my bedroom, where I snap the radio on. “Psychedelic Shack” is playing.

  I spread the crumpled newspaper page out on the floor. Now where a
re those dad-blamed scissors? My side of the room is a mess. Right after I find them behind a stack of comic books, Ringo pops out from under the bed. He won’t leave me be until I stop and pet him, even though I don’t feel like it one bit. This whole day has turned me into a grouch and a half. First, there was all that stuff with Libby in the lunchroom — which I’d like to forget — and then Ricky. Yikes.

  After trimming the part about Tina out of the newspaper, I tack it to the corkboard and prop my elbows on the dresser top, face-to-face with my Olympic coach. “Madeline Manning, do you see the fix I’m in? Tina Briggs — she’s the real thing, not me, and I’ve got less than three weeks to get ready for her.”

  Ringo jumps up on the dresser and rubs against the corkboard. “You’re going to mess up my stuff, you crazy kitty.” I set him down on the rug, where he starts sharpening his claws. “Stop! You’re going to tear that rug to smithereens!” He gives me a hard stare, with ears laid back, like his feelings are hurt. I reach out and stroke his chin till he purrs, and before too long, I start calming down a little.

  I get the big idea to take the corkboard to the living room, where everybody is bound to get a look at it. Maybe this will be my chance to explain stuff to Mamá and Papá, so they’ll sign my permission slip for track camp. With any luck, Papá will see the article about Tina and want to know who she is and why I care so much. Mamá will finally notice Madeline Manning and see that there’s nothing wrong with girls or women who like to run.

  But no sooner do I lay the board on the coffee table than Mamá passes through with the garment bag. “Lu, what is that?”

  “My corkboard. I want to show Papá something from the sports pages.” I’m half wondering if Mamá will already know all about it from Mrs. Sampredo, but she doesn’t give any sign of that. Instead, she slowly shakes her head, like she’s figuring me for a lost cause. Maybe Mrs. Sampredo forgot her promise — or else chickened out, like I do half the time. And since Mamá is looking a little worse for wear this afternoon, I’m wishing I hadn’t bothered her at all.