Time for Change

by Varian Johnson

  “Our goal here is to keep our torsos vertical—long and strong!” she said. She put the bottoms of her feet flat against the wall in front of her, and scooted her bottom in until her knees were bent in a demi-plié position. Then she sat up really tall, and with her arms rounded in first position in front of her, she pushed against the wall with her feet. That pushing made her legs straighten, which made her pelvis and whole upper body slide away from the wall. The entire time, she kept her torso straight up and down, as solid as one of the columns in the lobby of the Liberty theater.

  “Your turn, ladies!” she said. “Use your abdominal muscles to keep your torsos long and strong!”

  I scooted in and put my feet against the wall. Sitting up straight couldn’t be that hard, right?

  Wrong. If I pushed gently and slid slowly, it was pretty easy to stay long and strong like a column, but if I pushed harder against the wall and slid out faster, my torso wobbled all over the place. I’d have to practice this one!

  We went through more exercises, Amelia correcting us along the way. After a few repetitions of an exercise where we stood facing the barre and “rolled up” to relevé on both feet, my ankles and feet felt like Jell-O! Amelia had to remind me a few times to keep my ankles pressed together in proper alignment, and to keep my torso long and strong.

  “Excellent, Gabby!” She finally said, when I’d done three roll-ups correctly. “That’s what I love about you! Even when the going gets tough, you never give up.” She tapped my nose and moved on to the next student.

  I smiled. It was true—I never gave up, even when I wasn’t sure I would succeed. This summer, I didn’t know if we’d raise enough money to keep Liberty open, but I organized a benefit performance anyway. I never thought I’d win the ambassador election at school, but I pushed through. Giving up wasn’t an option when I was Dreaming Big.

  Suddenly, I knew my answer for Red. I had to do a solo at Voices, even with my stutter, because not doing one would be like giving up before I ever started.

  “Gabby?”

  I blinked. Amelia was trying to get my attention. “You okay? We’ve moved on to another exercise.”

  I quickly looked at the other kids. They all had one hand on the barre, ready for pliés.

  “I’m s-s-s-sorry,” I said.

  “No problem. But try to stay with us.”

  I shook my head to refocus my brain on ballet, and sure enough, as my body folded itself into the correct positions, my mind followed along. By the time we moved to center work, I’d pushed aside all thoughts of poetry.

  Well, almost all thoughts.

  I still remembered the buzz inside my belly while brainstorming just an hour ago.

  The buzz I’d felt when I’d heard the Pink Poetics on Saturday.

  The buzz I felt every time I put my thoughts into words on paper and then spoke those words aloud.

  I was starting to think that I’d never completely forget about poetry ever again.

  DREAM BIG by Gabriela McBride

  First draft

  When I think of my dreams

  I remind myself

  a seed doesn’t know

  what kind of flower it will become

  But it pushes up through the soil

  no matter what

  until it reaches the sun

  And when I think of my dreams

  I remind myself

  a butterfly isn’t born with wings

  It has to build a cocoon first

  But what if a seed was scared

  of the sunlight above?

  Preferred to stay comfy

  in its soft, cool soil?

  What if a caterpillar

  never built a cocoon?

  Just stayed a worm

  inching along?

  The seed would never know

  the beauty it could be

  The caterpillar would never feel

  the joy of flying free

  Wait up, Gabby!” Aaliyah was rushing through the hallway toward Ms. Tottenham’s classroom. She nodded toward the door as she came up beside me. “Excited for our first ambassadors meeting?”

  “Sure th-th-thing,” I said. Then I looked down at the floor. “And maybe a little nervous.” I couldn’t wait to make good on my campaign promise of helping the grades get along better, but I had no idea how to start.

  “You’ve got this,” she said, pushing the door open for me. “And remember, I’ve got your back in there.”

  “And I’ve got yours,” I replied.

  Ms. Tottenham smiled as us as we took our seats next to the seventh- and eighth-grade ambassadors. Ms. Tottenham was our social studies teacher, and also the ambassadors’ adviser, not to mention the funkiest fashionista around. Today she was wearing a flowing beige shawl with black pants, a black turtleneck, and a bunch of wooden bracelets.

  “I’m glad to see you all so bright-eyed this early in the morning!” Ms. Tottenham said. As she talked, her bracelets knocked together and I relaxed a little. The clacking reminded me of Daddy typing away on his computer while I fell asleep at night.

  “Since this is our first meeting,” Ms. Tottenham continued, “why don’t we introduce ourselves? And to help us get to know one another, how about we each give a fun fact? I’ll go first.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Ms. Tottenham and I like to make jewelry.” She shook her wrist.

  Everyone turned to look at me. I guess I was next.

  “I’m G-G-Gabby …” I paused for a moment. I knew what I wanted to say, but it was like my words were having stage fright—they didn’t want to come out. Real quick, I checked in with myself, moving my jaw back and forth. It felt tight, like a stretched rubber band. If I wanted to get the hard-G sound out, I had to relax it, so I took a deep breath and started over again. My speech therapist, Mrs. Baxter, taught me that trick.

  “I’m Gabby McBride, and I like poetry.” Then I thought for a moment and added, “No. I love poetry.”

  The seventh-grade ambassador squinted at me. “Hey, you were the girl on the news this summer. You did that dance thing in the park, right?”

  I nodded. “Yep. We were raising money for Liberty Arts Center.” I laughed. “I guess I should have said that I love poetry and dance.”

  “Well, you’re certainly very good at both of them,” Ms. Tottenham said. “Thank you, Gabby. Aaliyah, why don’t you go next.”

  Aaliyah laced her hands together and looked out at everyone. “I am Aaliyah Reade-Johnson. I like …” She sat up taller in her chair. “I like punctuality.”

  Ms. Tottenham covered her mouth, stifling a smile. So did the other two ambassadors.

  “That’s great,” Ms. Tottenham said, composing herself. “Thank you, Aaliyah.”

  The eighth-grade ambassador, Sondra, went next—she liked playing strategy games. And then the seventh-grade ambassador introduced himself. His name was Bryson, and he liked basketball. I wondered if he ever played with Red and Alejandro.

  “Fabulous,” Ms. Tottenham said. “Now on to ambassador business! I know you’re all eager to get to work carrying out your campaign platforms, but as you know, the other part of your job is to help plan school functions. And our first one is right around the corner.”

  “You mean the Halloween party?” Bryson asked.

  Ms. Tottenham nodded. “I’ll be meeting with Principal Reedy this afternoon to discuss it.” She motioned toward Sondra and Bryson. “You two were here last year. Do you have any suggestions for this year’s party?”

  “I do,” Sondra said. “There’s always plenty of candy. But I bet kids would eat other snacks, too. Maybe popcorn?”

  Aaliyah’s hand shot up. “I helped my mom prepare food for a Halloween party last year. We had pumpkin truffles, and these apple and marshmallow snacks that looked like fangs. And maybe we could even have red punch like blood? Or maybe …” She stopped once she realized everyone was looking at her. “I’m sorry. I really like theme parties, and creative recipes and crafts and stuff. Maybe I should ha
ve said that for my fun fact.”

  I smiled. I had learned last week that Aaliyah’s mom had a catering business and Aaliyah often helped her, but I didn’t know she liked doing crafts. Teagan and I were always making things.

  “Hey, I’m all for creepy Halloween food,” Bryson said. “As long as the snacks aren’t too healthy. It is Halloween, after all.” That made us all laugh.

  “These are all great ideas,” Ms. Tottenham said. “We’ll also need to think about decorations for the gym, and flyers to announce the costume contest.”

  “I could get some of the guys from my homeroom to help with decorations,” Bryson said. He looked at Sondra. “And maybe you could get some eighth graders to help with flyers? Didn’t the eighth graders do that last year?”

  As Ms. Tottenham reviewed how the tasks were split up last year, I couldn’t help but notice that the grades hadn’t worked together at all. The eighth graders handled one thing and the seventh graders another. It sounded like the sixth graders had hardly participated in the planning or even the party itself. Apparently only a handful of sixth graders entered the costume contest. Were they too afraid they’d be teased by the older students?

  Well, I had promised to do something to unify the grades. Maybe now was the time to start.

  I raised my hand. “Yes, Gabriela,” Mrs. Tottenham said.

  “How is the costume c-c-c-contest set up?”

  “The teachers and staff serve as judges. There’s usually a winner for each class as well as an overall winner,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I was w-w-wondering if there was a way to get the classes to work t-t-t-together, in the planning, but also at the party itself? To build community, like I talked about in my speech. Maybe the costume contest could be done in teams or something?”

  “I think Gabby’s on to something,” Aaliyah said. “And so the older kids don’t leave out the sixth graders, every team has to include at least one sixth grader?”

  I nodded and gave Aaliyah a big smile.

  “There’s no way the seventh and eighth graders would go for that,” Bryson said, his voice squeaking as he talked.

  “I think it sounds great,” Sondra said, straightening her glasses. “Maybe it’ll encourage more sixth graders to participate.”

  Ms. Tottenham clapped her hands. “I say we do it. Great idea, Gabby and Aaliyah!”

  Aaliyah sat up at her desk. “And as leaders of the school, we should probably dress up as a group.”

  “I’m in!” Sondra said.

  “Me, too!” I added.

  Bryson didn’t look so sure. But then he sighed. “I guess this is the kind of thing I signed up for when I agreed to be an ambassador, right?” His face became serious. “But I need final veto power over our costume. I’ve got a rep to protect, after all.”

  I rolled my eyes. What was it with seventh graders and their rep?

  “Fantastic!” Ms. Tottenham said with a chuckle. “I’ll take everything to Principal Reedy this afternoon.”

  As Bryson started talking about robot costumes, Ms. Tottenham walked over to me and Aaliyah. “Great job, guys,” she whispered. “You two are going to make excellent ambassadors.”

  “Is it edible?” I asked Isaiah as he placed his school lunch tray down on the table. His chicken enchiladas looked like two lumps of dirt drenched in watery cheese. I had already tried the rice—it was soggy and clumpy.

  “The vegetables are decent,” Isaiah said, popping a green bean into his mouth. “I wonder if they do that on purpose. Make the main dish so horrible that you’re forced to eat the vegetables.” He opened his milk container. “I was looking for you this morning. Where were you?”

  “She was with me.” Aaliyah came up behind me, her lunch tray in her hand. Somehow, her food had been laid out perfectly, just like that perfect bun on top of her head. Maybe the cafeteria workers were afraid to mess up her tray.

  Isaiah slid over to make room for Aaliyah as she said, “So, any thoughts about what we should dress up as?”

  We quickly explained the new rules for the costume contest to Isaiah. “I should find Red,” he said. “He’d be a great partner.”

  “Oooooh! You should dress up as old English playwrights,” I said. “Shakespeare and …” I paused. I didn’t know any other old English playwrights.

  “Or maybe you guys could be poets,” Aaliyah said. “Langston Hughes and Edgar Allan Poe. He wrote scary stuff, didn’t he?”

  “Sure did,” Isaiah said, his eyes widening at the sheer sogginess of his rice or the horror of Edgar Allan Poe. I wasn’t sure which one.

  Aaliyah turned to me. “Think we could get Bryson to dress up as a poet? Would that be okay with his rep?”

  That made me laugh. “It’s going to be impossible to find a costume cool enough for him.”

  “What if we dress up like old-school movie monsters? You know—like Frankenstein or Dracula? Bryson’s so tall, he’d make a super scary werewolf, don’t you think? You—hmm—you could be the Bride of Frankenstein, and Sondra could be a mummy maybe, and then I could be—” She stopped, then shifted in her seat. “Sorry. Like I said, I really like theme parties. I can get a little carried away sometimes, with food and costumes.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. First cooking and crafts, and now costumes. What else was Aaliyah into? “I think it’s a great idea. We should run it by the others to see what they think.”

  “You realize this means you’re going to have to make two costumes,” Isaiah said to me. Teagan must have told him about our social butterfly plan.

  “Wow, two costumes?” Aaliyah said. “We could come up with another idea that’s easier—”

  “It won’t be that big of a deal,” I said, shrugging her off. “Plus, I can get really into making stuff, too.” I turned to Isaiah. “Remember those bracelets Teagan and I made over the summer?”

  Isaiah picked up his last green bean. “Yeah, you’re probably right. If anyone can handle all that, you can.”

  “You bet I can,” I said.

  We spent the rest of lunch daring one another to eat bigger and bigger bites of soggy enchilada.

  “If you’re so into cooking,” Isaiah said, picking up the last of his drooping, drippy food and dangling it in front of Aaliyah, “how about you help the cafeteria make these look more appetizing?”

  “I’ve got skills, but I’m not a miracle worker,” Aaliyah said. She laughed. “But one day, I’ll make you guys my mom’s specialty. She’s the Queen of Chicken Verde Enchiladas.”

  “So …” I said, grinning. “Does that make you the Princess of Enchiladas?”

  “Princess?” Aaliyah crossed her arms and pretended to think hard. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

  As Isaiah laughed, I stood up from the table and bowed toward Aaliyah. “Your Highness, it has been a pleasure to dine with you this afternoon.”

  “A pleasure indeed,” Aaliyah answered, with a regal nod of her head.

  “Well, then,” Isaiah said, standing up, too. “We shall dine together on the morrow, my ladies. Until then, I bid you farewell. Adieu!”

  Aaliyah and I dissolved into giggles as Isaiah strutted off like a prince—or maybe a jester—in the Enchilada Court.

  Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

  I groaned as I fumbled through the dark, searching for my phone. It took a second, but I finally silenced the alarm.

  I couldn’t believe I was waking up.

  At five o’clock in the morning.

  For the third day in a row.

  These past two weeks had gone by in a hazy, blinding blur. The preparations for what we were calling the ScareFest were going great, but they were a lot more work than expected. Even with the extra classmates we recruited, there was still so much work to be done. I had hardly started my Bride of Frankenstein costume, or even figured out how I was going to make my butterfly wings, and Halloween was only a week and a half away.

  But this morning wasn’t about either of those. This morning was abou
t revising the duet poem, because in just three days, the poetry group was having our very own mock poetry slam. (Red was letting me call it the “Liberty Bells Battle” even though we still hadn’t officially decided on a team name.) This afternoon’s poetry meeting was our last chance to finish our poems before memorizing them over the weekend, so if I wanted to make changes, I had to make them now. My “Dream Big” poem was in good shape, but the duet wasn’t ready for battle. Not yet.

  About forty-five minutes and approximately seventy-five yawns later, I had some new lines for the duet. Maya hopped down from my bed just as I closed my notebook.

  “Happy Friday, sleepyhead,” I said, rubbing her behind her ears.

  She purred for a few moments as if to say “I could do this all day,” but seemed to change her mind a second later. She jumped over to my furry chair, curled herself up, and went right back to sleep.

  If only I could be so lucky.

  “Okay, guys!” Red said at the beginning of poetry that afternoon. “I’ve got some news.”

  “You fixed your three-point shot?” Alejandro asked.

  “No, I—”

  “I knew it, man!” Alejandro laughed. “Your three-point shot is hopeless!”

  Red just shook his head. “I meant, our Voices registration is due tomorrow. We need a team name.” Red frowned at me. “And before you start—no Liberty Bells.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that!” I said. “Well … I probably wasn’t going to say that.”

  Bria cleared her throat. “I’ve got some ideas.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail, then opened her notebook. “How about: Liberty Bards, Liberty Chime Rhymers, Liberty Beatniks, ’Verse of the Free, Land of the Free Verse, Haiku-nauts—”

  “Hold up! Back that bus up one stop,” Red said. “Land of the Free Verse. I like the sound of that.” He closed his eyes and began nodding to himself. “Land of the Free Verse, home of the poetic. Where masters of consonance and connotation are better than any crew in the entire nation.” He opened his eyes and grinned at us. “What do you guys think?”

  Teagan raised her hand. “Um, that was kind of long. Can we stick with the short version?”