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S
o me people wait for things to happen. Leaders make things happen.

I will make that point today when I speak to our entire seventh-grade class. The topic is leadership, one of the core values of our school.

In sixth grade, Beacon Academy students focus on community: what it's like to be part of a group responsible for themselves and others. In seventh grade it's leadership: how to speak up, stand up, and take the lead at school, in the community, and around the world.

Eighth graders focus on excellence. They learn not to take shortcuts, how to be their best, and why it's important to put their full effort behind all of their endeavors.

Upper-level students are expected to incorporate all the values they have learned since first attending the academy.

There are some interesting people sitting on the stage beside me: a law student, the city's police chief, the head of Manor Hospital, two blocks away, as well as the principal and the seventh-grade student-body president.

Walking up to the microphone, the principal asks each of us to stand or wave while he does the introductions. From the rear of the auditorium, a voice says, “Wait. I'm here.” The principal explains to the audience that Patricia Pressley will also be speaking.

Patricia is a ham. Walking up the aisle, she bows and blows kisses. She has on another suit, navy blue. The portfolio she carries matches her shoes, also navy. I cannot get away from her.

Each of us quiets down, when the principal tells the audience why we are all here. Patricia sits tall and erect, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands sitting open in her lap. I wonder about her speech. What she'll talk about.

We each get seven minutes. I began to prepare my speech a month ago. You have to write and rewrite if you want it to be exceptional.

A few of the students who ride the van with me are sitting up front, waving. I take my place beside the podium. The principal politely hands me the microphone while students clap. “Leadership”— I pause before I say another word — “is what you do. Not what you say.” I am counting in my head — one, two, three — so I do not rush my words. “I think I was born to be a leader.” I talk about Ma, who gave me an ultimatum when I was seven. I did not want to join the scouts, because no one else in my troop was in a chair. She took me to the meeting anyhow. She said I could sit in the back of the room alone, or join in the fun. “She promised to pay me fifty cents for each pin I earned. I've always enjoyed earning money. I earned plenty of it my first year. I never got to spend the money, however.”

The teachers have to settle some students down. They are complaining that Ma did not keep her word. After one student shouts, “She lied,” a teacher walks over and has a talk with him.

“I could keep the money, Ma said, or donate it to a child who really needed it.
Leaders,
she told me,
think of others, not just themselves.
I cried when I put the money order in an envelope to mail it. I was saving to buy a motorized plane. Now I'm glad I gave it away.”

I like the mic and stage. Especially when people applaud.

Patricia forces me aside when she walks up to the podium. “You know you are a leader when …” She gives ten ways students may develop their leadership skills. She hasn't found her niche at school, she tells everyone. But at her church, in her community, she does a great deal. “I'm the choir director.”

I didn't know that.

“Friday, on bingo night, I call the numbers for seniors. Anyone got forty-eight blue?” she says to make them all laugh.

There is more to Patricia than I knew. On Sundays she oversees the children's room for the two- to four-year-olds at her church. “Leaders is … are … everywhere,” she says, pointing into the crowd. “It's in you to lead. You have to believe that.”

She tells them to hold hands with the person on each side of them. “Now pull,” she says, swaying. “Like you're holding onto a rope.” The principal loves her concept, that leaders pull others along with them. “Helping everybody see,” Patricia says, pausing, leaning forward, looking at the crowd, “that they have potential. And are strong and smart in their own way.”

The teachers jump up, clapping. The students are on their feet as well. Slowly, Patricia walks over to her seat, looking as if her mind is miles away.

 

After our presentations are done, I head for class. On the way to the elevator, Patricia passes me. “How can
you
give a speech on leadership?” I ask. “Leaders don't —”

She never looks back, or says a word.

The elevator doors open. Mr. Epperson is on it. Asking how I did on my report card, he shakes my hand. “All As, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He has missed several days of school this week. When I ask about how he feels, he changes the subject. He asks if I will help a few more of his students.

I don't know how I can find the time. He wants me to really consider working with this one girl. “She wrestles.”

“No.” The word jumps from my mouth. “What's wrong with her, Mr. Epperson? Is it ADD?”

“ADD? Nah. Behind in reading. Much rather be out there shining on the gym floor like a strobe light than taking math, that's for sure. But slow? No.” Before he goes into the men's room, he says I would be good for
her. “You're very clear when you explain things. Math is your gift. Think about it.”

He stops, holding on to the wall. He doubles over.

“Are you okay?”

He's on a vinegar-and-water diet, he tells me. “Just a little light-headed.”

I cannot figure him out. He is so intelligent and kind. Who cares if he's fat?

P
eaches never cut class. I didn't, either. Till today.

Sitting at home. Watching TV. I wonder what people thinking about me, the wrestler who can't read.

I know they gonna write about it. Somebody probably texting the newspaper right now. I just want to wrestle. What grades got to do with that?

All season you gotta cut weight, watch your weight. Last night I ate a half gallon of ice cream by myself. Chocolate chip with pistachios. At breakfast, I had a pint more.

Pouring flour in a bowl, soda and salt, too, I stir so hard, my arm hurts. I make my own pancakes. Strawberry, from scratch. I can eat as much as I want now. Can't wrestle. So who cares.

Coach gonna have to tell the team. They'll know I let 'em down. It's not right. I got the grades — my parents are doing this to me.

Running upstairs, I grab those books off their night-stands. And dig out the one under my bed. I take them all outside and throw 'em as far as I can in the snow. Then I change my mind. My parents just gonna dry 'em off, and say we got to get back to reading. After all this time we just on chapter four. “Can't y'all see we can't read,” I yell. Walking outside barefooted, I put 'em as deep in the trash as I can.

They never did return those library books. At night sometimes I hear 'em reading out loud to each other. Dad say they never will get through. Mom keeps pushing. If they could make it through a GED program, she said, “a book shouldn't be too hard.”

On the Internet, checking YouTube, I find myself waving, walking onto the mat, making mad moves. For two hours I sit, watching. After a while I'm so upset. Tyrelle's gonna make it to states. “Mean as he is.” I can't even finish the season.

I'm ignoring all the texts Peaches sending me. 'Cause it's her mother's fault. I know it. Miss Pattie want everybody's children to be like hers — sad.

I throw the plate at the wall. “I ain't going to college. I can't read — shoot!”

Flopping down on my bed, kicking at the window, I scream, “When's it gonna stop snowing? I'm tired of it! I hate it!”

On my computer, I hear people cheering.

A
utumn walks into the library, sitting down beside me. She does not say hello. She does not ask what we will be working on today. Her lips are as still as my wheels.

Mrs. Carolyn offers her grape juice from last night's author's talk. “Everything okay?” she inquires.

Autumn does not look up. Or respond. Mrs. Carolyn doesn't press her. She whisks by, asking the assistant principal if he has a minute.

It is nuts in here. A lot is happening. Roberto and his class are researching upstairs. He hasn't seen Autumn yet. Miss Bullard and her class are on the first floor, using the computer lab. Two teachers in the back room are picking up class sets of books.
To Kill a Mockingbird
,
Middle Passage
, even Shakespeare. I bundled the sets.
Then there's everyone else: Jaxxon, cheerleaders meeting about a fund-raiser, maintenance men measuring shelves and checking the ceiling for water damage. It's difficult to concentrate. But not because of them. It's her. Autumn. I've never seen her sad before.

It makes me uncomfortable, the way she sits here, staring at her fingers. For ten minutes and sixteen seconds, that's all she's done.

Two girls walk up to our circulation desk to return books. “Are you Autumn Knight?” You can always tell when they're sixth graders.

The Asian girl elbows her friend. “It's her.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I come to see you wrestle.”

Her friend takes out a spiral notebook. Ripping papers, she asks if Autumn would mind giving her an autograph. “Me, too.” The girl with the blond ponytail covers her lips with her hands when she speaks. “My brother goes to Willard High. He wrestles heavyweight.”

Giggling, they slide the paper toward her.

Autumn ignores it.

Crossing her legs and waiting, Maggie, the blonde, cocks her lips to the side.

Maryanne hunches her shoulders. “Well … bye.”

They're walking arm in arm, then speeding up once they pass the dictionary and running out of the door.

Roberto is chasing someone downstairs. Autumn looks up for the first time. “I don't wanna see him.” She jumps off the seat, and stays in the back room until his class leaves.

When the period is over, Autumn and I go up the hall. I have AP statistics. She's going to Mr. Epperson's class. Usually I go to the men's room, that way I'm done with her until practice. Today I head straight for the elevator.

She leans against the wall. I press the button. When the doors open, I hurry on to get away from her. She'll cry soon. Anyone can see that. Knowing Autumn, her tears will drown us all. She can't do anything right. Messes. Problems. That is all she knows. I like intelligent girls — girls with class, who study hard. They know what
firstly
means.

She stops the elevator doors from closing. Crying, she gets on.

I don't have tissues. I don't have time because my class begins in a few minutes and I still have to go to the end of the hall on the third floor, where the door to room 301 always sticks. And I do not have legs …
for her to sit on. She sits on my lap anyhow. No girl has ever done that. Has ever wanted to. “Autumn … I … I …”

When her head lies on my shoulder, her curls brush my bottom lip. “I can't wrestle. They kicked me off the team.” Tears drip onto my new shirt, steam pressed exactly the way I wanted this morning.

“My grades … reading …”

In my dreams, I kissed her. Only this is real life. While the elevator rides up and down again, I sit holding her. Thinking.