Full Cicada Moon (12 page)

Loneliness is

Watching your sea-blue home floating in the blackness

hundreds of thousands of miles away.

Leaving your cousins

to live where no one speaks your language.

Being abandoned by your family,

then visiting your favorite sister after she has died.

Waiting at the bus stop by yourself

and feeling like it's last year all over again.

Fear is

Standing on the ladder of Eagle

before taking one small step—

one giant leap—

into the ancient dust.

Lining up on a gangplank in Los Angeles

before taking your first step

into your new country,
Amerika
,

with your new husband,

knowing you can never go back home.

Gathering with thousands of other people

about to step together

to a song of freedom and equality for everyone,

no matter what it may cost.

Watching the bus door open

and reading
WATCH YOUR STEP

as you lift your foot

on your first day of eighth grade.

But courage is

Taking that one small step

anyway.

The not-so-good things about eighth grade:

The bus route home takes so long that I almost get carsick

Miss Bonne said I'm flabby

There's a lot more homework in eighth grade

No one looks like me, but a new boy comes close

Kids think I should have a crush on the new boy

Girls still can't take shop

And the things that are pretty great:

I have Mrs. Stanton again for science

We're studying the space program

I like cooking better than sewing

I eat lunch with Stacey and Timothy

Miss Bonne thinks I should try out for volleyball

The hills are beginning to look like giant bowls of Trix

A new boy

has started eighth grade—

Victor.

He's in the class with all the geniuses.

Victor is taller than most of the boys,

but that's not the only reason he stands out.

He carries a stack of books under his arm,

instead of taking only the ones he needs

from his locker between classes.

Victor sits by himself at lunch,

reading.

Every few minutes he brings his sandwich to his mouth

and takes a bite,

then puts the sandwich back on the wax paper

without taking his eyes off his book.

I know he eats alone because

he's new

or shy

or the only boy in school

with an Afro.

Our home ec class is going to make lunch

for a teacher. First

we have to decide who to invite

and what to make.

“Let's ask Mr. Pease,” Karen says.

“He's not married and doesn't have anyone

to cook for him.”

Everyone thinks that's a good idea,

and Miss Whittaker's face turns rosy.

Stacey volunteers to give him the invitation

because she has pretty penmanship

and fancy stationery.

Miss Whittaker says we should plan a balanced menu

and make simple dishes that we can prepare ahead,

so on the day of the lunch

we'll just heat them up and arrange them nicely.

She writes three headings on the blackboard:

We call out our ideas,

wearing our aprons that we sewed last spring

and our hairnets.

Miss Whittaker steps back

and studies the blackboard,

twirling a strand of her hair.

“I have an idea—what about . . .”

Everyone thinks Miss Whittaker's menu is a good idea.

“We have four kitchens and sixteen girls,” she says.

“Each kitchen will make one item,

and one girl in each group will

plan the ingredients and the shopping

and supervise the cooking.”

I've never heard of oyster stew or pudding parfaits,

so I can't make them

(but I will taste them),

and a salad with only three ingredients

is too easy.

“My kitchen can make the corn bread,” I say.

“I make it all the time at home.”

“Then you will supervise,” Miss Whittaker says,

touching the chalk to her chin. “Thank you, Mimi.”

The other girls in my kitchen—Karen, Joyce, and Debbie—

say
okay, fine, sure
. It's hard to tell if they're happy

because we're making corn bread

or because they're not in charge.

This is how we make corn bread,

Papa style:

Assemble your ingredients:

cornmeal

sugar

eggs

milk

baking powder

baking soda

salt

buttermilk

flour

butter

Buttermilk?

Preheat your oven.

What are we doing with a frying pan?

Put the skillet in the oven.

In the oven? Are you sure?

Why?

This is how we make corn bread.

Now, mix all the dry ingredients

in one bowl.

And all the wet ingredients

in another.

What are we doing with the frying pan?

It's for the corn bread.

You'll see.

But we make corn bread in a brownie pan.

Where's the brownie pan?

Are you sure we're making corn bread?

Then fold the wet ingredients

into the dry,

but don't stir it too much.

It's all lumpy.

T
hat's okay. It's supposed to be.

This is how we make corn bread.

Is this Japanese corn bread?

Now, take the skillet out of the oven—

use the pot holders or you'll burn your hands.

Put some butter in the skillet

and swirl it around.

It sizzles, like when you toss snow

at the woodstove.

Then, put the batter in the skillet.

Put the skillet back in the oven.

Where's the brownie pan?

I don't think we're using one.

She's using a frying pan.

That's weird.

Bake it thirty minutes, until

the top is golden.

I'm not eating this.

It's not real corn bread.

This is how we make corn bread.

It comes out of the oven like

warm crunchy softness.

You should taste this corn bread.

It's really good!

I stop at Victor's table at lunch.

He's eating an egg salad sandwich

and reading
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
.

He looks up at me,

chewing.

“Hi, Victor,” I say. “Do you want to sit with us?”

I turn to where Stacey's sitting

so Victor can see who
we
are.

“Oh,” he says,

and shrugs. “Thanks.”

He looks at his book

but doesn't close it.

I look at Stacey and shrug.

She shrugs back.

Then I say to Victor,

“Well, we want to tell you . . .

you should carry only the books you need

and keep the rest in your locker.”

I want him to look up

so he can see my smile,

and know I'm only trying to help.

A few days later, Stacey and Timothy and I

put our trays at the table next to Victor's.

He turns his chair to us

but keeps his book open.

“We don't bite,” Stacey says.

Victor chews his sandwich. Today it's cheese and ham.

“Where are you from?” I ask,

taking the lid off my
obento

slowly. No one laughs or gags,

but Timothy asks if he can have a
kappamaki
.

Victor swallows. “Rhode Island,” he says,

and points to the
kappamaki
. “What's that?”

“Cucumber sushi. Take one.”

I wonder why I ate so many cafeteria lunches last year

when I could have eaten this yummy food instead.

And maybe if I'd shared it,

I could have made more friends.

“You must be here because of the college,” Stacey says.

Victor picks out a piece of sushi.

“My father works in the admissions office,” he says,

and pops the sushi in his mouth.

The bell rings, and lunch is over.

We say good-bye to Timothy,

and Stacey says, “See you later?” to Victor.

He nods. “Later.”

“He's so
cool
,” Stacey says in my ear as we walk to history.

In class, Debbie whisper-sings, “Mimi and Victor sitting in the tree . . .”

I give her a Mifune look. She doesn't understand

that the girl who wants to
k-i-s-s
Victor

is not me.

Fall
1969

Stacey and I are on our way to study hall

when Timothy passes us in the hall

on his way to shop.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“A table. Wanna see?”

Then Stacey says, “Be careful, Timothy—

this girl gets crazy ideas.”

I look cross-eyed at her and say,

“There's nothing to miss in study hall,”

and go the opposite way with Timothy.

The shop classroom smells so good—

like sawdust and oil and hot wood

and boys. It reminds me

of working with Timothy last spring.

I feel like I belong in this room,

and sit at one of the tables.

The boys at the table look at me

but don't say anything.

Mr. Sperangio comes in.

I must stick out, because he sees me right away.

“I believe you're in the wrong class.

This is shop.”

“I know. I want to be here.”

The boys laugh.

“Look here, young lady,” he says,

“you can't do that.”

“But I know how to use all the tools,

so you won't have to train me.”

“That's not the point.”

The boys stare and twist and laugh

and look at Mr. Sperangio

to see what he'll do next.

“You need to go back to study hall.”

I put on my best smile, and

say, “But I'll learn more here

than in study hall.”

The boys say, “Oooh.”

“This is not a conversation,

Miss Oliver. Either go to study hall

or the office. It's your choice.

But you can't stay here.”

“What difference would it make

if I sat here and listened?”

“Do you want detention,

young lady?

Because that's what you're asking for.”

I don't want detention again.

I do want to take shop.

So I get off the stool.

“That's a wise decision,” says Mr. Sperangio.

At lunch, Stacey says, “You were late for study hall.”

And I tell her about shop.

She says, “I love drama. I'll go with you next time.”

That's another thing I love about Stacey—

she knows there will be a next time.

Stacey and I hook our pinkies outside shop.

“Ready?” I ask.

We know what will probably happen

if we go in. “Yeah,” she says,

and we stroll into the class.

The boys watch us.

Mr. Sperangio watches us.

Stacey and I sit at different tables.

Silence

and then Mr. Sperangio's footsteps

squeak toward me.

“Young lady,

I thought we already settled this.”

I glance at Stacey,

then say to him, “I just want to sit in your class.

I want to take shop.”

“So do I,” Stacey says from across the room.

“This is getting interesting,” says a boy at my table,

and leans forward on his arms

to watch what happens next.

Mr. Sperangio puts his hands on his hips

and frowns, his face growing pink.

“This isn't going to happen

in my classroom. You girls are in defiance of the rules

and need to be disciplined.

Either go back to study hall or go to the office.

Stacey and I look at each other

and stay on our stools.

Mr. Sperangio huffs.

“Well, ladies, you've made your decision,

so come with me to the office.”

But when Stacey and I hop down

from our stools, he looks surprised.

“Well,” he says,

“you're sure about this?”

“We're sure.”

“Okay then, let's go,” he says,

and we follow him to the door.

As we leave, Andrew Dutton asks,

“Why can't they stay?”

and then I think we might have a chance

of taking shop.