What? Of all the things I expected her to say, that was not one of them.
“Okay,” I said. “Sit. Tell me what’s going on.”
We found a spot against the wall under the ballet barre where I’d gotten a massive charley horse in ballet class last spring. Teagan seemed like she was in as much pain now as I was that day. I scooted closer to her until our knees were touching and waited for her to share more, knowing how important it was to give someone time to find their words.
After a few moments, Teagan tilted her head back and leaned it against the well. “I just … This Pascal coding is killing me. It’s so much more advanced than anything I’ve done.” She took a deep breath. “When I got into Main Line, I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t know it would be this hard. I feel … I feel like I’m having to prove myself every single second. My grandpa is always saying I’m a natural whiz kid—”
“You are. Like how Mama says I’m a natural dancer.” I squeezed her hand. And how Aaliyah is a natural leader, I added to myself.
“But …” she continued, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “These students are so smart, especially the ones in my coding class. I’m starting to think …” The next words seemed like they were some of the hardest words Teagan had ever had to say. “To think that I’m not meant to be a coder after all.”
I let out a breath. I’d never seen Teagan this upset about school—or anything, really. I scooted around to face her square on. “Teagan,” I said, “you have a notebook exclusively for writing code. That you named Cody. And you had that before you went to Main Line.”
“I know.” She sniffled. “But everyone there is so much smarter than me. I’m never going to be even close to the top of my class.”
I thought back to that day in August when Teagan had told me about Main Line. How excited she’d been. How I hadn’t for even one second thought she shouldn’t go, even if it meant she wouldn’t be with me at Kelly. Coding was Teagan’s thing—it’s what made her Teagan. She’d still be a coder even if she’d never heard of Main Line and had come to Kelly. She’d still be a coder even if every single person in the class was smarter than her. There was only one way Teagan wouldn’t be a coder. I put my hands on her knees.
“Teagan, the only way you couldn’t be a coder was if you didn’t code. If you didn’t do this thing you’re so passionate about. Who cares if you’re at the top of your class? You know you’re a coder. I know you’re a coder. You don’t have to prove that to anybody—”
I stopped. Because I’d just realized the solution to my impossible problem.
“Gabby? Were you finished?”
I snapped my attention back to Teagan. “Oh, yeah. Did that help?”
She nodded. “It did. Thanks, G.” She squeezed my hand and then pulled me into a hug. When we were done, I scooted back around next to her.
Shoot! The clock over the studio door said I was going to be late for hip-hop!
I grabbed my bag. “I have to go—are you gonna be okay?”
“I think so,” Teagan said. “It will at least help me get through the insane amount of homework I have this weekend. Let’s talk after poetry group on Monday. I want to hear more about your campaign!”
“You got it,” I said. I hugged Teagan and ran to studio three, quickly changed my shoes, and jumped in to join the other dancers in our warm-up.
Forty-five minutes later, we had done our isolations and learned tonight’s hip-hop combination. Mama counted us in.
“Five, six, seven, eight!”
I put all my energy into the moves, just like I had at the park performance for Liberty this summer.
Stomp together, hit, and slide.
Tonight, I was speaking with my body, but inside, my words pounded with each beat.
Teagan was a coder. She didn’t have to prove that to anybody.
Swing my arms to the right and PUNCH!
Just like I didn’t have to prove I was a leader. Not to Aaliyah, not to those kids in the hallway, and definitely not to myself.
Pump one, two! Jump three, four!
Maybe I wouldn’t win.
Big step right, stop, and hold.
But that wasn’t the point.
This summer when I’d choreographed that dance for the park, I didn’t know if it was going to raise enough money for Liberty’s building repairs.
Head to the left and pop, pop.
In fact, I knew it probably wouldn’t.
Slide on six, hold seven, eight.
But I knew I had to try.
Because leaders don’t wait for the impossible to be possible.
Front and back and front and back.
They start by doing what’s necessary.
I was as passionate about making Kelly better for kids like Isaiah and me as I had been about saving Liberty.
Maybe I’d lose the election.
Maybe Sixth-Grade Initiation would continue for another year.
Maybe Aaliyah would call me Repeat for the rest of my middle-school career.
“Get ready for the ending!” Mama said.
But I had to give it a shot.
My name is Gabriela McBride, I thought as I spun and then jumped my legs into the widest stance I could, freezing in the final pose.
I have a voice, and I’m going to make sure all of Kelly hears it.
At home, I went straight to my desk and pulled out my journal:
Old goal: Win the election so I can get rid of Sixth-Grade Initiation.
New goal: Use my platform and speech to speak out about Sixth-Grade Initiation. Inspire people to treat each other with respect, whether I win or not!
Immediately that same spark I felt last night when I read my old speech ignited within me. If even just one seventh or eighth grader heard what I had to say and changed the way they treated sixth graders, I’d consider that a win. Maybe some sixth graders would start treating each other better, too.
And Aaliyah? Mrs. Baxter had told me to ignore the bullies, so that was exactly what I planned to do from now on. Ignore Aaliyah and her campaign. I needed to focus on getting the word out about mine.
If I was going back to do that, though, I needed new flyers. With teeth brushed and my pj’s on, I opened up my laptop and got to work, Maya “helping” me by using the keyboard as her personal pillow. I was just about to hit PRINT when a new e-mail alert popped up. It was from Isaiah.
Gabby,
I came across this poem at lunch today. It’s the only poem Ernest P. Boyd ever published. I don’t know what you decided about your platform, but I thought the poem might help you in your campaign.
Isaiah
Of course Isaiah would have a poem to help me, even though I hadn’t had a chance to apologize. A frown spread across my face at how rude I’d been to him yesterday. I scrolled down and read on.
“Bridges” by Ernest P. Boyd
Brother, I have seen
So many bridges burned
Instead of bridges built
Where there should be binds as strong as oak
There’s desolation, fire, flame, and smoke
But, brother, now you listen to me
To every word I’ve said
For glorious this world would be
If men stopped burning bridges
And held out their hands instead
Isaiah’s question from yesterday came back to me. What would make you feel more like a winner, Gabby? Making Kelly better for kids like us or beating Aaliyah?
So many bridges burned … I understood now why Isaiah was so upset yesterday. I claimed I wanted to get rid of all the teasing and tearing down at Kelly, but in switching platforms just to beat Aaliyah, I had taken part in the exact thing I was trying to stop. A wave of shame washed over me, but just as quickly, I felt the warmth of gratitude fill its place.
I opened up a new e-mail and hit REPLY.
Dear Isaiah,
Thank you for the poem—I liked it a lot. Thanks, too, for trying t
o help me yesterday. I was so hurt by what happened with Aaliyah that I forgot why I was running in the first place. You’re a true friend for calling me out on that. And I’m sorry for what I said about wishing Teagan were there. Like I said, you’re a true friend, and I’m so glad you’re here at Kelly with me.
I continued by telling him how I was going back to my old platform—how even if I didn’t win, maybe I’d inspire at least some students to treat each other with more kindness. I also asked if he wanted to help me hand out flyers in the seventh- and eighth-grade hallways on Monday.
Later, as Maya and I snuggled into bed, my phone buzzed. A text from Isaiah.
I would be honored, my lady, to help you spread the word.
And then another one: And I agree wholeheartedly. As the Bard would say, “I am wealthy in my friends.”
Doing the Impossible
Doing what’s impossible
Means jumping
Even when you think you’ll fall
It means running headlong
Straight through the wall
Doing the impossible
Means looking your fears straight in the face
Saying loud and clear, “You will not win today.”
It means dropping the “i” and the “m“
It means trying, failing
And getting back up again
Ladies and gentlemen,” Ms. Tottenham said on Monday after the bell rang. “This week we will review what we’ve learned about Unexpected Leaders. Do pay attention, because we will end the unit with a test on Friday.”
Several kids groaned.
“Here’s how this works,” Ms. Tottenham continued. “Once you pair up, I’ll assign each pair an unexpected leader. You’ll have twenty minutes to prepare a short presentation, which you’ll give during the second half of class. Got it?”
A sea of nodding heads.
“All right,” she said, clapping her hands again. “Find a partner and then I’ll assign you a leader. Try to find someone you haven’t worked with before, please.”
As usual, I felt the pang of Teagan not being there, but also relief that I didn’t have to work with Aaliyah again. We hadn’t said a word to each other since the incident in the hallway, which I considered an improvement.
Zuri caught my eye and we partnered up. She looked as grateful as I did that she didn’t have to work with Aaliyah.
I gathered my things so Zuri and I could find a spot on the floor to work. In front of me, Aaliyah was twisted in her seat, scanning the classroom.
“Ah, Aaliyah,” Ms. Tottenham said, coming over. “Looks like we’re an odd number today with Marcus home sick. Why don’t you be a trio with Josiah and Victoria?”
“That’s okay,” Aaliyah said. “I don’t mind working by myself.”
But as I sat down next to Zuri, I caught a glimpse of Aaliyah’s face. It told a different story.
That was the same look Teagan had on Friday in the studio, when she was so upset about Main Line. It was how Isaiah looked last week when I snapped at him in the cafeteria. And it was how I imagined I looked every time I wished Teagan was here beside me.
It was the face of someone who needed a friend.
Zuri and I got to work, but through all the Unexpected Leader presentations, I couldn’t get Ernest P. Boyd’s words out of my head.
For glorious this world would be
If men stopped burning bridges
And held out their hands instead
The ache in my belly was still coming back every time I thought about how Aaliyah had treated me in the hallway, but each time it ached a little less. And as I spoke to more and more students about why we should make Kelly welcoming for all, I knew for certain her words weren’t true. I knew I could be a voice for my classmates, even with my stutter.
I watched Aaliyah standing alone in the front of the classroom, rocking her presentation on Claudette Colvin.
Maybe—just maybe—it was time to hold out my hand.
“I don’t think anyone should have to go through that,” I said to Isaiah at our lockers after school, once I’d described what happened with Aaliyah and the partners in social studies.
“All the more reason to stick with your platform,” Isaiah said.
It was true, and a little absurd—me fighting for change that would benefit my so-called enemy. I chuckled to myself.
“Ready to go?” Isaiah asked, shoving his math book into his backpack. “My mom should be outside in a few minutes to take us to Liberty.”
Shoot. I didn’t have my math book. I must have left it in Mr. Newton’s classroom earlier. I told Isaiah as much, and that I’d meet him outside.
Mr. Newton’s classroom was on the other side of the media center, so I started making my way across it. The open area was dotted with students sitting at tables or sprawled on the floor on their stomachs, some working on the media center’s tablets, others flipping lazily through library books and jotting down notes.
Oh. No.
Most of these students were eighth graders. I spied the boy who had called me G-G-G-Gabby.
“Hey, Lonely Loser,” a voice called out. The kind of voice that sounded friendly on its surface, but boiled with nastiness beneath.
The voice had come from the girl with the magenta-tipped extensions, the same girl who had stopped Aaliyah in the hallway to laugh at her hairstyle. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking right at me. No. Past me.
I whirled around to find Aaliyah standing behind me, holding a tub of books labeled Ms. Tottenham’s class: To be returned.
For a moment, Aaliyah and I stood frozen in place, as if we were in a movie and someone had pressed PAUSE. I stared at her. She stared at the girl with the magenta-tipped extensions. And then she began to move again, walking determinedly in the direction of the returns desk, holding tight to her bin of books.
I continued toward Mr. Newton’s room, but had only made it past the librarian’s desk when—
CRASH.
A library book skittered across the floor, collided with the toe of my sneaker, and stopped.
I spun around. Aaliyah was sprawled across the floor with the scattered books all around her, and the girl with the magenta-tipped extensions was looking down at her own outstretched leg in an elaborate show of shock, as if it had acted all on its own. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I was just stretching. You should really watch where you’re going. But kudos on the landing. I’d give you a perfect ten.”
I could almost hear Ernest P. Boyd whispering in my ear. And held out their hands instead.
My brow furrowed and I rushed forward, grabbing as many books as I could and placing them back in the bin. Aaliyah had already gotten to her feet. There was dust on the front of her pants, but either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. She held out her hands for the bin.
“S-Sorry,” I whispered. “Th-That wasn’t—She-She sh-shouldn’t—” I wanted to say so many things to Aaliyah, all the words came out at once, overlapping one another until I hardly made any sense at all.
“Just give me my stuff!” Aaliyah hissed.
“Hey!” I shot back, louder than I’d meant to. “I-I’m just tr-trying to help you h-here!”
I shoved the yellow bin at her, now halfway refilled with books. She turned away from me to pick up the rest, but not before I got a clear look at her face, at those hazel eyes beneath a set of dark brows. They were filled with tears.
Not Aaliyah Reade-Johnson, who scared even her hair into place. There was no way I had seen that girl about to cry. That was all I could think about as Mrs. Jordan drove us to Liberty and while Isaiah and I killed time waiting for poetry to start. Aaliyah was the only sixth grader I knew who was brave enough to raise her hand and speak her mind, even if other kids rolled their eyes and sucked their teeth when she did it.
And had what I’d done counted as reaching out a hand? Aaliyah didn’t seem to think so.
“Okay,” Red said that afternoon at poetry, snapping me from my t
houghts. Teagan had sat down on one side of me, Isaiah on the other. “Let’s start with an exercise today. Isaiah has been reading, well, what hasn’t he been reading lately?”
We all laughed.
“He was telling me about this poem he read called ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ I don’t really know what was so fly about an urn that the dude felt he needed to write a poem about it, but that seems like a cool idea—writing a poem that addresses someone or something directly. There aren’t any rules here—write an ode to the cafeteria tater tots if you want.”
“Why would anybody want to do that?” Alejandro tossed out, smiling.
“I would!” Teagan chimed in. “The tater tots at Main Line are divine.” She dramatically put her hands on her heart, as if fried potatoes made her life complete. I giggled. Teagan seemed more relaxed than she had on Friday, and I was glad.
“Good point, Alejandro,” Red said, laughing. “Very good point. Now, let’s get vibin’ and versin’!”
I thought first about writing a poem to Mrs. Baxter and then one for Ms. Tottenham. But then another idea came to me. It wasn’t an ode, exactly, but it was something close. I turned to a new page in my journal.
A little while later, when Red asked if anyone wanted to share, I kept quiet.
I would share this poem, but not here. These words were for one person only: the person who needed to hear them the most.
A Poem for Aaliyah
I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye
But I’ll tell you what I’ve seen with mine
A girl who’s strong, who’s fierce, and true
A brilliant speaker and a natural leader, too
I’ve seen a girl with confidence, enough to go around
Who can make others stand up straight with just a single raised brow
And when she speaks, oh, the world, it stops and listens
For her words reach out and grab you and make you pay attention
She’s smart, she’s brave, this girl named Aaliyah, just come have a look and see
She’ll inspire you to be the same, just like she inspires me
Gabriela Speaks Out Page 8