Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  “Good girl,” he replied, turning away, and I wanted to shoot him in the back of the head with a rubber band. Pop. Right on the bald spot. “Good girl,” indeed.

  I realized it was lunchtime, and I hadn’t seen Dell Jordan or done anything about gathering some tutoring materials for her. With only two weeks left in the nine-week grading period, there was no time to waste.

  Hurrying down the hall to the book storage room, I pulled together a set of seventh-grade teacher’s guides, then headed for the cafeteria, where I stood surveying the serving lines until finally I concluded that Dell wasn’t there. Since she hadn’t been reported absent for the day, she was somewhere in the school. I had an inkling of where that might be. Leaving the chaos of the lunchroom behind, I walked around the corner to the instrumental music hall.

  Memories assaulted me as I crossed the room. The ballet studios were nearby, rooms similar to this one. I could picture them, with their high arched windows, tall pressed-tin ceilings, and yawning wood floors. Closing my eyes, I drank in the scent, the feeling of being there again. Outside in the courtyard, the metal clips on the U.S. flag slapped against the pole—ping, ping, ping—and my mind raced back through the years, until I was a sixth-grade girl, standing still and silent, in the moments before the music began, listening to the flag beat against the pole, protesting its imprisonment, knowing that in a moment, the music would carry me away, and I wouldn’t think about anything.

  Every fiber of my body ached as I relived the anticipation of the dance. It was like remembering air, or water, or light, and realizing there was no more. There wouldn’t be. Ever.

  There’s a time to every purpose, Sister Margaret had said as I gazed out the hospital window and wept because my ballet career was over. Sister Margaret read patiently from Ecclesiastes, or quoted it from memory, I wasn’t sure, because I couldn’t look at her.

  … . a time to break down and a time to build up;

  a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

  a time to embrace …

  a time to end …

  … a time of peace …

  He hath made every thing beautiful in his time …

  … . there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good

  in his life …

  She filled the room with words while I lay silent, wondering what possible good there could be in my life, ever again… .

  The sound of a door closing somewhere in the hallway snapped me back to reality, and I opened my eyes, half expecting to find myself back in the hospital room with Sister Margaret.

  Crossing the music hall with her voice still in my head, I quietly opened the storage closet door. Dell was sitting on the floor in the window light, a sack lunch spread out around her, her body curled over the pages of a book—alone, except for the ladybugs, and the dust, and dozens of decaying instruments stacked high on shelves. Around the walls, dance bars testified to the fact that, at some time, the room had been a practice studio.

  Dell jerked upright as I entered. Eyes wide, she searched my face with a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation, wondering, no doubt, what I would say.

  Stepping into the room, I closed the door behind me, and she stiffened.

  “Studying?” I asked, and she sagged against her knees.

  She held up The Grapes of Wrath, so that I could see the cover, then set it on the floor again, propping the book open with her slim brown feet. “We have a test on the first three chapters tomorrow morning. I read it, but Mrs. Morris always asks weird questions, and I get confused.”

  “Ah, the infamous Mrs. Morris literature tests.” I realized I’d almost said Mrs. Bore-us, because that’s what we used to call her. Mrs. Morris could make anything boring. It was her specialty.

  Setting my stack of teacher’s editions on a shelf, I stood reading over Dell’s shoulder. “What don’t you understand?”

  “Everything.” She clamped her hands to her head, circling her hair with her long, slim fingers and digging in. “I’m not any good at reading. I can read the words, but it takes me forever, and I don’t get it, you know?”

  Hiking up my straight, dark skirt, I lowered myself to the floor beside her. She blinked in surprise, and I groaned. “I’m not dressed for this.” Mental note—tomorrow, wear pants. Not black. Something dust-colored. “So, let’s see the book.”

  Happily, she handed it over, cocking her head sideways and regarding me with a bemused smile that said, Are we really going to sit on the floor in the storage closet and read my literature book?

  I tried to act as if it were perfectly normal. After the chaos of the morning, it felt good to be in a place that was quiet, disturbed only by divided shafts of sunlight and dust dancers.

  “So, let’s see… .” Flipping back to the first page, I scanned the words, searching my memory banks for The Grapes of Wrath. Maybe I could get the Cliff’s Notes version.

  Dell reached for her lunch sack. “Want something to eat? Karen always packs me a ton, in case I want a snack after school, before we go to Jumpkids.”

  The scent of Cheetos wafted up, and my stomach rumbled with surprising enthusiasm. Normally at lunchtime, the overwhelming smell of the cafeteria’s mystery meat turned me off to the point that I was lucky if I could force down a few bites of salad. Here in the storage closet, Cheetos and Chips Ahoy! smelled good. “Sure. You know what? I am hungry,” I admitted, and Dell produced another bag of chips, three cookies, and an apple juice box from the sack, then picked up her peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich and tore it in half.

  “Now the thing about reading,” I said, savoring a Cheeto, which at the moment tasted like heaven, “is that it’s not about remembering the words. It’s all about letting them paint a picture in your mind. Like you’re living in the story …”

  Chapter 11

  The passages of Steinbeck’s novel transported us from the storage room at Harrington to the sunbaked prairies of dust bowl-era Oklahoma. We traveled parched dirt roads with young Tom Joad, newly released from prison, trying to find his way home to the family farm, only to learn that drought and the Depression had changed the country in his absence. All the familiar reference points were gone, and home was no longer a safe haven. In a world that seemed foreign, difficult to understand, with obstacles impossible to surmount, he was struggling to find his way.

  I wondered if Dell saw the similarity to her own situation. Resting her head on her knees, she stared out the window as I read. Finally, she closed her eyes and breathed in, as if she were picturing the images.

  “I don’t see what the turtle crossing the road has to do with anything,” she said when I finished the third chapter—one of Steinbeck’s famous lyrical vignettes.

  I was tempted to admit that I’d long suspected the vignettes were put there just to baffle literature students. “The turtle is a metaphor.” Now that we were into the story, I could remember sitting in Mrs. Morris’s class all those years ago, half listening as her discussion of Steinbeck’s turtle went right over my head. My grandmother had reread the chapters with me every night, explaining the symbolism and adding our family’s own Depression-era stories, to get me through the arduous weeks of The Grapes of Wrath. “It represents the struggle of the poor farmers during that time period.”

  Dell squinted sideways at me. “Why doesn’t he just talk about farmers, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’d be easier.” I chuckled as she picked up the book and flipped through the last few pages. “Why does the one driver go around the turtle, and then the other one tries to run it over?”

  “Why do you think—considering the story, what do you think that might represent?”

  Contemplating the question momentarily, she flicked the pages of the book with a fingertip, then shrugged. “I dunno. I’m not good with this kind of stuff. Every time Mrs. Morris asks me, I get it
wrong. If I was gonna—going to—write a book about farmers, I’d write about farmers, not turtles, you know?”

  “Me too,” I conceded. “But take a guess at Steinbeck’s meaning here. It doesn’t matter if you get it wrong. It’s just the two of us. If you had to guess, what do the drivers represent?”

  “Maybe other people?”

  “All right, what about other people?”

  “Some of them just kind of ignore people, and some of them do mean things to them, because they’re poor.”

  “Good analysis,” I commented, and she sat back, surprised.

  “Really?”

  “Really. The turtle on the road is thought to represent all of those things—the difficulty the characters are going to face, the drought, problems with other people like the land barons who are forcing them off their farms, and so on. Not so hard to understand, right?” Not so far, but who knew how long my remembered middle school literature knowledge would hold out? “You’re good at this, even if it is about turtles.”

  “I like the way you read it.” She brushed off my compliment. “It’s easier just to listen; then I can see the story.”

  “Well, don’t get too used to it,” I said. Her look of disappointment surprised me. “I did the reading today so that we could get through as much as possible before your quiz, but tomorrow we’re going to sit and read it together.”

  Her lip curled plaintively, showing a distinct lack of enthusiasm for anything that involved more than passive listening. “How are we gonna do that?”

  “You’re going to read and I’m going to read at the same time.” Neurological impress method—I’d studied it in some long ago education course. Who knew all of that was somewhere in my memory banks along with The Grapes of Wrath?

  Her nose wrinkled in obvious distaste. “Out loud?” she asked, and I nodded. “At the same time?” Her expression added, Lady, are you nuts?

  “Sure.” I gave an encouraging nod. “That makes the words easier. When you look at them, and hear them, and say them, it helps store the information in your brain. Besides, it’s fun.”

  Clearly, she wasn’t buying my merry-sunshine act. “ ’Kay …” she muttered reluctantly. “But I don’t read fast like you.”

  “That’s all right.” Poor readers were typically resistant to reading in front of people. No doubt Dell was afraid I’d snarl and look down my long, pointy nose, like Mrs. Morris. “When we don’t have so much to read all at once, we can slow down and enjoy the story.” If it was possible to enjoy The Grapes of Wrath.

  Gathering her books and the lunch leftovers, Dell stood up. “I like the part about the Joads,” she admitted. “It doesn’t have as many big words as some of the other chapters.” Holding the sack open so that I could stuff in my Cheetos bag and used-up juice box, she added, “That’s probably why Mrs. Morris doesn’t like those parts.”

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “Could be.”

  “Mrs. Morris is, like, the worst teacher I ever had. She hates me. That’s why I don’t do good in her class.”

  Pretending to be occupied with getting to my feet, I pondered what to say. Yes, you’re right—she’s a lousy teacher. She always has been. She doesn’t like children, and she doesn’t like you. Probably not the most professional response. On the other hand, it was ludicrous to deny it. Dell would think I was yet another Harrington staff member espousing the party line, and some amount of trust between us would be lost. “That may or may not be so,” I said finally, dusting my skirt. “But it isn’t Mrs. Morris who’s going to fail the class. It’s you. Your education is your responsibility.” An artistic director had said that to me once. “Your performance is your responsibility.” “If you can’t get what you need from the teacher, you have to figure out where else you’re going to get it. There are people willing to help you here and, I suspect, at home, as well.”

  Her face went pale, and she stopped halfway through putting on her clogs. “Please don’t tell Karen and James. I don’t want them to know how bad I am.”

  “Dell, there’s nothing to—”

  “Please!” Eyes welling up, she raised her hands between us in a silent plea.

  “Dell, it’s obvious that James and Karen love you very much.” If only I could convince her that her best chance was to have tutoring both at home and at school. “They would want to help. They’ll understand.”

  “No, they won’t!” she exploded, tears spilling over and trailing down her cheeks. “They’re smart, and all their families are smart. They don’t know anything about someone who’s too dumb to read a stupid book!” Clenching her jaw, she wiped the tears with her sleeve, then rammed her other foot into her shoe, yanking her jeans in frustration when the hem caught under the sole.

  I blew out what my mother called a patience breath. This conversation was disintegrating rapidly. “Tell you what. Let’s see what we can do in the next two weeks.” I hoped I was doing the right thing. If I forced her to tell her foster parents about her grades, she might give up completely. Right now, keeping them from finding out the truth was her major motivation for trying to pass. “We’re going to have to work really hard, though. You’re right on the borderline in math and science, but social studies and English are another matter. Getting a ‘C’ is going to take some serious effort.”

  “ ’Kay.” She added a definitive nod. “Besides, like you said, it’s my responsibility, not James and Karen’s, right?”

  Ouch. Nothing like having your own words thrown back at you. “You’re a smart girl. Let’s start trying to work during lunch and in the afternoon during Study Buddy time, OK?”

  She winced at the mention of Study Buddy time. It was supposed to be a period for kids to read, catch up on assignments, work together in peer mentoring groups, but most of the kids didn’t use it that way.

  “Mr. Verhaden likes for me to come in and practice during Study Buddy time. There’s lots to learn for the spring symphonic concert, and I’m behind everyone else because I haven’t had all the music lessons like they have. I’ve been coming in extra, like at the end of some of my classes, if we don’t have a test or stuff, and during Study Buddy time.”

  No wonder there’s trouble with your grades, I thought. “You’re doing fine in music. It’s the other subjects that need attention. No more time out of class to practice music. I’ll talk to Mr. Verhaden about it, all right?”

  Deflated by the pinprick of reality, she slouched toward the door. “All right.”

  “Same place, same time tomorrow,” I said, and she looked surprised. “This is as good as anyplace,” I added.

  She nodded. “It’s quiet, and nobody’ll see.”

  “You’re right.” If I tried to tutor Dell anywhere else, Mr. Stafford would probably track me down with some all-important grant application, or Mrs. Morris would start up with her snide complaints about wasting time on the “wrong kind” of student. This way, neither she nor Stafford could get on my case for sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a desk and a couple of chairs in here.”

  “ ’Kay,” she said. “I’ll bring lunch.”

  “We’ll take turns.” I couldn’t help feeling guilty for having eaten so much of her food today. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  In the hall, the second lunch bell rang, warning us that any moment kids would be showing up for music class. “You’d better go.” Opening the door, I shooed her into the instrumental music hall.

  Halfway across the room, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder at me. “You gonna come to Jumpkids tonight? Today we’re at Barger Elementary, over by the big fire station. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, I do.” I felt a surprising urge to join in for another day of yoga and dance, cheese crackers, and Kool-Aid. Unfortunately, there was the inconvenient matter of all the other work that wasn’t getting done while I was sitting in the storage room reading The Grapes of Wrath with Dell. “But I’ll have to see
how the day goes. I have a pile of work on my desk.” Her face fell, and I felt like a party pooper. “We’ll see.”

  Her glum look said that she figured “we’ll see” meant no. “Well … ummm, then Tuesday, we’re at Bell Elementary, then the next day Carver, Ollie Munson, then Friday back at Simmons-Haley. This weekend, we’re doing a minicamp in Hindsville at the Baptist church. You could come to that, if you wanted. It’ll be really cool. Keiler’s gonna come down and help. He’s my friend who did Jumpkids last summer.”

  I couldn’t help feeling charmed by her invitation and her desire to introduce me to her friend, or boyfriend, or whoever Keiler was, back in her hometown. “Well, I’ll have to give that some thought, and maybe talk to your mom. It sounds like fun, though.” Inside me, there was an unexpected urge to see where she came from. It seemed the only way to really understand her. Maybe there was a part of myself I was looking for, as well. The part that dreamed of dancing on the river. The part that could identify with the lost, lonely person I saw in Dell.

  “I’ll try,” was as close to committed as I could safely go. “We’re busy planning my sister’s wedding at home, so things might come up.”

  “ ’Kay,” she said, jerking an ear toward the door at the sounds of kids coming in. Yanking open her notebook, she pulled out two torn sheets, thrust them at me, and said, “Here,” without meeting my eyes. “I wrote down some junk last night.” As I took the papers, she darted off like a stray puppy trying to stay out of reach. “Thanks, Ms. C,” she called just before the door opened and a group of eighth-grade girls entered. I watched as Dell slunk past them, trying not to be noticed. She needn’t have bothered. The girls were laughing and ogling a crumpled sheet of paper, too busy to see Dell or me. Moving through the doorway in a jostling, hair-tossing knot, they giggled and passed the note around, pointing at and reading names. I stood listening until they noticed my presence—first one, then the next, until each of them jerked upright, eyes wide, lips snapping shut, bodies stiff and frozen. Like antelope having suddenly sensed a predator, they stood on high alert.