My Monticello(9)

Some days we got to school so late since our Mamas had to work that second shift at the Hospital or Juvenile Detention. Some days we couldn’t wake our Mamas, no matter how we tried. Or else we woke up and no one was around, not even out the window. At the corner, we could see the back of the school bus growing smaller, leaving us behind. Our kid brothers, our baby sisters, would look to us like, What we supposed to do now?

Whenever we got to school late, we had to go in through the office. The Vice Principal gave us a stern talking-to. The Counselor asked, Is everything okay? The Secretary gave us pink tardy slips that we then flashed at whoever we passed in the hall. Held them up like, Don’t even, like, I’m free! Even when we were just a few minutes late, the closed classroom door always stopped us. Through the glass, we could see how everything had started without us. We wished we could be anywhere else. We ached to be inside already.

Stand and face the flag, the Principal said. Place your hand over your heart. We pressed the sore places where Moses had slugged us the day before. We recited the Pledge, mouthing or mumbling or enunciating each word. Only Cherida Smith was allowed to stay seated, light-skinned with pink ribbons blooming from her head. Cherida pressed a plump cheek to her desk, rolled her eyes back way too far like Zombie Face was a game she was playing and winning. We knew Cherida had Type 2 so she got to go to the Nurse at the slightest. Plus, Cherida’s Ma died back in September. Your Mama dies, they let you do most anything.

During Pledge, we’d check out Richard Lordly: Lord Richard, we called him. We didn’t yet know the thing that would happen, the thing we would do. Lord Richard would hump a tower of books, shiny hardbacks and soft, thick science fictions. His family got shipped from Africa, some dusty, hungry part or else why bother coming here? We shrank from Richard’s chalkboard-black skin, mocked the funky way he spoke, like a song hammered out in Music on wooden xylophones. During Pledge, Lord Richard might mutter the words as if they were some kind of ancient prayer. Other times he gave a grand salute, his narrow chest stiff, hand sharp at his forehead and heels softly clicking. Richard would be like, Ah-tennn-shun!, doubling over, laughter spilling through his yellow teeth. When he did this, we couldn’t help but crack up with him, even the Teachers. Sometimes Richard would squeeze his eyes shut, sway his arms side to side like a white lady dancing. A moony half grin would pass over his face and we felt sure he was recalling some sweet, rambling story from one of those books he shouldered. We pictured words rising and battling and winning. The Teachers said Richard was “going somewhere.”



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They had us read printed paragraphs then answer a strict set of questions in longhand. We did their math equations, got some right, but refused to show our work. We swooshed the brick-red playground ball down through the basket and everybody hollered. We chucked it up into the rafters and everybody groaned. We jammed our pencils into the sharpener to hear that long electric whine, to catch a bright metallic whiff of smoke. How much pressure did it take, we wondered, to break a thing?

We squeezed our thighs tight, begged the Teachers to let us go out to the bathroom. When they rolled their eyes, we called out, It’s an emergency! After they finally gave us a pass, we took long strides around the farthest hallways. We wandered down to the lower bathrooms, pitched the stumpy remains of our pencils into the freckled ceiling tiles till dust rained on our heads. In time, we found our own way back, but that closed classroom door stopped us again. Finally, we flung it open so hard the knob punched the smooth white wall behind, and everybody laughed. Right away we announced we needed help, but the Teachers were busy with everybody else.

Our Teachers were rail thin or scowling or sometimes soft and wide with lipsticked smiles. They wore printed dresses, hung cardigans on the backs of their chairs. We lifted framed photos from their desktops—the pink-faced husbands, the plump fair children, the beaches behind. We thought of our own Daddies then, the times they drove us to the filling station on Fifth, let us sit up in the front seat. Through the open window, while they pumped gas, we caught them looking at us like, I love you, boy, I love you, boy, I love you … Be good to your Mama, they told us. Be strong, you hear me?

We had fresh mouths, loose teeth, darting tongues. Your Mama’s so friggin’ ugly, we said, balling our fists like we were ready. You don’t shut up, we said, I’mma beat your head like a Cherokee drum. We’d been studying the Virginia Colonies.

At the edge of the classroom, we saw Fat Rod’ney trying to get a rise out of Lord Richard. But Richard kept his eyes pinned to the book in his lap. You so fat, Rod’ney said, even though Richard was skinny enough that we sometimes felt hunger just to look at him. You so fat, your titties got titties! You need a dang girl bra! When Rod’ney said this, we looked him up and down, his soft curls rising like curds in milk, his drooping chest. We shook our heads and had to laugh.

And Rod’ney laughed too, like he thought we were laughing with him.

That one Resource Teacher we hardly knew was standing over us.

You are disrupting learning, she told us.

Go back to your seats. Right. Now.

You need to stop messing with everyone.



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They gave us our Free-and-Reduced lunches on Styrofoam trays at noontime. We balanced the weight of berry parfaits, hard pears in plastic bags, and iceberg drenched in Ranch. We figured we had something, but afterward we felt hungry still.