being pulled apart, I told him. We shattering right
before one another's eyes and we don't understand what terrible thing we have done to deserve it. I prayed that Daddy would change back to being Daddy and that Mama's heart wouldn't crumble. I prayed that Brenda would stop being so angry and that I would stop crying.
I fell asleep with Mr. Panda in my arms. In the morning, as usual these days. Daddy was already gone by the time Brenda and I went to breakfast. Mama looked peaked and white and very tired. It wasn't hard to tell that she had been up all night.
Uncle Palaver was arriving in two days. How would he find us? Would he see the turmoil, and would he try to help, or would he turn and flee from it? He was never one to contradict Daddy. He was too gentle and easygoing a man. Daddy's words would surely devastate him. I feared.
I couldn't recall a time in my life when I was more nervous and distracted. I felt as if I were walking in a thick fog when I went to school, and sure enough.
I
got into trouble when Mr. Leshman asked me a question in social studies class and I didn't respond. I was lost in thoughts about all the turmoil at home and never heard him. I didn't even hear him repeat it, even though I looked as if I were paving attention, my eyes on him. It confused
and
annoyed him.
He raised his voice and stepped toward me, and finally, I blinked. He stared, waiting for a response. I gazed around the classroom and saw the way everyone was looking at me, each with an expression half of wonder, half of amusement. Some of the boys were already giggling, and that fed the fire of rage building in Mr. Leshman.
"Well what?" I replied, and the entire class roared with laughter.
Mr. Leshman's face turned ruby red. "I'll tell you well what, young lady. You go see the dean this minute," he shouted, and pointed at the door. "Go on!"
I
shook my head. "Why? What did
I
do?"
I
asked him, which made everyone laugh again,
"Get yourself to the dean's office," he said, pronouncing each word distinctly and holding his arm out, his forefinger pointed at the door.
There was a hush in the room while
I
gathered my books, closed my notebook, and rose.
I
hunched my shoulders to use my body the way a turtle uses its shell and hurried out of the room. The back of my neck burned with the embarrassment that scorched my spine, e.
I
could barely breathe, because my throat had tightened with a stiffness close to rigor mortis.
The dean's office was next to the principals office. His name was Dean Mannville, and he looked like a former professional wrestler, with a physical presence that was intimidating and eyes that were unmerciful, eyes that looked as if they had witnessed capital punishment. He was bald, with large facial features.
If
he ever smiled, it was behind closed doors. The students actually believed he was a retired hit man. No one, not the meanest, toughest students, could stare him down-- or eyeball him, as he would say. He had no hesitation about throwing someone out or turning him or her over to the police if he or she had committed any sort of criminal act.
In
his eyes, there was always a war under way in the building. A sign above his desk read: "This is a school. Anyone who prevents learning is the enemy and will be so treated."
His office was small, with no windows. When anyone was sent there, the dean would close the door and, according to students who had told me about it, he or she would feel very threatened. Sometimes, they were left sitting there for hours with the heat turned up. There was the story about one boy who had been violent and supposedly even attacked the dean, who then battered him in defense, beating him so much that he had to be taken to the hospital in an
ambulance. The boy claimed he never attacked him, but once that door was closed, who would believe him? Some kids thought the story was an urban legend, something created to keep the mystique of the dean's unflinching hardness believable. Whether it was true or not, it worked.
Of course. I didn't think the dean would be physical with me, but this was the first time I had ever been sent out of class for disciplinary actions. and I was frightened, not only of what would happen to me but also of the effect it would have on my parents. Mama didn't need an ounce more grief, and here I was about to give a pound of it to her. And Daddy certainly didn't need another reason to be mean these days.
The dean's secretary told me to sit and wait when I informed her I had been sent out of class. Minutes later, one of my classmates. Peggy Ann Harkin, arrived with the referral form Mr. Leshman had filled out about me. She smiled with glee when she handed it to the secretary.
"Leave your body to science," she whispered as she walked past me and out the door.
The door to the dean's office was closed. I tried not to act frightened or upset. I really didn't
understand why Mr. Leshman had gotten so any at me. Other students in his class had done worse things and not been sent out. He had just taken my response the wrong way. I didn't mean to be insubordinate, which was surely what I was being accused of doing. I rehearsed my defense and waited, my heart thumping.
The dean's door finally opened, and a boy named David Peet stepped out with his head down, his shoulders turned forward and inward. He was a redheaded boy in the junior class and recently had been removed from the boys' basketball squad for vandalism at an opponent's school. He damaged lockers after a game. I didn't know what new offense he had committed.
The dean handed his secretary a slip of paper that looked like a parking ticket.
"Mr. Peet will wait here for his father to pick him up." he told her. "Put this in his file, if there's any room left," he added. He turned to David. "Sit down, and keep your mouth shut. I don't want to so much as hear you breathe too loudly."
David glanced at me and sat, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.
The dean picked up my referral and, without looking at it, gestured to indicate I was to go into his office. I rose and walked into it. He closed the door behind himself and went around to his desk.
"Sit," he commanded. He then read the referral and smirked.
I
wasn't sure if he was disgusted with me or with the referral. He looked up at me and sat back,
"Okay," he said. "Let's hear your side of this."
"I didn't mean to be insubordinate. I didn't hear the question, and he thought I was being disrespectful,
I
guess."
"You think Mr. Leshman doesn't know when a student is being a smart-ass in his class? He's been teaching here twenty-five years. I would say he's seen just about everything."
"I didn't mean to be disrespectful," I said. "I've never been in trouble in class."
"There's always a first time. Showing off for someone, a boy perhaps?"
"No," I said quickly.
He leaned forward and clasped his big hands. "I know how that can be," he said suddenly in a softer, almost kind tone of voice. "Someone eggs you on, and you get in trouble for it. That what happened?"
"No. No one egged me on or anything. I was just..."
"What?"
"I was just thinking about something else and didn't hear him."
He stared hard at me and then glanced at the referral. "He asked you the same question a number of times, and you ignored him."
"Not because I wanted to. I was... thinking about something else.
"What?"
"Something personal," I replied.
He sat back, and the phone rang. Practically lunging for it, he lifted the receiver.
"What? Why am I being interrupted?" He listened a moment. "I'll be right there. Don't let anyone out of the bathroom."
He hung up the receiver and stood up. I thought he would rise into the ceiling.
"You can spend today in after-school detention thinking about whatever it was you were thinking about that was personal, and writing an apology to Ms. Leshman. I want to see it on my desk before you leave the building. The detention teacher will bring it in to me. You come back here again, and I'll lose my temper," he said. "Now, go sit out there until the bell rings for your next class, and be sure you don't think of personal stuff in that class."
He went to the door, ripped it open, and charged out.
I rose and followed slowly. David was still sitting there waiting for his father to pick him up. He looked up at me as I took the seat next to him.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"Nothing. I just didn't hear a question, and the teacher thought I was being disrespectful."
He grimaced in confusion. "That's it?"
"Sorry," I said, seeing how disappointed he was with my crime. "That's it."
"Dean Mannville told you to sit quietly without any talking," the secretary reminded David.
He stared hard at her a moment and then turned away from both of us.
Not ten minutes later, a short man with heavylensed glasses and light brown hair appeared in the doorway. He was in a dark brawn suit and tie and, because of the folds in his forehead and the way he squinted, looked as if he had a terrible headache. David gazed at him but didn't stand up.
"You know. I had to leave work to come here," the man said. "I didn't call you," David told him.
"Oh, you're so smart. Let's go, buddy boy, and you can forget the car for the rest of this year." the man who was apparently his father said.
David stood up and smiled down at me. "What's your father going to do, take away your scooter?"
I watched him leave, glanced at the secretary, and then closed my eyes. What was my father going to do? Perhaps he wouldn't find out. The school didn't always send letters home, and I'd only be an hour later than usual. Brenda would find out, of course, I thought.
She did before the day had ended and I walked toward the detention room. She was on her way to volleyball practice and caught up with me, pulling my arm to turn me around.
"I heard you were sent to the dean's office. What did you do?" she asked.
I told her everything. I thought she would be very angry at me, but her face softened, and she looked as
if
she would cry herself for a moment. Then she sighed. "Don't tell Mama," she said. "If she asks why you're home later than usual, tell her you were in the library doing research for something. She doesn't need this," she added. and I nodded, even though I could count on the fingers of one hand how many times I had lied to or kept something
,
from Mama, and that was always for silly stuff.
"Won't the school call to tell her?"
I
asked.
"Probably not. If anything, they'll mail a copy of the referral and the action taken, but it will be days from now, and maybe we can get to it before Mama sees it," she said.
Brenda saw the reluctance and despair in my face over so much deception.
"Sometimes, it's better to hide things and keep someone you love from knowing things that will hurt her more," she said. She said it with such assurance I had the distinct feeling she had done exactly that many times and might even be doing it at this moment herself.
I raised my eyebrows, and she saw my questions in my face.
"Go on. Don't be late for stupid detention." she ordered, and hurried off to the locker room.
I watched her for a moment and then took my seat in the detention room. The detention teacher gave me a sheet of paper almost immediately.
"You're supposed to write something," he reminded me.
With tears burning under my eyelids. I began my apology. I wrote the same things I had told Dean Mannville and then signed it with "I'm very sorry."
The late bus didn't take students directly to their homes. I was let off at a busy intersection in Hickory that was a good mile walk to my home. It wasn't the first time for me. I really had remained after school for research or for club meetings. Just as I started out. I saw what looked like Daddy's car coming down the boulevard. I stepped back and watched it pass. It was Daddy's car, and he was in it, but he wasn't driving.
He was sitting in the passenger's seat with a young man I knew to be Michael Kirkwood, one of his junior partners, driving. I caught a good view of both of them as they passed. Daddy had his head against the passenger's window, his eyes closed, and Mr. Kirkwood looked very somber. I had never seen anyone drive Daddy's car with him in it.
Oh no, I thought. Something bad happened at court. Daddy will be especially upset and in a bad mood tonight.
I walked with heavy steps, feeling as if I had a stone in my chest. Actually, I was feeling sorrier for Mama than I was for myself. At home, she was probably singing to herself while she made preparations for Uncle Palaver's arrival, Now, I wished he would postpone. Maybe the weather would
-
him bad and we'd have an ice storm or something.
It was certainly raining in my heart.
Of course.
I
was afraid that Dean Mannville had told his secretor)
,
to call my parents to tell them about the disciplinary action taken against me and she had already done so, but, fortunately for me. Brenda was right. There truly were more serious behavior problems to absorb the school's resources and attention.
Mama was so involved with her plans for tomorrow night's dinner, she didn't even notice that
I
was home later than usual.
"Your uncle Warner is just crazy about my chicken Kiev," she said when
I
looked through the kitchen doorway and saw her sitting on a stool and flipping through some cookbooks. "You know it's hard to get the chicken boned just the way
I
like it to be, the way they do it at Kaminskis Russian Tea Room in Memphis. You know what
I
mean, with the wing bone and all. I'll have to see about that tomorrow morning.
I
thought
I'd
let some of that couscous he loves, too. Then
I
thought
I'd
make his favorite dessert, chocolate cream pie. It's one of your father's favorites. too."
Mama made her pie crusts from scratch just the way her mother used to make it. Uncle Palaver claimed he had to travel clear across country just for her pie.
"Are you absolutely sure he's coming this time, Mama?" I asked. I would have hated to see her disappointed after such a buildup, and there were other times when he thought he would visit but was detoured by a last-minute opportunity to travel elsewhere for a show,