Chapter Six
CHAPTER
SIX
Jae
It’s first period English and the teacher, Mrs. Aldana, is pacing the front of the room. Her long green skirt flows around her like waves.
“Twain began writing the manuscript in 1876,” she says. “What was significant about writing Huckleberry Finn during that time?”
She speaks in that accent of hers—a confection of Spanish and Quebec French—that some of the boys make fun of when she’s not in earshot.
But I think it’s beautiful. Her lips are bright red; her hair tumbles in dark curls over her shoulders; and she drapes herself in scarves despite the muggy Floridian heat.
She looks like a statue that belongs on the helm of a great ship, wind-blown, sun-kissed.
With her talkative hands and her pacing and her fast speech, she holds everyone’s attention.
Except for me. My mind is an unleashed thing that wanders, and soon I’ve lost myself in a field of memories and what-ifs, plucking regrets like flowers.
Today I see Mom’s dimply smile as my tiny hands slap a mound of dough, sending flour like smoke into the air.
I see Dad sitting under the dim kitchen light with his notebook, his hand scribbling furiously, turning poetic phrases like the easy turn of a leaf.
I see Austin with his honey-colored eyes that are anything but sweet, and I remember the way he touched me and made my skin feel new and beautiful.
I see a small office with red plastic chairs and a woman telling me to raise my right hand and make promises I can’t understand.
“Jae A?enyo?”
My eyes refocus on Mrs. Aldana’s face.
“Did you hear the question?” she asks, her eyes bubbling with energy.
I did hear the question. Didn’t I?
The students sitting in the front rows swivel their necks around to stare at me. A hundred pairs of eyes. I feel like a circus animal expected to perform an amazing trick, but I don’t know what it is.
The girl behind me whispers, “Is that her?” And I remember seeing her when I sat down, a dark-haired beauty who could play Selena Gomez in any biopic. I think her name was Valeria. But the question, Is that her, derails me.
How does she know me?
“I’m sorry. Could you please repeat the question?” I ask Mrs. Aldana.
Her smile is patient. “Of course. I asked about the significance of Twain writing the novel in 1876.”
“Um …” I swallow. I know this. I’ve not only read Huckleberry Finn, but all of Twain’s books.
But the weight of a thousand stares could make someone forget their own name.
In my old school, I wasn’t the only brown face in class.
There was someone to share the embarrassment with when the class talked about race.
But here, it’s just me, pretending to feel just fine talking about Huck and the runaway slave Jim while curious eyes watch me every time someone says N-word.
I wonder if the white kids feel heavy too, or if the weight of it is all on me.
I hear a voice to my right whisper, “Reconstruction.”
Suddenly, my brain starts working again.
I clear my throat. “Twain was writing during the Reconstruction period, just a decade after the end of the Civil War. There was still so much racism and terrorism then, and his own views on slavery had changed over the years. So maybe he was exploring the concept of freedom and what it meant to that society.”
Mrs. Aldana nods and smiles. She turns to write on the board. “Any other comments?” she asks the rest of the class.
I turn to my right to look at the boy who whispered to me. His shoulder-length blond hair is pulled into a ponytail.
“Nice answer,” he whispers.
I give a slight smile and try to refocus on Mrs. Aldana.
But out of the corner of my eye, I see a boy with a tall Mohawk shaved on one side staring at me.
I turn my head to look at him. He wiggles his eyebrows, and his eyes twinkle as if he finds me amusing.
The way he’s looking at me reminds me of the other boy in the bathroom yesterday with his yellow hat and eyebrow ring.
Miguel, was it? I quickly look away and stare down at the book cover, at Huckleberry Finn and Jim floating away on the Mississippi.
Soon the bell rings. I shoot up, eager to pack my books and run off to second period. Eager to get away from the boy who seems to know something about me.
“You didn’t need my help,” the blond boy says. His words come out in a thick English accent that I didn’t notice before. He’s putting his reading book in his backpack.
“She caught me off guard,” I explain.
“Well, Mark Twain is one of my favorite writers. I’m quite a fan of witty abolitionists.
Did you know he also wrote under the names Josh and Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass?
” He smiles and points to my white canvas bag, hanging on the arm of my chair, with I LOVE LUCILLE written in fluid, romantic letters. “And you’re a fan of Lucille Ball.”
I turn the bag over to the cartoon drawing of a brown-skinned, halo-haired woman. “Lucille Clifton. She’s one of my favorite poets.”
“You like poetry.” His eyebrows spring up and he reaches across the aisle for a handshake. “I’m William Shakespeare Huntington.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Not as good as Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass, but it is my real name.”
“I’m Janelle A?enyo. Everyone calls me Jae.”
“So, Jae,” William says in a way that makes me feel like he knows me already. The room has cleared out by now and we start walking through the rows of empty seats toward the door. “What are you doing after school today?” He stops and looks at me with intent blue eyes.
“Um …” I shrug.
“Well, then, I’d like to formally invite you to our first club meeting,” he says, pulling out a yellow piece of paper from his bag and placing it in my hand.
“It would be good for you to have some camaraderie. Even Hemingway had friends. Think about it, Jae.” He pats my shoulder and heads into the hallway.
I glance quickly at the paper, slide it into my bag, and make my way to my locker. Maybe this is just what I need. A club. A group of built-in friends. Like a college sorority for readers. I could get along with people like that.
Luckily, my locker is right outside the English classroom, which means it’s not one of the plain yellow ones.
It’s painted like the spine of a book cover.
Mine is Everything I Never Told You, smack between The Hate U Give and The Kite Runner.
It’s strange that these painted lockers can make me sigh in relief, make me feel a little more like myself.
As I try to remember my locker combination, I hear laughter behind me. I look over my shoulder and my heart nearly falls out of my chest.
There he is.
Miguel, with his yellow hat tipped to the side. And the same boy with the Mohawk who was watching me in class. And Derek.
He’s not laughing like Miguel, but he doesn’t look happy to see me, either. Gone is the look of calm and quiet brooding. His arms are crossed over his chest and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I fumble with my lock, hitting the wrong numbers each time, telling myself to breathe easy. After a few attempts, I finally get the combination right and open the door, and it knocks the bag off my shoulder.
Laughter.
I bend over to pick it up.
More laughter.
“Come on, guys,” I hear Derek say.
I breathe through the heat burning my face. What exactly are they laughing at?
I see Austin’s face flash before my eyes and that familiar wave of panic makes me grab my stomach. The sinking feeling. I’m washed in a flood of memories, from different times, different spaces.
You’ll never know what this means to us.
Austin, what’s going on?
Come on, it was all a joke. You had to know it was all a joke.
You made the right choice, Janelle.
Raise your right hand for me.
When the voices quiet down, the wave of panic recedes.
I’m standing in front of the lockers again.
I can feel the boys still watching me and I avoid looking over my shoulder.
I look down at a piece of paper that floated to the ground when I opened my locker door.
I don’t have to pick it up to see what it says.
In large block letters are the words: MEET ME IN STALL 3.
I look up. Miguel breaks out into uncontrollable laughter and the boy in the Mohawk tries to hide his smile. Derek’s face is frozen like stone.
I turn away, pretending to look for a textbook, and blink away tears. I let my own words drown out the noise outside me.
LightShadowRainSunBreatheDeepCarryOnLightShadowRainSunBreatheDeepCarryOn.
My breath begins to slow down. My heart begins to calm.
Light, shadow, rain, sun. Breathe deep. Carry on.
Light, shadow, rain, sun.
Breathe deep.
Carry on.