The Totally Made-up Civil War Diary of Amanda MacLeish

by Claudia Mills

  Beth and Meghan went first. Beth handed Mrs. Angelino a CD of the music to play on the classroom CD player. “You have to imagine that we’re wearing our Irish dancing costumes,” Beth explained. “The dance looks a lot cooler when we’re wearing our costumes.”

  Even without the costumes, the dance was spectacular. Amanda was torn between the pride she always felt when Beth danced well and jealousy at the way Beth and Meghan grinned triumphantly at each other when the dance was finished.

  James performed next. His violin piece was the theme music from the Ken Burns Civil War series on TV; Amanda’s class had watched a couple of the programs during social studies time over the past few weeks. James played flawlessly, and the piece was so sad and beautiful, so full of homesickness and sorrow, that tears stung Amanda’s eyes. The violin sang Polly’s feelings as she searched for Jeb, Polly’s fears that Jeb and Thomas would never come home again. It sang Amanda’s feelings that her father would never come home again, and that she would never again be friends with Beth.

  Right after James came Lance. Lance didn’t play as well as James, but he had obviously been taking violin lessons for a long time. Amanda couldn’t tell what connection Lance’s piece had with the Civil War. It sounded like a piece of classical music he had performed at a violin recital.

  Mrs. Angelino kept her face expressionless as she made some marks on her clipboard. Lance seemed extremely pleased with himself as he returned to the risers. For a joke, Ricky had clapped his hands over his ears during Lance’s piece, so Lance punched him in the shoulder, and Ricky punched him back.

  “Lance, maybe you could make a better seating choice,” Mrs. Angelino said wearily.

  With his violin bow, Lance gave Ricky one last quick whack and then sat down next to Patrick.

  Amanda waited for her turn to read while one girl played a pretty good Civil War—era waltz on the piano and another girl played Taps on the trumpet with a couple of painful squawks that made Ricky cover his ears again, this time in earnest.

  “Amanda?” Mrs. Angelino looked her way.

  “Mine is a poem.” Amanda stood up in the front of the room, folded her hands behind her back, and recited:

  “Polly’s Lament

  My brother Jeb fights for the South.

  My brother Thomas, for the North.

  I do not fight for either side.

  I watch the soldiers marching forth.

  What if a bullet shot by Jeb

  Should strike Thomas in the heart?

  What if a bullet shot by Thomas

  Should strike Jeb like a poisoned dart?

  How can I live without my brothers?

  Why do they have to fight each other?”

  Mrs. Angelino made more marks on her pad. Beth gave Amanda a thumbs-up. Amanda wished she had given Beth a thumbs-up after her dance. Why did brothers, or friends, or parents, have to fight each other?

  “Thank you, boys and girls!” Mrs. Angelino said. “Now, if you’re not picked for a special act, please don’t be disappointed. The chorus is still the most important part of our show! I’ll post the audition results on the music room door right after school.”

  When the final bell rang, Amanda held herself back from the crowd of kids shoving forward to see the list, kids from all three fifth-grade classes, not just from Amanda’s.

  “We got in!” Meghan called to Beth. “We’re the only ones from our class!”

  So that was that. Though Amanda couldn’t believe that James hadn’t been picked. If Amanda had picked only one act, it would have been James’s haunting solo on the violin.

  “No, wait,” Meghan said. Amanda’s heart skipped a beat. “James got in on his violin, and Amanda’s poem got picked, too.”

  Amanda felt relieved. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to read her poem on the program, but that she didn’t want to be rejected, especially if Beth and Meghan had been chosen.

  Ricky was standing closer to the list than Lance was.

  “Did I get picked?” Lance yelled to him. He must not have heard Meghan’s report. Though maybe Meghan had missed seeing Lance’s name, if she had missed James and Amanda at first.

  “Nope.” Ricky pushed his way back out of the crowd. “Just the stupid Irish dance and Amanda’s stupid poem and James’s stupid violin.”

  Lance’s face darkened with anger. “My mom told me they always pick the black kids, to make it look better.”

  Amanda saw James standing a bit apart from the crowd, like her—either too proud or too shy to elbow his way to the front of the line.

  Lance strode over to James. “Congratulations, Jonah,” he sneered.

  Amanda couldn’t believe the nastiness in Lance’s voice. She had to speak up, to say something: Lance, you can’t talk to James like that; Lance, what you just said to James was racist and wrong. Instead, she froze in horrified silence.

  James clenched his fist, and for a moment Amanda thought there might be a fight between the two boys.

  “Wait—James—don’t—” she finally managed to blurt out.

  James whirled around and gave her an angry look. He must have thought she was blaming him for reacting, instead of blaming Lance for starting it all.

  Then, without a word, James turned and walked away.

  July 30,1861

  Dear Diary,

  When Mr. Porter and I came out of the hospital, I heard a band playing and saw a crowd gathered in the street.

  “What’s happening?” I asked him.

  “It’s the President!” he told me.

  The President! Abraham Lincoln! I saw a tall, gaunt man with a stovepipe hat and a dark beard, looking exactly like the pictures I had seen, only sadder somehow.

  I’m sad, too, so my heart went out to him. He didn’t seem to like being President very much.

  Mr. Porter and I joined the crowd waiting to hear Mr. Lincoln speak. Then the President stepped up onto a wooden crate and began.

  “Four score and five years ago,” he said, “the Union was founded, to give liberty and justice to all. To all,” he repeated. And, dear Diary, he looked right at me.

  “To this boy—what is your name, young man?”

  Mr. Lincoln was speaking to me!

  “It’s Paul Mason, sir.”

  “The Union gives liberty and justice to boys like Paul.”

  Then he pointed to a black slave girl in the crowd. She was carrying some parcels for a grand white lady, all dressed up in a fancy dress with hoopskirts and a feathered bonnet. The lady must be the girl’s owner.

  “And you, young lady, what’s your name?” Mr. Lincoln asked her.

  At first the girl looked too shy and scared to speak The lady gave her a mean look as if she might beat the girl for daring to speak to someone as important as Mr. Lincoln. Then the girl whispered, “Susan, sir.”

  “The Union needs to give liberty and justice to girls like Susan.”

  The crowd cheered, except for the white lady, who looked meaner than ever. The meanness in her face made her ugly despite her velvet and satin gown. But she didn’t turn and walk away. It was probably too exciting to see an actual President standing right in front of you.

  “Come here, Paul and Susan,” Mr. Lincoln said.

  My heart pounded as I walked forward. Susan looked timidly at the white lady, but walked forward, too. I smiled at Susan. She smiled at me. I wondered if she knew that I was really a girl, like her. Not completely like her, because I am white and she is black. And I am free, and she is a slave.

  But inside, she’s free. Inside, we’re just the same.

  “This is what we’re fighting for,” Mr. Lincoln said. “For liberty and justice for Paul and Susan.”

  He stepped down from the wooden box. The speech was over. The band started playing again, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and everybody started singing, except for Susan’s white lady, who yanked Susan’s arm to lead her away.

  I think that was a very good speech, dear Diary. Don’t you?

 
; 13

  To soothe her aching heart, Amanda had written her Polly diary entry as soon as she got home. But her heart still felt raw and bruised from what had happened at school.

  She had to call James. She had to tell him that she was sorry for not speaking up to defend him after what Lance had said. That one word—Jonah—seemed to have struck James like a fist in the stomach. Her own stomach churned from pain for James and from guilt for doing nothing. She had stood there in silence, and James had seen her do it.

  She forced herself to call James’s number; no one answered. She didn’t leave a message.

  She tried again five minutes later, and five minutes after that.

  “Were you calling Beth?” her mother asked, coming into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  Amanda wished her mother would stop asking about Beth. She didn’t have to be friends with Beth for her whole life just to please her mother.

  “Yes,” Amanda lied. She put the phone down and walked to the window that looked out over the driveway where her dad’s car wasn’t parked anymore and might never be parked again. Remorse about James mixed with jealousy of Beth and the simmering anger at her mother that she had never yet expressed.

  “Beth was out having fun with her parents.” Amanda didn’t mean to say what she said next; it came rushing out in one great burst. “Beth’s parents get along. They argue sometimes, like about global warming and things like that, but you can tell they don’t hate each other. It’s more like a game. But you and Dad—why can’t you get along? Why does he have to live somewhere else?”

  Her mother didn’t answer right away. “It’s complicated,” she finally said.

  “For you two, even a game isn’t a game. You can’t even play Monopoly without fighting.”

  “Maybe that’s why we need to live apart.”

  That wasn’t what Amanda had wanted her to say. She wanted her to say, “You’re right, Amanda. I’ve been very silly quarreling with your dad over little things like a board game. Your dad can move back home now, and I’ll never do it again.”

  “You think I’m to blame for everything, don’t you?” her mother asked then.

  Well, aren’t you? “No.” Amanda refused to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing she had read her unspoken thoughts so well.

  The teakettle started to whistle. “Do you want any tea?” Amanda’s mother asked gently.

  Amanda accepted a steaming cup. She could tell her mother was trying to be friendly, and she didn’t have the heart or stomach to quarrel anymore.

  Amanda changed the subject. “At school today? A boy in my class said something racist to another boy. Lance did, to James.”

  “James is the black boy?”

  “His dad is black, but his mom is white. I guess that makes him black. He looks black. Mrs. Angelino always smiles at him when she says anything nice about black people.”

  Her mother sighed. “Sometimes well-intentioned people can be the most insensitive of all.”

  “The worst part was—I was there when it happened, standing right next to them, and I wanted to say something to Lance, to tell him that he was wrong to say what he did—and I didn’t. And when I finally started to say something, I think James thought I was criticizing him.”

  Her mother reached over and put her hand on Amanda’s. Amanda didn’t push it away.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, honey. Even a lot of adults have trouble speaking up when someone says something offensive—a racist joke, a sexist comment. Most people don’t have the courage to say what needs to be said.”

  “But James is my friend. Well, sort of a friend. And I don’t want to be like most people.”

  “So what are you going to do? To try to make things right?”

  “I was going to call James and tell him I’m sorry.”

  “That’s a good idea. I think that will mean a lot to him.”

  Amanda took a sip of her tea. It felt soothing to her throat, which was tight and sore from talking about her dad, and then about Lance and James. Telling her mother about Lance and James had helped. But she would still never forgive her mother for making her dad move away.

  When the phone rang a few minutes later, Amanda’s wild thought was that it might be James. Maybe his family had caller ID, so he’d know she had tried three times to call him—an embarrassing thought.

  A boy’s voice asked to speak to Steffi.

  “Steffi!” Amanda called upstairs. She listened until she heard Steffi’s “Hello?”

  “Hey, Steffi, this is Ben. From the Humane Society.”

  Amanda hung up, gladness for Steffi easing some of her pain. Steffi had borrowed Tanya’s cousin’s high school yearbook from last spring and found three pictures of Ben in it: his class picture, his picture with the soccer team, and a picture of him clowning around in the cafeteria with two other guys. Copies of the pictures, made on their mother’s office machine, had the place of honor on the bulletin board by Steffi’s bed. After school yesterday, Steffi and Tanya had biked to the Humane Society, planning to pretend that Tanya wanted to adopt a dog, but Ben hadn’t been there. Now he had actually called her on the phone.

  Ten minutes later, Steffi appeared in the kitchen, her face radiant.

  “That was Ben. He called to see how Peanut was adjusting. His dog Honey got sprayed by a skunk, and they had to wash her five times before the smell went away. Ben was the one who washed her. He told me his soccer team is playing on Saturday at eleven, and I can come to watch the game if I want.”

  Steffi scooped up Peanut, who was meowing around her feet. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she crooned to the cat, who accepted her hug for a moment, then squirmed to get down again.

  From the phone upstairs, Amanda tried James’s number once more. This time his mother answered.

  “Is James there?”

  “He’s at his violin lesson, over at the Arts Center. He biked there right after school. He’ll be finished around four-thirty. Can I give him a message?”

  “Well—just tell him Amanda called, please.”

  Amanda hung up. Now James would think she had called about the math homework, and if she told him she was sorry, it would feel like something she stuck into the conversation to sound less self-centered: “I need you to help me with math again, and oh, while you’re looking for your math book, I’m sorry I didn’t stick up for you after what Lance said. So how do you multiply fractions?”

  She checked her watch. It was four o’clock. She could bike to the Arts Center and probably catch James before he started home. She wanted to talk to him in person, before she saw him at school tomorrow.

  Her mother gave her a quick hug when she told her where she was going.

  “I’m proud of you, sweetie. Bike safely!”

  The ride took only twenty minutes; Amanda pedaled her fastest to make sure she didn’t miss James. Once she reached the Arts Center, she wasn’t sure where to look for him, so she went inside to the main lobby, where the reception had been held after Beth’s dance recital.

  From down the corridor, she could hear the tinkle of a piano, the sweet sound of a saxophone, and a violin that might or might not be James’s. Maybe she should start taking music lessons. She had thought once about learning to play the harp, but she knew she didn’t have her father’s musical talent. Too bad Amanda hadn’t made Polly play the harp. It was too late to add that to Polly’s story; now all Polly cared about was finding Jeb.

  Amanda realized that the violin was silent. One of the music room doors opened, and James came into the corridor, violin case in hand. Amanda’s heart thumped in her chest. It had been stupid to come. James probably had already forgotten about Lance’s dumb insult. Now he’d have to remember it, and he’d blame Amanda for sticking her nose in his business, and get mad at her all over again.

  James was walking toward her.

  “Hi,” Amanda said.

  “What are you doing here?” He didn’t sound angry now.

  Sh
ould she pretend she was about to have her first harp lesson?

  “Your mother told me you had your lesson.”

  “And?”

  “I just wanted to tell you …”

  James stared straight ahead. Amanda could see a muscle tightening in his cheek.

  “James, I’m sorry about what Lance said. And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything when he said it. I wanted to—I really did—but—I didn’t. So I’m sorry. That’s all. I came to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  James met her eyes. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth relaxed a little bit. “Thanks” was all he said.

  Amanda wanted to say something more, but she didn’t know what else to say. She gave a tentative smile.

  “See you tomorrow,” James said. He didn’t return her smile.

  Amanda felt her own hopeful smile fade as he turned and headed out the door.

  Now she had to pedal home in the falling darkness. She hated riding in the dark, even though her bike had a light on it. The sooner she left, the sooner she’d be home, but she lingered in the bright, warm lobby, rewriting the scene with James in her head so that it ended with one quick grin on his part. “Call me if you need help with the math homework,” James would say. Then would come the friendly flash of his teeth, making everything between them right again.

  There was no one else left in the lobby, except for a pretty blond woman in a dark coat, probably waiting for her child to finish a piano or sax lesson.

  The walls of the lobby were hung with framed photographs. Amanda wandered past a few of them. One was a photo of a bunch of paper clips; another, of a bunch of thumbtacks. Amanda’s favorite was a photo of old-fashioned buttons, of all shapes and sizes. Amanda loved buttons. Each one seemed to have a story to tell. She tried to pick out which buttons Polly might have on her best Sunday dress—plain white ones, most likely. The Masons didn’t have money to spend on fancy buttons shaped like little carved wooden roses.