Sage returns to earth with a grin. “Don’t hate.”
I giggle and scoot back. “I’m finished with this salad. It’s horrible. If I don’t see you after school, I’ll try to call you tonight. But remember, it’s a major weekend at my house.”
Sage stabs her fork into the last few pieces of lettuce in my bowl. “I was going to talk to you about that before the Pink Chips walked up. Is your aunt Carmen still coming in tonight?”
I smile and pick up my tray. “Yeah. I’m excited! Anyway, talk with you later.”
I walk out of the cafeteria and lose the smile I gave to Sage. I love Aunt Carmen, but my parents haven’t even left yet, and I already miss them.
Chapter Three
After lunch, I head to the office, since I’m the helper during fifth period. Mrs. Wallace, our principal’s assistant, smiles on her way to the fax machine. “Your mom’s been faxing stuff to us all day about leaving for military duty and emergency contact information. Does she still teach science at the community college?”
I nod and look out the window.
This Sunday afternoon, my parents leave for Killeen, Texas. They’re in the Army Reserve and got official papers to report for training exercises at Fort Hood. They’ll be gone two whole weeks, and Killeen is a long drive from here.
I take in a big breath of office air, then slowly give it back. Even though I’m bummed, I can’t help but think about last night at the dinner table, when Dad tossed me a baseball ticket. I thought it was for another college game. But I was wrong.
“The Houston Astros? Are you taking me to the season opener on Sunday?”
He winked. “Kind of a going-away gift from me and your mom.”
Remembering that makes me smile, and when the bell rings, I snap out of my daydream and leave the front office. History is my last class of the day, but I’ve got my reasons for being early. Even though the late bell won’t ring for another three minutes, I’m already seated and watching the door. There’s no one else in the room right now, and that’s how I like it. But any minute, that’s going to change.
While I wait, I reach inside my backpack and unwrap a mini Almond Joy so when I’m ready for a snack, the crackly paper won’t get me busted. Do I have time to check my lip gloss?
Uh-oh. I don’t. There he is.
I tug at my blouse to make sure it hasn’t risen on me and crack a smile.
“Hey, Troy.”
He nods but doesn’t look my way. “Hey.”
Just the sound of his voice makes me squirm, as if I didn’t know I wasn’t comfortable until he spoke to me. Sweet Mother of Milk Chocolate Hunky Chunkies, that boy is ultra fine. And he’s sportin’ dimples shaped like half-moons, deep enough for me to climb inside and ride all the way to the mall! He’s the only reason I’m early to history class, because when it comes to looking at Troy, there’s no difference between him and my cell phone: I want all my minutes.
Soon, the late bell rings just as Sunny rushes in and takes her seat next to Troy. Mrs. Jacobs walks in and closes the door. With Sunny in the way, I no longer have a clear view of my hunky chunky. So I ease my bottom to the left until I only have one butt cheek on the chair. Now, if I lean to the right, move my head just a little, slump, and rotate . . . wait . . . there he is. I’m all twisted up, but I don’t care. As I fidget, my stomach makes funny but familiar noises.
Goink . . . gurgle . . . oygoygoy.
It’s like a built-in alarm clock. Even though I just had lunch two periods ago, when my belly bell goes off, it can only mean one thing—snack time. I straighten up and scan the room just to see how close Mrs. Jacobs is to my desk. She’s walking and talking about slaves and that slave ship called the Amistad. But my classmates are texting, passing notes, or already asleep.
Wait. That’s perfect! No one’s paying attention! I reach into my open backpack, slide a piece of already-unwrapped Almond Joy between my lips, and take the tiniest, ladylike bite like I’ve seen those models do. Mmmm.
My eyelids slowly close as the coconut and chocolate melt down the sides of my tongue like lava from a sugar volcano. Suddenly, Mrs. Jacobs holds up a stack of handouts.
“Take one and pass the rest to the person behind you, por favor.”
Even though this is history class, I like it when Mrs. Jacobs mixes things up and speaks Spanish. Just being in her class has taught me a few Spanish words, like por favor means “please” and gracias means “thank you” and magnifico means “magnificent” or “awesome.”
I take the handout and count three pages. On the first page, there are pencil drawings of human head silhouettes. They’re not that good. I can’t even tell if they’re men or women. Mrs. Jacobs continues up and down the aisles as she talks.
“We’ve read about the amazing story of the Amistad, but here’s a closer look at all thirty-six captives aboard the ship. We’re not going to study them all—only four very special ones.”
I wait for her to look my way, because I think we’ve studied this slave stuff long enough and it’s time to drop the anchor on this Amistad ship. So when she looks my way, I slowly roll my eyes down to look at the handout and then back at her. To me, I’ve sent a clear message, but I wonder if Mrs. Jacobs understands the language of Look. If she does, that would make her trilingual with English, Spanish, and Eye-ish. I’m glaring at her, but I guess she’s not fluent, because she breaks our eye contact and flips a few pages before telling us what to do.
“Please turn to the last page and read the descriptions for captives numbered thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, and thirty-six. They’re all under the age of ten. I’ll give you a moment and then we’ll discuss them.”
I flip the pages and my finger roams down to number thirty-three:
33. Kali: A small boy, stolen by slave traders while in the streets. He had parents, a brother, and a sister;
34. Teme: A young girl taken by slave traders in the middle of the night. Father killed. Had not seen her mother or sisters since that night;
35. Kagne: A little girl who was given to slave traders by her father to pay back a debt he owed; and
36. Margru: A small girl who was sold into slavery to pay a debt.
My brain keeps trying to shove what I just read into a “not true” folder. These four kids were under the age of ten? That means they were still in elementary school. I have to read each description twice because I keep seeing little clips of what I think happened come to life in my head. I sit very still at my desk, as if hiding like I think they tried to do.
There’s crazy heat warming the inside of my stomach. I’m not hungry, and I don’t feel sick. But something’s definitely trying to get my attention. Maybe it’s my “knower.”
That’s what Mom calls my internal right/wrong meter. She says my knower is something God gave to all girls. It works like a sixth sense and gets better, stronger, and smarter as we become women.
Just as I look up to see if anybody else is having a hard time with these stories, my eyes meet Mrs. Jacobs’s. And for the first time, I think maybe she does understand Eye-ish, especially after she says what I’m thinking.
“Yes. These stories are true. Can you imagine yourself in their place?”
I grab one of my pigtails and twist the ends. My answer is heck to the tenth power of no. I would have been the worst slave ever, because it looks like hair perms and skin lotion hadn’t been invented yet. That equals ashy, nappy, and unhappy all in the same day.
Plus I don’t get how a whole continent of people let a ship full of wimps capture them, beat them, shackle up their hands and feet, and treat them like wild animals. Just the thought makes me mad. I know somewhere down the line, in my own ancestry, somebody went through this exact same torture as a slave.
I bet if Mrs. Jacobs asked every student in this room about their family history, most of them would claim they came from some royal bloodline like George Washington or King Henry. But what can I say? My peeps were probably owned by my classmates’ ancestors. I k
now for a fact that some of my kinfolk were slaves, because my grandma’s still got the shack they lived in sittin’ on her farm.
And she treats that ugly shack like it’s the White House. She’s even got a flower bed in front of it. To me, that’s as dumb as a cotton candy machine in a dentist’s office.
Everything about slavery was ugly and awful. I bet if I went inside that shack—which I won’t—and closed my eyes, I could hear the screams of my dead relatives. I can’t imagine the terrible things that went on inside of that thing. And I’m mad at my family for keeping something so evil and embarrassing as a slave shack. It’s like having a torture chamber on display and being proud of it.
I’m deep in family shack-shame when Mrs. Jacobs starts babbling again. “After the Amistad docked in America, Kali, Teme, Kagne, and Margru were almost sold into slavery, but a tremendous act of love saved them. We’ll talk more about that later.” Mrs. Jacobs rolls her handout into a scroll and points it at us. “Who was the leader in the Amistad revolt?”
Troy’s hand shoots up and startles me. “Joseph Cinque!”
Mrs. Jacobs nods. “Correct.”
Troy’s such a history junkie. He’s always turning his papers in early and doing extra credit. But my Hunky Chunky can’t help it if he’s got a thing for yesterday’s news.
Mrs. Jacobs fires off another question. “What was the role of the sixth president of the United States, John Quincy Adams, in the Amistad case?”
I ease my butt to the left again, lean, slump, and rotate, just so I can check on Troy. He’s looking at baseball cards, just like he does every day at this time. Since he made the baseball team, I’m thinking about going to a game or two. I bet he looks All-Star awesome in his uniform. And knowing he loves baseball just makes me crush on him even more.
I can imagine us dressed in matching baseball uniforms, because our skills are just that good, getting ready to take the field for our hometown team. But then, Troy gets on one knee and in front of the umpires and everyone begs me to be his girl. I’ll hold my glove close to my heart as he says those magic words:
“Laura Dyson, it would be my honor to carry you inside my dimple and be your Hunky Chunky from now until forever.”
“Laura?”
I’d climb inside his dimple and wave like a princess as we take the field to play a game.
“Earth to Laura Dyson!”
And just before I step out of his face, he’ll check the pitcher’s mound to make sure there aren’t any spiders or bugs crawling around to bother me as I pitch.
“LAURA!”
“Huh?”
I tumble out of Troy’s dimple and crash back into my history class desk. Mrs. Jacobs looks over the top of her glasses at me.
“Answer the question, please.”
I’m a bit lost. “Sure, Mrs. Jacobs, could you repeat it?”
“It’s the same question I’ve been asking for the last two minutes.”
Troy’s hand is waving like crazy, but I guess Mrs. Jacobs is tired of calling on him. Then Sunny whispers, “Larda’s so fat, she was probably daydreaming about an all-you-can-eat buffet,” loud enough for me to hear. My classmates giggle, but I ignore them.
Mrs. Jacobs is waiting for an answer, and I’m not positively, no-doubt sure of the question. My heart’s beating double time, so I sigh and let it fly.
“Wasn’t he, like, a lawyer? I mean seriously, who wasn’t a lawyer back then?”
Mrs. Jacobs chuckles. “Sometimes I wonder that exact same thing. Gracias, Laura. Thank you!”
I stare at my desk, wishing the bell would ring. If this day goes any slower, it will be yesterday again. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s . . . RRRRRRRING!
Books close, seats empty, and soon the hallway fills with a herd of students all moving in the same direction toward their rides home. I inch my way toward the door, and at the first opening in the crowd I merge into traffic.
Finally! The weekend is here! Tomorrow, I’ll spend the day with my parents and Aunt Carmen doing something awesome. And then Dad’s taking me to the Astros’ season opener on Sunday before he and Mom hit the road. I can’t wait.
This weekend’s got magnifico written all over it.
Chapter Four
I slap a smile on my face and open the front door. I’m about to yell, “I’m home!” when I notice Dad standing in the living room. He’s wearing his college baseball jersey, and that’s our private code that he wants to go into the backyard and throw the baseball.
I point to my bedroom. “I’ll get my glove and meet you outside.”
I rush to my room, put on a pair of black sweats, and grab my glove. In less than five minutes, I’m opening the patio door.
“Where’s Mom?”
Dad reaches into a bucket and grabs a bright white baseball with RAWLINGS written on the top and two sets of tight red laces stitched around the seams. There’s a stamp in the center that reads OFFICIAL MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL, with the signature of the baseball commissioner right underneath it. Dad says if the ball doesn’t have all that stuff on it, it ain’t worth throwing.
“Your mom’s in the study making calls, sending faxes. You know how she gets.”
I frown. “She’s still faxing? I know she faxed a bunch of stuff to the office at school. I was there when it came in.”
Dad’s eyes zoom into mine. “Then you already know?”
I shrug. “Know what?”
His smile is weak. “Let’s just throw soft pitches right now. We both need to warm up.”
My knower’s stirring, making me focus on everything about Dad. His walk has dread in it, as if he’s got something heavy weighing him down. I grind my fist into the palm of my glove, ready to help him any way I can. Soon he’ll toss the ball and tell me what’s on his mind. That’s how he gets things off his chest. He catches. I pitch. He talks. I listen. Problems get solved.
That’s how we roll.
Dad squats in a catcher’s position and arcs the ball to me. “We may be here awhile.”
I toss it back. We play this game of silent soft toss until I’m sick of it.
“Okay, Dad, we’ve warmed up enough. What do you want me to throw?”
He opens his glove. “Throw me a curveball, because that’s what I’m about to throw you.”
I tilt my head and stare at him. “What does that mean?”
“Just throw the curveball, Laura.”
So I do. He catches it and stuns me. “Carmen’s not coming. Throw another curveball.”
He arcs the ball to me again. I squeeze it in my hand and try to digest what Dad’s saying. With two fingers around the laces, I wind up and throw what he wants, then shrug.
“Okay. Do we have to go pick her up?”
Dad rubs his thumb across the ball. “No. Carmen’s not coming at all because she’s getting married tomorrow. Throw a changeup.”
My brain locks. “What are you talking about?”
Dad shakes his head. “We’ve had to make other plans. Let me see that changeup.”
I glare at the ball. Throw a changeup? Aunt Carmen bailing on me is the worst changeup ever. And the more I think about it, the tighter I squeeze the ball.
“Isn’t this like . . . her twentieth marriage or something? Okay, I know that’s not true, but why can’t she get married next month? I thought you talked to her about this weeks ago?”
Dad nods. “I did. But this new guy in her life proposed yesterday. He’s taking her to the Little Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas and they’re getting married tonight. Carmen said he’s paying for everything, including the honeymoon suite at the Bellagio. She sends her apologies to you, but she said she knew you’d understand.”
I don’t understand. I swipe my hand over my face, hoping to rub away the anger, but it won’t go.
“Throw the changeup, Laura.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
Mom slides open the patio door, and our eyes meet. “Hi, Laura. I guess you heard the news.” She s
teps outside and slides the door closed. “Let’s sit at the patio table.”
I can feel Dad watching us as he walks to the table. Mom gives me a big hug, then retells what I already know about Aunt Carmen. I listen, but I save the most important question for last.
“Then who’s coming to stay with me?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look before Mom puts her hand on top of mine. I’m waiting for an answer, but they take too long. So I give a possibility of my own.
“I could stay with the Baxters. I’m always over at Sage’s house, spending the night or hanging out. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter treat me like I’m their other daughter.”
Mom rubs my hand. “That’s a really good option, Laura, but they’re not on the list of caregivers that we gave to the military.”
I shrug. “Who is?”
Mom lifts her hand off mine and holds up one finger. “Well, there’s Carmen.”
I’m waiting for finger number two to rise, but instead, Mom puts her hand back on mine as the edges of her eyes droop.
“The other is your grandma.”
There’s a numbness working its way up from my toes. “What does that mean?”
Now Dad’s looking at Mom as she clears her throat.
“I called my commanding officer and tried to add other relatives, but it’s too late. I tried, Laura, but you’ll be living with your grandma out on the farm until we get back.”
The numbness speeds up my legs and shuts down my whole body. I can’t move. My jaws lock. My eyes won’t blink. There’s got to be a mistake somewhere, and as soon as I un-numb, maybe I can help figure it out. But until then, I manage one word.
“No.”
Mom keeps talking. “Look, I know how you feel about the farm.”
I pull my hand away from hers. “I can’t . . . you don’t understand.”
Mom keeps talking. “I do understand, Laura. I know how much you hate going out there, but we don’t have a choice. We had to make a last-minute substitution with absolutely no time to change the caregiver sheet we gave to our superiors.”
I’m curling my fingers inside my glove. “I hate it out there, Mom. Come on—there has to be someone else who could stay with me.”
The Laura Line Page 2