by Ann Martin
“Pleased to meet you,” replies Miss Casey. She turns on that beautiful smile again as she bends over to shake his hand. Then she leaves Darryl standing at the front of our classroom as she leads Mrs. Craig toward the door. The grown-ups talk for a couple of minutes, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Mrs. Craig, she looks dead scared, though, and I don’t blame her a bit. But Miss Casey places her hand on Mrs. Craig’s arm while she talks to her, and soon I see Mrs. Craig’s eyes soften.
Meanwhile, Darryl, he just stands there, staring down at his feet.
From the back row I hear whispering and snickering. And Vanessa turns a look on Darryl that is so hateful, I can almost feel poison shooting out of her eyes. I flash her a mean glare of my own, and what does she do but look straight at me and smile another one of her fake smiles.
Miss Casey turns around. The snickering stops.
Mrs. Craig says, “I’ll be back at the end of the day, Darryl,” and she walks out of our room, her back straight, her head high.
Miss Casey shows Darryl to the only empty desk in the room. I don’t know how she manages it, but as she is pulling out his chair for him, she also turns and sweeps her eyes around the room, glancing at every single one of us, sending out a warning about snickering and poison-eye looks.
Now, Little Boss, he is in rare bad form, because what does he do as soon as Miss Casey’s back is toward him, but make a great show of hauling his desk away from Darryl’s. He pushes it so hard, he nearly bangs into the back of poor Stephen Haines, who will cry at the drop of a hat but, fortunately, this time does nothing. Chas, who’s on the other side of Little Boss’s desk, starts brushing off his sleeves, like Darryl has somehow wafted cooties on Chas’s shirt just by moving the air in the room. Vernon, meanwhile, has been working away at a drawing of a person with black skin and enormous lips. He holds it up for us to see, but by now Miss Casey has reached her desk again, and as she turns to face us, Vernon shoves the picture under his notebook.
“Good morning, class,” says Miss Casey brightly. “Now that we’re all here, I want to greet you officially. Ray Stomper, please move your desk to its original position.
“Welcome to fifth grade,” Miss Casey continues cheerfully, not even watching Little Boss as he edges his desk reluctantly back toward Darryl’s. “I think we are going to have an exciting year.”
That Miss Casey, she doesn’t miss a trick. She probably knows about Vernon’s picture too. I gaze at her, at her pearls and her dress and her perfect chestnutcolored hair, and just drink in the sight of her as she leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag and takes our milk orders. As she is walking around the room a few minutes later, telling us what all we’re going to be learning this year, she lifts up Vernon’s notebook, removes the picture, and carries it to her desk, where she leaves it wrong side up on top of a pile of papers. I myself would have been both humiliated and dumbfounded, but Vernon, he turns to Chas and just shakes his head in disgust.
After Miss Casey finishes telling us about the American history and fractions and tall tales and mammals we’ll be learning about, she says, “Now, class, I am going to assign permanent seats to you.”
I hear a few quiet groans, and Vanessa Mathers puts her hand primly in the air. “Ma’am, what if somebody likes the seat she has already chosen?” she asks.
“I hope she will like the new seat just as well,” replies Miss Casey. “I have studied this and given it a lot of thought and decided that the new seating arrangement will be for the best.”
I realize that Miss Casey has been busy over the summer. One thing, she must have learned a lot about her students. Otherwise, how would she know who Little Boss is? Then I realize that Miss Casey didn’t even need to take attendance. I feel a thrill when I think that Miss Casey has been studying up on me in her free time.
Miss Casey, she starts walking around the room. As she passes each desk, she taps it, and says the name of the person she wants to sit at it. When she is finished, Clarice is in the row behind me, which is a shame, but Vanessa is clear on the other side of the room, so that’s good. And I am kind of in the front — in the second row — but not opposite Miss Casey’s desk anymore. I really wanted to continue to observe her up close. And to be able to look at all the things on her desk — to see if she has a rubber-band ball, to see what condition her eraser is in (probably not chewed on like mine), or if maybe she has any interesting trinkets.
Little Boss, Chas, and Vernon have been separated, and now only Chas is in the back row. Miss Casey has placed Darryl in the seat where Clarice just was, right up against the front of her desk. He’s in between Vanessa, whose desk is on the end by the windows, and Mae Bender, who’s in the seat I wanted. A full row separates him from Little Boss and Vernon, and two rows separate him from Chas. I decide Miss Casey has been studying us very hard and is smart in addition to being beautiful and smelling good.
Now I am watching Vanessa, who has slid her chair as far away from Darryl as possible (I guess she knows better than to move her desk, like Little Boss did), and again I’m remembering Mama saying to be nice to the colored children. That Vanessa, she certainly is one for judging. I’m beginning to think her insides aren’t so different from Chas’s and Vernon’s insides, even though their outsides are mighty different. Mama’s words make more and more sense.
“Girls and boys,” says Miss Casey, breaking into my thoughts, “we have two new students in our class this year. Their names are Vanessa Mathers and Darryl Craig. I want you to make them feel at home. And Vanessa and Darryl, I’d like you to come up here and tell us a few things about yourselves. Who will go first?”
Vanessa shoots her arm in the air and wiggles her fingers around.
Miss Casey looks at Darryl, but he is sitting with his hands folded on top of his desk, staring at the blackboard. “Very well. Vanessa . . .” she says, pointing to a spot under the American flag.
Vanessa slides out of her seat like a graceful swan and stands before us. Miss Casey stands next to her and puts her arm around her, which makes me jealous. “Bonjour, mes amis,” begins Vanessa, looking out at our class. “In case you don’t know, that’s French. French for ‘Hello, my friends.’”
“Who does she think she is? The queen?” whispers Junie Partridge, who is sitting next to me.
Vanessa waves one hand in the air, queen-like, and says, “I hail from Mechanicsville. I lived my entire life there. I have a younger brother named . . .”
“Prince Heraldium,” Junie supplies in a whisper only I can hear.
“. . . Joseph Crew Mathers, and my full name is Vanessa Amy Wynona Mathers. I am named for my beautiful mama. My daddy manages the grain company in Mechanicsville. It is a very important job. We hope to be happy here in the little town of Coker Creek. I am sure I am going to enjoy being a student at Coker Creek Elementary. Merci beaucoup. And s’il vous plaît, feel free to sit with me for dejeuner this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Vanessa,” says Miss Casey. She looks out at the rest of us and I suddenly feel small and plain. “Does anyone have any questions for Vanessa?”
I imagine that I have eyes in the back of my head and they are looking at Clarice in the row behind me, sending her a message about stuck-up Frenchspeaking goody-goodies with fancy names and airs. I don’t turn around, though. I am determined to get off on the right foot in fifth grade. But how I wish I could speak French in order to impress Miss Casey.
I can’t tell, though, if Miss Casey is impressed with the French words. She is simply waiting for somebody to ask a question.
Mae Bender’s arm flies up. “Where did you learn to speak French? Have you been to France?”
“To Paris.”
Well.
“Twice,” adds Vanessa.
My land.
I think that she really does sound like the queen. Queen Vanessa. Her Royal Highness. HRH Vanessa Mathers.
Next, puny little Stephen Haines puts his hand up. “Where else you traveled?” He asks this almost
in a whisper.
“Oh, to London and Rome. All over Europe, really.”
Mae’s hand is in the air again. “Will you sit with me and Kayla at lunch today?” she asks, all eager.
“Why, certainly. I would be delighted to join you,” replies HRH.
Mae sends a big satisfied grin over to Kayla, who’s sitting in front of me.
This time I cannot help myself. I swivel around and peer at Clarice. I believe my mouth is actually hanging open with my disbelief. Clarice, she is looking back at me and her forehead is arranged in a frown. I don’t want Miss Casey to catch us, though, so I fix my attention on HRH like she’s a fascinating worm under a magnifying glass.
“Thank you,” says Miss Casey when the questions have died down. “That was very interesting.” She indicates that Vanessa should take her seat. Then she looks at Darryl. “Are you ready?” she asks him gently, and she points to that spot under the flag.
Vanessa, she is still on her way back to her seat, and when Darryl stands up, she leaps aside to escape him. Miss Casey sees this, but she doesn’t comment on it. She just waits until Darryl is standing beside her, then puts her arm around his shoulders like she did Vanessa’s, and smiles at him.
“Um, well,” begins Darryl in a soft voice, “my name is Darryl Isaac Craig, and I live with my mother and my father. My father is a machinist and he works nights, and my mother works at the hospital in Mechanicsville. My aunt and uncle live next door to us.” Darryl looks up at Miss Casey. She nods. “Well, I — I’m ten years old and I used to go to school in Peapack.” He pauses. “That’s all.”
Our classroom is absolutely silent. I don’t know which is worse. That awful snickering from before, or this silence that is so big and heavy, you could pick it up and throw it around the room.
Miss Casey, she gives us a prompt. “Does anyone have a question for Darryl?”
The silence grows.
Actually, I have several questions for Darryl. I want to know what is a machinist, and I wonder is he really another only child like me, and is the hospital his mother works at Baptist Memorial, because that is where I had my appendix out three years ago and maybe I met her then. But no hands are shooting into the air, so I leave mine resting in my desk, fiddling with an old crayon I have just found in the back.
Miss Casey is looking uncomfortable herself, or maybe a little mad. Finally she says, “Darryl, I have a question for you. What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“Ma’am, I like drawing, mostly.”
“Drawing! Wonderful! Perhaps you will become our class artist.”
Our room is as still as midnight. After looking out at our silent faces, Miss Casey, she finally says, “Class, I hope you will make Darryl feel welcome.” Which I notice she did not feel the necessity of saying after Vanessa finished talking. Miss Casey gazes long and hard at us, but her eyes linger on Little Boss, Chas, and Vernon.
Lordy, I do wish for my journal. So much is happening today that I can’t keep apace of it all. I brought the journal to school once last year, but Vernon got ahold of it and read a choice selection aloud on the playground. Since then, the journal has never left our house and I just have to try to hang on to thoughts with my brain until I can grab a quiet moment somewheres at home.
All morning long I keep one eye on Miss Casey and whatever she is doing. I keep the other eye on Darryl, the kids in our class, and, outside the window, a small group of parents who are walking around and around. Now they are holding up those signs and chanting. It is a while before I get a good glimpse of one of the signs, since I don’t want Miss Casey to catch me looking out the window.
The sign says, NIGGERS GO HOME.
When I read that, I feel something in my stomach, like a punch.
I look over at Darryl. His eyes are fixed on Miss Casey, who is about to pass out our Think and Do books.
HRH Vanessa raises her hand. “Miss Casey,” she says, “it is so awfully hot in here. I am about to expire. Could we please open a window?”
That is when I notice that, even though it is another hot-as-blazes day, every window in our classroom is shut. Miss Casey, she glances toward the parents outside. Then she puts on a bright smile and says, “Well, I can do better than that.” And she hauls a big fan to the front of the room and turns it on. A few papers riffle up and go flying, but that breeze, it feels like a drink of Gran’s lemonade. Plus, the hum of the fan drowns out the sound of the chanting. Then Miss Casey, looking even brighter, says, “I have another idea. Let’s pull the shades down to keep out the sunlight.”
She does that and I don’t know if the room cools down any, but of course now the parents have been completely shut out of our view. I relax myself a little. Darryl looks like he relaxes too. His shoulders loosen up and he finally unclasps his hands.
I turn my full attention to Miss Casey and leave it there until she says, “Girls and boys, it is time for lunch. Please line up to go to the cafeteria.”
The Coker Creek cafeteria is big enough to hold three classes at once. When all of us fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-graders pile on in there, that room is a madhouse. Even with cafeteria monitors poking around. You can either bring your lunch, or you can buy the hot lunch. Also, you can buy milk or ice cream. The hot lunch costs twenty-five cents and ice cream costs a nickel. You can imagine that I don’t get to buy those things too often. Milk only costs two cents, though, so most days I go off to school with milk money. Gran, she sets two pennies by my place at the breakfast table, and I drop them in the changepurse I wear on a chain around my neck and keep tucked under my dress. About once a month I find a quarter by my place, and I put it in the purse and wait for the next time pizza burgers are being served.
Today I just have milk money. But Gran, she has packed me up a tasty lunch.
“You buying lunch?” I ask Clarice as we enter the cafeteria.
Clarice holds out her empty hands to remind me that she did not bring a lunch.
“Okay. I’ll save us a table,” I tell her.
We sit with Junie Partridge, and Mary Lee Hickerson, who’s in sixth grade.
After we’ve got our straws unwrapped and all, the first thing Mary Lee asks us is, “You got any of the niggers in your class?”
I raise my eyebrows at Clarice.
Junie, she answers, “Yup. One. We also got us a princess.”
Mary Lee doesn’t take the bait. She couldn’t care less about a princess. “Where is it?” she asks. It. She means Darryl. “One of the others is in my sister’s class. When Mama finds out, she’s going to throw a fit. She said she’d pull us out of school if we had to sit with one of them.”
I am so mad that at first I can’t think of a thing to say. But words don’t fail me for long. I stand up. “And my mama,” I say, “said she would pull me out of school if I had to sit with someone like you. Since I don’t want to leave Coker Creek, I better go eat at a different table.”
I move to one nearby. Clarice follows me, of course. Behind us, I can hear Mary Lee saying to Junie, “What does she mean, someone like me?” She doesn’t get it at all.
I look around the cafeteria for Darryl. Finally I spot him at a table in the corner. He’s sitting with two other colored kids, a boy and a girl, Miss Casey, and Mrs. Geary, who teaches fourth grade. I notice that there are a lot of empty tables around them.
Clarice and me finish our lunches quickly and run out to the playground behind the school.
“Want to play Four Square?” asks Clarice.
I do, but I am nervous because I can hear those parents chanting on the other side of the school. I am afraid they will try to come through to the playground, even though I don’t really think anyone will let them in the building. Then I spot Darryl. He and the two other kids are being shown onto the playground by Mrs. Geary. I see Little Boss, Chas, and Vernon nearby.
Uh-oh, I think. But Mrs. Geary stands by the colored kids. Doesn’t leave them for a minute.
Little Boss, Chas, and Vernon won’t ta
ke their eyes off the kids.
By the time recess is over and we are back in our classroom, I feel wrung out. I am glad for our fan and our pulled-down shades. Glad that Little Boss, Chas, and Vernon are sitting where they can’t touch Darryl. I sigh, even though Gran says sighing is unnecessary and tiresome.
And then Miss Casey does a grand thing. She gives us an assignment. Most of the kids in the room groan. But I gaze at Miss Casey in wonderment. She assigns us to write our autobiographies that night.
“Just two pages to tell me about yourselves and your lives. I want to get to know you better. I am going to write my autobiography too. I will share it with you tomorrow.”
Well, I am dying. Because now I am going to find out all about Miss Casey. Where she grew up and who was in her family and like that. It is a dream come true. Plus, I will have fun writing my own autobiography.
When the last bell of the day rings, my heart gives a jump. I don’t want to go outside where those parents are circling around. Clarice, she must be feeling nervous too, because she loops her arm through mine and we walk out of our classroom side by side. I sneak one last look over my shoulder at Miss Casey, who is working at her desk, and I call to her, shy-like, “Bye!”
“Good-bye, girls. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she replies.
“Come on,” says Clarice. “Let’s hurry.”
We will run by those parents fast, like they are the graveyard on Route 518.
I am surprised when we hustle through the front doors and I see the crowd outside. It is not as big as it had seemed before. Really, there are only about twelve or thirteen people. Most of them are women. But a couple of them are men who probably work the night shift. Or maybe they are out of work altogether.
The crowd is sort of muttering and murmuring, but that’s all. I feel more confident. I un-loop my arm from Clarice’s and we head toward our bus.
That’s when I notice the old brown pickup truck and the man sitting in the driver’s seat. I grab Clarice again. “Big Boss,” I whisper.