Gabriela (American Girl

by Teresa E. Harris

  Behind me, Daddy and Teagan’s video began, and faces filled the screen—snapshots of Liberty regulars throughout the years. They layered on top of one another, a collage of the many characters that made up the story of Liberty. I went on:

  “Liberty has people like no other

  Like Mr. Harmon,

  Who can name any color

  And Stan, who, no matter what,

  Always smiles

  And Alejandro,

  Whose laugh is so loud,

  You can hear it for miles and miles.”

  Behind us, the faces on the screen disappeared and some music began to softly play. New photos came on—candid shots from rehearsals and art classes in the Liberty building. Teagan had added some original animation, too. A silhouette gracefully danced across the screen, and paint splatters began to appear around the edges. I resisted the temptation to turn around and look at it myself. For these next verses, Alejandro, Teagan, and Isaiah each spoke a phrase between my lines:

  “Metal triangles tap on the floor.”

  “STOMP-shuffle-STOMP-shuffle-tip-tip-tap.”

  “While paint hits canvas.”

  “Swisssh. Dab. Blot. Repeat.”

  “And ballerinas warm up at the barre.”

  “Plié-two-three-four, and port de bras, ladies! Port de bras!”

  Some of the parents in the audience laughed on that one. Bria’s impersonation of Amelia was pretty dead on.

  The music picked up in volume a little bit as the video transitioned again. Images from this summer began flying across the screen—the rally and mural painting, rehearsals in the rec room, a few snapshots from the park performance. The tap dancers filed in between us and began to tap softly on the floor, the sound of their taps punctuating our words. Red started these lines off, and one of us joined in on each couplet until we were all speaking together.

  “We lost our building

  But not our spirit

  We live for this place

  And let the city hear it”

  (There were some whoops and hollers from the audience after that one.)

  “We shouted, we painted

  We danced, we screamed

  Our community rallied

  We fought, we dreamed

  We did what was needed

  There was never a choice

  We used our bonds

  We raised our voice

  We did all this

  Without giving pause

  We did all this

  And more because …”

  This was my favorite part. The lights had slowly faded during the previous lines and in the darkness, a few more people snuck onstage. Then a spotlight found one of the senior dancers and the video clip of her Because statement came on the screen. As her words were said on the video, she lifted her arms up and spun in a quick circle, a big smile on her face.

  “Because dancing brings me joy.”

  Then the spotlight landed on Bria. She spoke out loud right along with her video.

  “Because poetry group makes my heart sing.”

  Now the light found Mrs. Blake. She simply turned and looked up at the video where some of her artwork swirled onto the screen over the audio of her statement.

  “Because art class is my favorite hour of the week.”

  And it continued like that, each person in turn “speaking” their statements, through taps, through pirouettes, through words, through art.

  I had recorded one more Because statement and stood in the dark, waiting for my turn. The tappers had stopped onstage but not in my chest. Red, Isaiah, two kids from tap, Alejandro, three more dancers, and then me. I hoped I would get through my line without stuttering, but steadied myself in case I didn’t.

  When I felt the spotlight’s heat on my face, I took a step forward and looked straight out at the sea of people in front of me.

  “Because Liberty is where I found my voice.”

  And that was the cue—the stage lights came back up and everyone onstage began to speak at intervals, our voices overlapping like the colors in a kaleidoscope. As we talked, we made our way into one line across the front of the stage.

  “Liberty is a place I call home.”

  “It’s full of family. I never feel alone.”

  “The door’s always open.”

  “It’s a place I can grow in.”

  “Thank you, Liberty, for being patient with me,” Bria said.

  “For listening,” Alejandro called out.

  “For helping me get out of my comfort zone,” said a senior dancer.

  “For challenging me.”

  “For saying my art, and me, are beautiful.”

  “For not giving up on us.”

  “Thank you, Liberty, for being our network and our strength,” I said loudly, as the image behind us turned to one of hands linked together, superimposed over Mr. Harmon’s mural. We moved closer together, now a large clump of people in the middle of the stage. Everyone said the final lines in unison.

  “Liberty is more than just a center

  It’s us, it’s me, it’s the heart of all who enter

  It’s where our art and selves are free

  So from the bottom of our hearts

  THANK YOU, LIBERTY!”

  And as we hit the last syllable, “You Can’t Stop the Beat” burst through the sound system. We broke into the final chorus of the flash mob dance, more people rushing from backstage to join in. In front of us, the audience jumped to their feet. Halfway through the chorus, I realized I was singing out loud. I sang louder.

  As the last line of the song approached, my heart gave a little squeeze. I had never felt so alive, but this would be over in a moment. I soaked it up for all it was worth.

  Right, left, cross-your-feet. Spin-to-unwind, and … STOMP!

  There was a muffled poof, followed by a huge cloud of thick, white fog. We had to move fast. The image behind us faded into one of Liberty, lights on, in all its glory.

  By the time the fog cleared, the entire Liberty community stood onstage. Row after row of people standing together, arms linked.

  “Thank you, Liberty!” we shouted.

  You could’ve heard us—and the audience’s standing ovation—from miles and miles away.

  A few weeks after Rhythm and Views, Liberty reopened and classes started up again.

  I stood in the lobby of the building with Red and Teagan before our first poetry meeting since we’d returned. “Being back feels kind of like—”

  I groped around for the word and when I couldn’t grasp it, I looked to Teagan and Red. Neither of them could put the feeling in words, either.

  Mama had asked the three of us to arrive for our meeting twenty minutes early to help her set up something else in one of the studios. She came out of the center office with a strange look on her face. The first official day back did feel kind of weird.

  “Let’s go, kiddos,” Mama said, and led us down the hallway. I hadn’t been down this wing of studios yet since Liberty reopened. The fancy molding along the ceiling and doorways had been repainted a bright white, like clouds against the sunset of the red wall. I ran my fingers over the wood as we stepped inside studio five.

  “SURPRISE!”

  Studio five was full to bursting with people. Mama, Daddy, Mr. Harmon. Amelia was there, and Stan, too, as well as Ms. Santos. Bria, Isaiah, and Alejandro waved from one corner. Balloons were everywhere and there was a table laid out with snacks, drinks, and, best of all, brick-oven pizza from Antonio’s.

  “We wanted to throw a party in your honor to thank you three for all that you’ve done for Liberty,” Mama explained, throwing her arms around Red, Teagan, and me. “So, I’ll start. Teagan, thank you for all your help with the video at the show. That really touched me.”

  “Thank you for letting me dance in the park performance, Gabby,” Stan chimed in. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “Red, thanks for videotaping the Because statements at the rally,” Mr
. Harmon said.

  And on it went, each person in the room thanking the three of us for something, until at last Mama spoke again, this time directly to me. “Gabby, thank you for being not just an amazing poet and a performer, but for being a leader, too. We are so proud of you.”

  The happy tears that had been building up inside since the day of the park performance finally came out. I gave Mama a big hug, and Daddy one, too. He handed me a tissue.

  “Okay, let’s eat,” Mama said quickly. “Mr. Harmon, will you get the plates?”

  As Red, Teagan, and I sat down to eat at the center of a long table, Mama joined us. “You know,” she said, pulling two pieces of pizza apart. “I hope all this isn’t going to your heads.”

  “Not at all,” Red replied. “I’m not gonna start charging for autographs. Yet.”

  We laughed, Mama the loudest. “Provided you all can maintain your modesty, I’d like to tell you that you and the rest of your poetry group are kind of famous.”

  “Really? How?” Teagan asked around a mouthful of pizza. Bria, Alejandro, and Isaiah perked up, too.

  “I’ve gotten some requests for ‘those poetry kids’ to perform at some other events in the city. I told them you all aren’t really doing tours just yet, but maybe it’s time to form an official spoken word group. What do you think?”

  Red jumped up, almost knocking over his cup of fruit punch. “I think I’m in!”

  “Me, too!” said Teagan. Alejandro and Bria nodded yes. Isaiah said, “Me three. Or Five. Whatever.”

  “But we start middle school next year,” I said. I was more nervous about that than I wanted to admit. This summer had been so amazing; I didn’t want it to end. “And I’ll have Junior Company rehearsals. And then extra poetry meetings, too?”

  “It will be a load, that’s for sure,” Mama agreed. “But think about it, Gabby. Without the poetry group, you never would have found your voice.”

  “And maybe it’s time to take that voice out into the world,” Red said. “Where everyone can hear.”

  Maybe it was.

  Teresa E. Harris earned her bachelor’s degree in English from Columbia University and an MFA in Writing for Children from Vermont College, where she won numerous awards, including the Flying Pig Grade-A, Number-One Ham Humor Award. She is the author of the picture book Summer Jackson: Grown Up and the middle grade novel The Perfect Place, which was selected as one of Bank Street’s Best Children’s Books of the Year in 2015. Teresa is a high school English teacher in New Jersey, where she lives with three very bossy cats. She spends most of her time grading papers, writing novels, and wishing she could dance like Gabby.

  With gratitude to Leana Barbosa, M.S. CCC-SLP, for contributing her knowledge of speech therapies and language pathology; to Fatima Goss Graves, Senior Vice President for Program, National Women’s Law Center, for her insights into the experiences and perspectives of modern African American children; and Sofia Snow, program director at Urban Word NYC, for guiding Gabriela’s poetic journey.

  American Girl would also like to give a special shout out to Urban Word NYC First Draft Open Mic for inspiring the “First draft!” tradition for Gabriela’s poetry group in this book.

  Request a FREE catalog at

  americangirl.com/catalog

  Sign up at americangirl.com/email

  to receive the latest news and exclusive offers

  Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by American Girl or Scholastic Inc.

  Cover photos ©: Getty Images: window (Nisian Hughes), floor (RapidEye); Shutterstock, Inc./FreshPaint: brick wall

  Book design by Angela Jun

  © 2017 American Girl. All rights reserved. All American Girl marks, Gabriela™, Gabriela McBride™, and Girl of the Year™ are trademarks of American Girl. Used under license by Scholastic Inc.

  First printing 2017

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-15221-0

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.