The Long Ride Page 3

  Miss Fine has an open face and eyes that seem to snap open, with spiky lashes like a doll’s. A lot of the teachers are young. “I’ll have all of you for biology,” Miss Fine explains. “So I’m going to get to know you really, really well.”

  She passes out a map of the school and a little notebook with a blue line running down the middle. “Seventh grade is really different from elementary school. You don’t have one teacher. You have many. The bell rings and you go off to different classes, to learn individual subjects. That can feel like a lot of compartments. Nothing connects.” She gives us an eager smile.

  “Since this is a brand-new school, we can try out new ideas and ways of learning. I want your homeroom to not just be the place where we take attendance. I want this to be the place where you can put it all together. To synthesize.”

  Then she writes on the blackboard:

  Objective

  Subjective

  “I am a science teacher. In science, facts are objective. But I value both parts of knowing: objective and subjective.” She points to our notebooks. “In those notebooks, I’d like you to look around and record what you see. That will go in the left side. On the other side, I’d like you to record what you feel about what you see. Whatever you want to share, you can, during homeroom. But only what you want. The rest is private.”

  Everyone is busy. A few of the boys look at their notebooks, faces scrunched, as if wishing this work would go away. I have no idea what to write. Usually when I write in my diary, I draw too.

  So on the left side I draw a picture of her, and I write: Miss Fine is pretty. She wears mascara. Her ankles are thick so that makes her look plainer.

  That feels mean. And it isn’t very objective. So I add: Everything is new here. Even the stairs smell of new paint. The walls are really clean.

  On the right side, the one labeled Subjective, I stare. I write: How am I going to fit into all this?

  * * *

  * * *

  The rest of the morning is more of the same—the same kids, shooting through the halls as if in a space capsule. I scan for Josie but never see her. By lunchtime my new boots are scuffed up, my hair in humid, itchy waves. When I finally see Josie my whole body relaxes. Just having her beside me as we push our trays along the runners feels good. “We aren’t in any of the same classes!”

  “I know.”

  “Who do you have for homeroom?” I ask.

  “I forget her name.”

  “Joey’s in mine. He is so annoying!”

  She nods to the lunch counter. “What are you getting?”

  We both stare at the offerings: what looks like baloney sandwiches or too-yellow mac and cheese. I take a sandwich and she does too, along with a cup of Jell-O and a carton of milk.

  “Want to compare schedules?” I ask as we sit. “Maybe we have some electives together.”

  She shrugs, but we spread our schedules on the table. Every day is different until we get to Thursday. “Look!” I say. “We have Community Circle.”

  She gives a small smile. “What’s that even mean?”

  We barely have time to scarf down our sandwiches before we’re herded out to the yard.

  Girls clump in big groups, some boys are over by the handball courts and others shoot hoops. None of these seem like places for us. So we find a corner bench. Before I can ask her, “Where’s your homeroom and who are your teachers and who’s in your classes?” two boys stroll up. It’s John, with Darren behind. I feel Josie sit up a little beside me.

  “You find the rest of your rooms okay?” John asks.

  “Not really. It’s easy to get lost.”

  “So Teach doesn’t know everything,” Darren says.

  “Very funny.” I’m turning warm all over, under my shirt collar and spreading across my face. I’ve never felt anything like it. Does Josie notice?

  “You ask him his last name?” Darren asks. “It’s Wayne. John Wayne. You know who that is?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “He look like a cowboy to you?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. What’s your name?” he asks Josie, but she just stares at the ground.

  “You don’t wanna talk to me?”

  “No.”

  I look at her, surprised. Josie’s always so kind to everyone. Now she’s sitting very straight, chin tipped up, staring right through Darren to the handball courts. As if she doesn’t want anyone or anything to touch her.

  “Aw, come on!”

  “It’s Josie.” Then she adds, “That’s for Josefina.”

  Now I’m stunned. Josie never uses that name. Only her mother does, when she’s mad and calls out, “Josefina, you get in this house right now!” Or her father trills in Spanish, “¡Josefina, vamos!”

  “Josefina,” Darren repeats.

  The bell sounds out. John throws me a slow smile, and I’m bathed in quiet warmth.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Well, that was the worst day ever,” Lucy Nelson declares as we stream out the front doors and head toward the bus. “I can’t believe I have to be in this school for three years.”

  Josie and I exchange looks. “It’s not so bad,” I say.

  “Oh really? Tell me one kid that was nice to you today. Except for when they had to do that dumb exercise. How embarrassing!” Lucy is blunt and always declaring things. When she didn’t invite me to her fifth grade skating party, I decided we’re officially not friends.

  “I talked to two boys,” I say. “They were funny and nice. And they showed me to my room.”

  Josie smiles. “John did.”

  “Who’s he?” Lucy asks.

  “A really nice boy,” I reply.

  As the doors fold shut, Danny Rowan calls out, “Lock your windows!”

  Joey doffs him in the back of the head. “Stupid!”

  I start to jump up, ready to take on Danny and Lucy. Shove them, hard. Josie yanks me back down. “Forget it,” she whispers.

  The bus starts to rumble away. We cross Jamaica Avenue, back toward our lawns and big, full trees. I’m still mad. It’s like something has sliced me in two. Only when my shoulder bumps into Josie do I feel whole.

  The minute I get home I race upstairs and strip off my clothes, which stick to me like another skin. I kick off my heavy boots. A blister has puffed at the back of each ankle.

  In the mirror, I check to see if I’m different, officially in seventh grade. I’m still too skinny with no hips and ash-smudge knees. My eyebrows look like thick caterpillars over a beaked nose. But I’ve got black wavy hair from my grandma Rashida, Dad’s Indian side. My hair is growing out, and is starting to drape past my shoulders.

  Once Josie comes over, we open cold Tabs, suck them down, and hurry across the street to find out about Francesca’s first day.

  She throws open the door. “Oh my god, guys, I have so much to tell you!” She squeezes both our wrists and then we run upstairs and sit cross-legged on her bed.

  “So what’s it like?” I ask.

  “It’s so beautiful. They have lounges! With beanbag chairs! Can you imagine? We have a period just to sit there and do homework!” She giggles. “Or talk.”

  “Really.” My mouth pinches.

  She can’t stop talking about the small classes where the tables are in a circle, the cafeteria with four entrees! Her super-cool English teacher who took them outside to sit on the grass and read poetry out loud. If you need to go to the bathroom, you just say so and don’t need a wooden pass.

  The story about our day is dying in my throat. I think about our new cafeteria. I got a baloney sandwich and a milk carton.

  Francesca breathes: everything is beautiful, great, amazing. She leans closer, her hair falling across her cheek. “But here’s the best part. An older kid i
s paired with you to show you around. So I was paired with this girl, Clarissa. But you know what happened?”

  “What?” Josie smiles.

  “Her twin came along! Evan. And oh my god, he is the cutest. They’re from England too! We got to talking. Do you know he already knows what he wants to be?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “An archaeologist! He says next year when he goes to high school, he may even get to go on a dig! He is…so beautiful.” She clutches her hands around her knees.

  Jealousy is pulsing in me. Josie gets quiet. Should I say something about John? That he has a nice smile? That he showed me to my room without it even being a school program?

  “So what about you guys?”

  Josie and I look at each other and shrug, Josie biting her lower lip. There’s a wetness behind her eyes, making them glossy and big. “It’s different.”

  “Kind of…crowded,” I say.

  I want to say more, but something isn’t right with Josie. There’s always a stillness to her that usually makes me feel calm. Still waters run deep, my father says. But she seems quieter than usual.

  “I’m jealous,” Francesca says. “You guys get to be together.”

  Josie and I look at each other and giggle. “I guess,” I say. “If you count sitting in a cafeteria and drinking gross milk.”

  “And listening to Lucy Nelson be nasty,” Josie adds. “I bet you don’t miss that.”

  “No,” Francesca says. But her voice has gone small.

  Downstairs someone turns on the stereo, really loud. “Bloody hell!” Mrs. George shouts. “How many promises is that now?” A door slams.

  I look over to the window, where I can hear a car roaring out of the driveway. Mr. George’s convertible. When I turn back, Francesca’s mouth is crimped to the side. I wish I could reach over and smooth her face back to happy again.

  * * *

  * * *

  At dinner, Mom announces that in a few weeks we have to go see Grandpa Joe for his birthday. Then she explains that some of the families are dropping out of the public schools and going to Catholic school. Then Karim and Daddy get into an argument about that, which annoys me. It’s my school! But that’s Karim: he’s got a shock of black hair that he shakes back from his forehead, and always looks ready for a fight. “All you have to do is lower your head, mind your own business, and do your maths,” Daddy says. Karim and I exchange glances. That’s Daddy’s answer for everything!

  “Dad, that’s not good enough anymore. It’s not about being the exception. It’s about being fair.”

  “Listen,” my mother says. “No talking about the school with my family when we go for Grandpa Joe’s birthday.”

  “Do I have to go?” Karim groans.

  “Of course you do.” She hands him a plate heaped with broiled potatoes, his favorite. “And you’ll be polite. Don’t take the bait.”

  Karim stabs at his potatoes.

  “Promise?”

  Karim lets loose a small smile. I know Karim’s as loyal as they come. Especially to Mom, who he thinks got a bad deal from her family. He just needs to mouth off now and then, call things “ridiculous” or “idiotic,” like a tennis player taking swipes with his racket. And he’s especially loyal to the three of us. That’s what it means to be in our family. We’re all we have.

  * * *

  * * *

  After dinner, as I’m helping clear the dishes, my mother pulls me aside in the kitchen. “I want you to know something.” She hesitates. “Regina said they didn’t put Josie in SP.”

  There’s a prickling under my skin. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in the regular classes.”

  So that’s what’s been going on with Josie! Why she was so quiet at Francesca’s. “It must be a mistake!”

  “They’re not sure. She took the test, like all of you, and we assumed—”

  “But that’s not right! Josie’s smart! So smart!”

  “Regina’s going to talk to them.” My mother turns back to the sink and twists on the faucet. “Don’t bring it up unless Josie does. She must be very upset.”

  Walking back upstairs, I feel like my legs are made of heavy iron. We were always the special kids. Ever since we were picked after first grade to be in the gifted classes, we were the ones the teachers boasted about. When our test scores came back, our fifth grade teacher would call out, “I’ve got ten kids who are at a tenth grade reading level! One is eleventh!” Josie wasn’t always in my class, but she was always in the program.

  She took in things carefully, slowly. When we’d sit in the school library, she’d pull her chair tight up to the table, and set a wrist on either side of her opened book. She’d go through each page, sometimes silently mouthing the words. One time the librarian hovered over us and whispered, “Honey, maybe you should try this instead.” She set down a book with a skinny spine and big print. Josie dipped her head down. I saw the shame in her eyes. I snatched the new book away and put it back on the revolving shelf, even though the librarian glared at me. I didn’t care.

  There has to be a way. I have to get Josie into SP. Back with me.

  Over the next few days, Karim’s words clang in my head. It’s like I’m seeing JHS 241 through different eyes. All those big ideas I heard from the grown-ups: Integration. Desegregation. Experiment. Now when I look around me, this school doesn’t feel brand-new. After each class, when the bell lets out its long bleat and everyone explodes into the halls—kids calling, “Hey, girl!”; teachers hollering, “Move along, folks, move along!”—it’s like there are two schools here. The SP kids only flow into everyone else in the halls or the cafeteria, or for the elective classes.

  Every day, Josie doesn’t show up to the bus stop until the last minute. Her eyes look a little puffy and her mouth is turned down. She says she woke up late but I don’t believe her. Josie’s the type of person who sets out her clothes the night before and double- and triple-checks her books. I’m dying to ask her about SP, but Mom made me swear not to.

  We don’t even have our elective together. The gym wasn’t ready, so they put us all in the auditorium for a special assembly. I only see Josie at lunch. We find a little corner in the noisy cafeteria, where she sits beside me, sipping her milk and spooning her Jell-O from its cup. She doesn’t talk much. Not that it’s easy to hear anyway. Josie keeps her shoulders tucked in, flinching. Three boys stand on a cafeteria bench and lob crumpled napkins at a group of girls. They shriek, laughing.

  Josie is quieter than usual. She’s wearing a button-up blouse, the kind that she usually wears to church, and a pleated skirt and high socks. Totally unfashionable.

  “Girls and boys out!” the lunch aides yell, then fling open the doors, and kids go pouring outside.

  Josie and I stare at each other. “Where do you want to go?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” She looks as bewildered as I feel.

  “Take a walk?”

  She nods.

  We stroll by the handball courts, where the Spanish-speaking girls sit against the fence, flicking their long black hair, and watching boys slam balls against a concrete wall. Next come the basketball hoops, where the tallest and loudest boys play pickup or shout from the sides, elbows out near their hips. Clutches of other girls saunter in groups, cutting us up with their eyes. The girls from our old school are leaned up against a wall, but Josie doesn’t want to hang with them either.

  I lean a little closer. “I wonder if I’ll see John today.”

  She jerks around and stops. “I don’t want to talk to those boys again.”

  I blink. “Whatever.”

  “I mean it!”

  We walk in silence. Not the old kind of silence but a new one.

  * * *

  * * *

  For my last period on Friday, I make my way to dance class. The room
is beautiful: the size of three classrooms, with floors that gleam like honey. A barre runs the length of the big windows and there’s a dizzying wall of mirrors on the opposite side. Most girls here aren’t in the SP classes. They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor chatting, joshing each other. Some are already changed into leotards and tights. How did they know to do that?

  “Ladies, ladies, enough!”

  A short man is barreling into the middle of the room. “This is a class where you don’t talk. You do!”

  Mr. Sloan talks so fast, I have trouble following. We all line up against the mirror, smoothing our hair or checking our lip gloss. Then he shows us a move he calls a sashay. Each one of us has to do it across that polished floor. When I try the move, my arms are awkward and I jerk from side to side. Mr. Sloan is not impressed.

  “Okay, girls, let me give it to you straight. I expect every one of you to get here on time, fully dressed. On dance days, there’s no time to change in the bathroom. You wear your leotards underneath, capisce?”

  We nod.

  “I’m the father of three girls, so I know how long you take to get ready in the bathroom. My classroom you’re ready to move the minute we start, capisce?”

  “Mr. Sloan?”

  Johanna steps into the room. She’s changed into a maroon scoop-necked leotard. “I’m so sorry, but the girl’s bathroom on the second floor was locked. I had to fetch a teacher.” The word fetch is the way my dad speaks, Caribbean.

  “Johanna!” he says with a broad smile. How does he know her? “Go ahead, show them how a sashay is done.”

  Johanna glides across the floor. Her muscles ripple, her arms float in the air, her chin is tipped, just so. Mr. Sloan looks like he’s in love with her.