The next day, I folded up the poem, wrote Aaliyah’s name on it, and slipped it into her locker. I didn’t know if Mr. Ernest P. Boyd would consider this a bridge built, but it was a start. One brick in what might someday become a bridge.
The next couple of days flew by, and before I knew it, it was Thursday and time for our final speech practice in Ms. Tottenham’s room. I arrived second this time. Aaliyah was already there, scribbling madly in a notebook resting on her knees. She hadn’t so much as glanced at me since I’d slipped the poem in her locker Tuesday morning, but when I entered, she looked up and then quickly snapped her notebook shut. Then she pressed her lips together in what may have been a smile—or maybe she was trying to get the broccoli from today’s lunch out of her back teeth. Either way, bridges were built one brick at a time, so I flashed her a quick smile before I took my seat.
This time Ms. Tottenham got started before we’d even finished our lunch. “Time is of the essence, leaders,” she declared, and called Layla and Kayla to the podium. Darrin and Dominique followed, and then it was Aaliyah’s turn.
I had to admit—everyone had gotten much better. Layla and Kayla said “party” eight times instead of twelve and managed not to giggle even once during their speech. Darrin only slashed the air with his fist a few times, and Dominique managed to say her speech in a normal tone of voice. Still, none of them could compare to Aaliyah. If possible, she’d gone from extraordinary to out of this world. She’d added more lines to her speech that were even more powerful than the ones from before, and her voice didn’t falter. Not even once. In the midst of our applause, Darrin muttered, “Man, she makes us all look bad.”
He was right, of course.
There was no denying that.
My insides clenched just as Ms. Tottenham called, “Gabriela, you’re up.”
When I’d left Mrs. Baxter’s office yesterday, she’d told me that as long as I felt brilliant when reading my speech, I’d be brilliant. I stood at the podium and stared out at my classmates, willing myself to feel brilliant, even though I had to follow Aaliyah, a.k.a. Brilliance Personified.
I took a belly-breath and looked out at my audience, then let my words and exhale start at the same time. “G-Good afternoon. My name is Gabriela McBride, and I’m running for Sixth-Grade Ambassador, because I want to make K-Kelly Middle School the kind of place where all students feel www-welcome.”
I made it through the rest of my speech with only a few more bumps. When it came time for feedback, Kayla and Layla said, in near-perfect unison, “That was totally amazing!” Dominique and Darrin agreed. Ms. Tottenham turned to Aaliyah. My heart skipped a beat.
“I think Gabriela sounded better than last time,” Aaliyah said.
“Better how?” Ms. Tottenham prompted.
Aaliyah shrugged. Ms. Tottenham pursed her lips and turned away. “I guess more confident,” Aaliyah said, not looking at Ms. Tottenham or at me. Then she shrugged again.
Should I consider that another brick?
I didn’t have time to decide—the bell rang before I made it back to my seat. I gathered up my things and headed toward the door, nodding to Aaliyah on my way out, and hoping, hoping that with enough small changes, enough bricks, we’d eventually build a bridge between us.
I trudged into social studies a couple hours later and found my seat. Like she had during the meeting at lunch, Ms. Tottenham got started right away, this time with a slide show about leaders during the women’s rights movement.
“No need to take notes just yet,” she said.
Aaliyah, who had been writing in her notebook, stopped momentarily. Then, when Ms. Tottenham wasn’t looking, she went back to writing like her life depended on it. She’s probably making her speech even better, I thought, my spirits sagging a bit. I had to admit it—I wouldn’t mind winning. If I could figure out a way to get through to the seventh and eighth graders, find a way to get them totally on board with my platform …
Being a leader is not about winning, I reminded myself just as Aaliyah turned quickly in her chair and dropped a folded square of paper on my desk. She’d written my name in her neat, slanted handwriting, and beneath that, For your eyes ONLY.
Heart pounding, I pulled open the folded piece of paper, placed it beneath my desk so no one else but me could see, and began to read.
Dear Gabriela,
Thank you for the poem, and most of all, thank you for caring enough to write it. I know I owe you an apology for calling you Repeat all this time. So, from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. I know I’ve hurt your feelings a lot, so saying I’m sorry might not mean much to you, and an explanation might not mean much, either, but I’d like to try anyway.
Last year, when I first moved to Philly, I had a hard time making friends. It was the same way in my old school. I know people think I’m bossy and have too many opinions, but that’s just me. I don’t know how to be any other way. So I made up my mind when my family moved to Philly to stop trying to make friends. But then I noticed you and Teagan and you two were, well, a little different, too. Not different in a bad way, but just not like everyone else. Teagan with that hat she always wore and that notebook she carried, and you always writing poems all over every page of your notes. I saw you two and I thought you’d accept me and my weirdness, too, even though everyone else wouldn’t. And then I asked to sit with you at lunch, and you hesitated. I could see you thinking of a reason to say no. And I guess I had been hoping so much that I would finally have some friends, that it hurt A LOT when you basically said no. So that’s why I started making fun of you. You’d hurt me and I wanted to hurt you, too. It’s not right, and I know that now. So again, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. And thanks again for the poem. I’m good at writing speeches, but when you speak from your heart through poetry, your words have a way of making people (or at least me) listen.
Sincerely,
Aaliyah
P.S. I wonder if you might want to be friends someday, you know, when you’ve forgiven me?
I didn’t know what I was expecting the letter to say, but at least one thing surprised me—that Aaliyah thought my stuttering meant we didn’t want her to sit with us. I had never thought about how that moment might have felt for Aaliyah.
When the bell rang signaling the end of class, Aaliyah packed up quickly and made a beeline for the door. I raced to catch up, falling in step beside her.
“Th-Thanks,” I said, holding up the letter she’d written me.
“You’re welcome.” She paused, stopped in her tracks, and turned to face me. “I meant every word of it. I really am sorry.”
“I’m ssssorry, too,” I said.
Aaliyah frowned. “For what?”
“For ssssnapping at y-you outside the library that d-day with the b-books and for m-making you fffeel un-unwelcome at my l-lunch t-table last year.”
Aaliyah smiled at me, such a wide, bright, rivaling-the-sunshine smile, I didn’t have to wonder if she was trying to remove broccoli from her back teeth.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said to Teagan as soon as she dropped her boulder backpack along the wall of studio six on Friday. I told her everything, from Isaiah sending me the poem to the incident in the library, from me writing Aaliyah the poem, to the letter I’d received today.
“Wow. Just wow, Gabby,” she said when I was done, shaking her head and laughing a little. “Even if you don’t win the election—just think about it: You’ve already built a bridge right there.”
Ernest P. Boyd would be proud.
“I mean it,” Teagan continued. “I was worried about you and Aaliyah, but I’ve been impressed. You’re going to be just fine at Kelly without me.”
I nodded. I already was.
“All right, people!” Red clapped his hands as usual. “I’ve got a special project for us today—a group piece. The theme is change.”
Nice! We hadn’t done a group piece since we performed at Rhythm and Views when Liberty reopened this summer. I love
d how everyone’s different voices wove together to form one message.
“What kind of change?” Teagan asked. “There’s change like nickels and quarters, or change like what Gabby’s trying to do at Kelly, or change like delta in math, which means—”
“Teagan,” I said. “Your Main Line is showing.”
We all laughed.
“There’s changing, like growing,” Isaiah added. “And changes, um … we go through changes when we mature from, um, kids to teenagers, if you know what I mean.” He blushed.
“Oh, I know what you mean!” Alejandro said, his voice cracking on the last word as if on cue.
This time I laughed so hard tears filled my eyes.
“It’s all good, poets! All good!” Red said as the laughter died down. “But how about we start with this: a change in perspective. Take a few seconds and think of a time you changed your view on something. When you’ve got something, let’s just start calling things out.”
The first thing that popped into my head, of course, was this year with Aaliyah. We’d gone from enemies to … something like friends.
“I think I’m actually starting to like Shakespeare,” Alejandro said after a few moments of silence, “thanks to getting to know this bro right here.” He tipped his chin toward Isaiah.
Bria chimed in. “I used to complain all the time, but then my grandma taught me to say three things I’m grateful for each night before bed. You should thank her for that—I’m much more fun to be around now.”
That got another laugh from the group.
As we threw out more ideas, a rush of warmth washed over me. Everyone was sharing such wonderful—and different—things, and we couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of each other. That was the magic of this group. It was why on some Mondays and Fridays, I couldn’t get out of Kelly and into poetry fast enough. In here, we weren’t sixth or seventh graders or the Shakespeare kid or the girl who stutters. We were poets, doing what we loved together and getting to know each other in the process until our differences didn’t matter at all. We did a lot of laughing in studio six, but we never laughed at each other, only ever with each other.
Imagine, I thought to myself, if Kelly could be like this.
Hold up. What if I could help make Kelly be like this?
Because they were seventh graders, I never would have gotten to know Alejandro and Bria if we didn’t have this poetry group. Alejandro would never have known he liked Shakespeare if it weren’t for Isaiah.
It was the doing something together that brought us closer together. What if, instead of just getting rid of Sixth-Grade Initiation, I replaced it with something else—something where sixth, seventh, and eighth graders could work together?
I knew that Ernest P. Boyd would definitely consider that a bridge built.
By the time I got to hip-hop, I was so full of energy, I thought my feet might punch holes through Liberty’s ancient hardwood floors.
Now this was an unbeatable platform.
Changes
By the Liberty Poets
Change is the least predictable thing.
Sometimes it attacks,
Like soldiers ambushing an enemy.
Sometimes it’s sneaky,
Like grandma’s hair going gray.
Sometimes it’s just what you need,
A challenge, ready to be conquered.
And sometimes it’s the last thing you want,
A turnover that allows the game-winning point … for the other team.
Sometimes it’s easier said than done,
Like downing a mouthful of school tater tots.
And sometimes, it’s not as hard as you believe,
Like crossing a raging river, once you’ve discovered a bridge.
“Can’t you make up your mind?” we ask.
“Don’t you see?” Change replies. “That’s the point.”
“Without changing of minds there can be no change.
And that is how history’s made.”
Before I knew it, it was election day. I woke up to a text from Teagan: All fingers and toes crossed for you today! And remember, if you get nervous, imagine the whole audience in leotards and pink tutus.
I burst out laughing at the thought of Josiah and Marcus in frilly pink tutus. My nerves settled down a bit, but by second period, the Tiny Tot tappers were back in my belly.
The election assembly was scheduled to take place during fourth period, just before sixth-grade lunch.
“That’s probably so no one gets onstage and throws up,” a boy whispered to another in my first-period class.
He was probably right.
By the middle of third period, my insides were doing backflips and my nerves were sending electric shocks through my whole body, right down to the tips of my toes.
“All students running for ambassador please report to room 127. Again, all students running for ambassador please report to room 127.”
I got numbly to my feet and made my way to the classroom door. Voices went off like fireworks.
“Good luck, Gabby!”
“Knock ’em dead!”
I waved my thanks, then made it in a haze to Ms. Tottenham’s room. The air inside buzzed with the steady white noise of excited voices. No one was more excited than the twins, Kayla and Layla, who punctuated almost every other sentence with a squeal. Aaliyah sat in her usual seat, her head bent over her speech.
“Backpack in the corner, Gabriela,” Ms. Tottenham called to me.
Mutely, I dropped my backpack on the pile with the rest and made my way over to my usual seat, my speech in hand. I’d revised my speech after last Friday’s poetry meeting, but I’d made some more small—okay, big—changes last night. She didn’t know this, but Aaliyah had inspired them.
“Hey, Gabriela,” Aaliyah said, glancing up to look at me. She wore her usual bun and a suit. An actual suit, with a button-up jacket and a knee-length black skirt.
She squinted at me. “You look a little sweaty.”
I wiped nervously at my brow, trying hard not to imagine six hundred sets of eyes, all on me. At the same time.
“Gabriela, do you have a moment?”
I whirled around and saw Mrs. Baxter standing in the doorway and remembered the first time she had picked me up for a session this school year. Aaliyah had whispered, Have fun at speech, Repeat. I glanced at her now. Something on her face told me that she remembered that, too. She caught my eye and smiled just as Mrs. Baxter placed a hand on either of my shoulders.
“Good luck today, Gabby,” she said, looking right into my eyes. “Remember to speak on the breath and use your rhythm.” Then she pressed something into my hand, a folded index card. “Just a little something to remind you to be brave.”
On the card was the Saint Francis of Assisi quote, written in Mrs. Baxter’s loopy handwriting: Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.
She squeezed my shoulder, wished me luck once more, and left. I tucked the index card into my pocket and started back to my seat, but only made it halfway before a frazzled Ms. Tottenham said, “It’s time. We need to get to the auditorium—now.”
She hustled us toward the door, and me away from my speech, still lying on my desk. “B-But m-my—” Before I could get my words out, Aaliyah appeared beside me, holding my speech.
“Th-Thanks.”
We spilled out into the hallway, Kayla and Layla on our heels.
“What’s on your note card?” Aaliyah asked.
I pulled the card out and showed her, just as Layla said, “Aaliyah, you look like the lady who does our mom’s taxes.”
Kayla giggled.
All at once, I was back in the hallway when that stupid boy made fun of Isaiah and I couldn’t find my words. Whether I won the election or not, I knew I would never fail to stand up for a friend again. I stopped walking and turned to face the twins. “I-I think-think A-Aaliyah looks very … pro-professional!” I said, a lit
tle louder than I’d intended.
Kayla and Layla stared at me, almost-identical looks of shock upon their almost-identical faces.
“Thank you, Gabriela,” Aaliyah said. We turned and walked confidently toward the auditorium, leaving a stunned and silent Kayla and Layla in our wake. My words may have been bumpy, but I’d just proven that I could stand up and make people listen when I spoke.
“Are you ready to do what seems impossible?” Aaliyah asked as we approached the auditorium.
I nodded, my heart a bass drum in my chest. I was.
Every single sixth, seventh, and eighth grader was in the auditorium, and every single teacher, too. I scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face. Isaiah sat off to the right with his fourth-period class. He caught my eye and pumped his fist in the air as Ms. Tottenham ushered the six of us past the seventh- and eighth-grade candidates to a line of empty seats right smack in the middle of the front row. Each seat had a piece of paper taped to it that read Reserved.
“Ooooh, it’s like we’re stars at the Grammys!” Kayla squealed. Then she proceeded to wave to the crowd and blow kisses until Ms. Tottenham gently asked her to take a seat.
I sat down beside Aaliyah and turned around to take in the crowd again. It was bigger than the one at Liberty’s Rhythm and Views show this past summer. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.
“Okay,” Ms. Tottenham said, crouching down to address the six of us. She held a small stack of programs in one hand and a cordless mic in the other. “I’m going to go onstage and say a few words about the Kelly Ambassadors. Then we’ll get right into speeches, starting with you six.” Ms. Tottenham paused to hand each of us a program. “Make note of the order. Darrin, you’re up first, followed by Layla and Kayla. Then Dominique, Gabby, and Aaliyah—you’re our final sixth-grade speaker. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Aaliyah.
The rest of us bobbed our heads in silence. Now that the assembly was about to begin, even the twins looked subdued, wearing similar looks of panic mixed with shock, as though they suddenly had no idea how they’d gotten there or what they were about to do.
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