Blended, page 6
“I don’t understand why anybody would do that,” I admit.
Manuel raises his hand next. “It makes me afraid.”
“Me too,” Rochelle calls out from the other side of the room.
Mr. K. nods. “What do you think chases away fear?”
“A gun?” Heather offers.
Everybody whips around to look at her.
“No,” Mr. K. says emphatically. “Guns only create more problems.” Then he looks thoughtful and asks, “Is it possible the person who left the noose might be right?”
What did he just say?
Jontay half rises from his seat, scowling. “Huh? How you figure?”
The teacher continues. “In order to diffuse a bad situation, sometimes it is necessary to look at both sides of a problem.”
“But . . . aren’t they racists? The people who do stuff like this?” asks Otis, looking incredulous.
“I suppose we have to figure out the definition of ‘racist’ first,” Mr. Kazilly says.
“It’s somebody who hates Black people!” Otis shouts out.
“Yeah!” Jontay echoes.
“Hmm. Only Black people?” Mr. K. prompts.
Jontay’s now standing all the way up. “All haters!”
The teacher pauses, then smiles. “You see what just happened?” he asks us. “In just a thirty-second discussion, look how easy it is to jump to anger and assumptions. Now let’s take our time and dig a little deeper.”
I watch anxiously. Talking about nooses and hatred and stuff is like swimming in the deep end of the pool. And I’m not a very good swimmer. Going by the look on other kids’ faces, they aren’t either.
Something clatters near my feet. Logan, who sits right next to me (Heather is totally jealous; her seat is all the way in the back) dropped his pencil. I reach over and pick it up, but as I hand it back to him, I see scribbles on a sheet of notebook paper on his desk, skulls and bones and guns all over it. His art is actually good—clearly he’s got mad drawing skills. But his sketches are sorta, well, grim. He looks up, sees the look on my face, and smirks. I look away. He raises his hand.
Mr. K. runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, Logan.”
“I kinda got a question. Since most bananas are yellow, what if a person doesn’t like green bananas? Does that make him or her a banana racist?”
“None of us are bananas,” Rochelle argues. “This is about people.”
She gives me courage to speak out, so I raise my hand. When the teacher nods my way, I blurt out, “I don’t want to sound like a Hallmark card or anything, but I think the only thing that gets rid of hate is love.”
Mr. Kazilly’s nodding like crazy now. Nobody else in the class seems to be smiling, however. Kids are ticked off.
I’m starting to feel really stupid, like I’ve just said the cheesiest thing ever.
“Go ahead. Explain, Isabella,” Mr. K. encourages.
I take a deep breath. “Well, it’s easy to be mean. And hateful. I’ve heard . . . uh . . . my parents say horrible stuff to each other.” I pause. It’s like the whole class is breathing with me. “But it’s harder to be nice. It’s sometimes really, really hard. But I think we ought to figure out how to turn this around. So nobody else gets hurt.” I close my eyes fast. I can’t believe I told my personal mess to the whole class.
“That noose was a sign of hate!” Manuel finally says.
“Yeah, white people do that kind of stuff all the time!” Jontay shouts.
At this, Mr. Kazilly jumps in. Now his voice is loud. Even angry. I press back into my chair. “Now Jontay, we will not have that kind of discussion,” he says. “We are working on solutions, not adding more to the problem.”
Heather stands up. “Uh, I’m white. Imani is one of my best friends and she’s Black. But I’m scared too. And . . . and . . .”
“Yes, Heather?” Mr. K. encourages her.
Heather takes a deep breath. “Okay, so this might sound weird, but I feel guilty, like . . . it’s my fault, because it was probably somebody white who put the noose in her locker.”
“For sure it was!” Jontay says, totally throwing attitude.
Heather sits down, covers her face, and begins to cry. I know I should go to her desk and comfort her, but I don’t. I’m a wimp. If I spoke up right now, would I speak up for the white kids or the Black kids? Or both? Or neither? I honestly don’t know. I scrunch down in my seat. I’m feeling, almost, ashamed of myself.
Kids around me start mumbling, grumbling.
“I can’t believe they haven’t caught who did it.”
“I’m gonna watch my back!”
“They gonna get you.”
I’m wondering who “they” are when, to my surprise, a soft-spoken white girl named Tiffany raises her hand. “Maybe we should think about signs of love instead,” she says hesitantly.
Mr. Kazilly claps his hands. “Wonderful idea, Tiffany!” Then he asks the class, “How do you think we can make this happen?”
“What’s the opposite of a noose?” Toby asks.
“A Valentine heart?” Tiffany offers, more confidently now.
Mr. Kazilly beams.
Logan groans. “That’s so second grade!”
“Nah,” says Tiffany. “I think we ought to plaster the school with hearts.”
If Mr. Kazilly could be more into Tiffany’s ideas, then gag me.
Nobody speaks for just a click, then everybody seems to jump in.
Heather lifts her head. Her face is splotchy. But she says, “You know, she just might be right! Every time anyone sees a heart, they’ll remember what happened to Imani. That can’t be bad.”
And you know what? I agree.
Heather’s eyes crinkle into a smile as she gives me a for-real good-friends look.
“We need to send a bunch of hearts to Imani, too!” another girl suggests.
“Can we do this in class today?” someone else asks.
“Instead of vocab?” a boy named Kevin says hopefully. Everybody laughs.
“Absolutely!”
Boy, does Mr. K. sound relieved!
CHAPTER 26
Dad’s Week
IMANI IS BACK at school today! She texted me and Heather, so we waited for her outside on the front steps. When she stepped out of her mom’s car, I saw her take a deep breath. A week is a long time. We ran over, like, full speed and hugged her. “We got your back, girl,” Heather whispered in our little huddle. And I kept repeating, I guess to myself and to Imani as well, “We are stronger than the haters. We are stronger than the haters.”
“Thanks, guys,” she said. “You’re the best.”
I guess we looked kinda weird, all clasped together like that, but I did not care one little bit. When we let her go, her eyes were glistening. She didn’t cry, though. She sniffed, stood tall, then turned and told her mom she was okay. I think her mom waited in the parking lot a long time. She was still there when I looked outside as the bell rang for first class.
All morning Imani sat in each class with her back straight, her eyes alert. She sorta reminded me of a deer—watchful, waiting to bound away at any moment.
At lunch, just before Imani plunks down next to us like she always does, Heather and I jump up and give her another giant hug. I can feel her relax as we hold her.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yep. All good,” she tells us. “For now.” I believe her. “What’s the latest?” she asks.
Heather dives right in. “Well, it’s like this—I think the company that makes Doritos is cutting down on the number of chips in each bag!”
“Say what?” Imani laughs at her silliness.
“I’m counting. Keeping a chart. I’m gonna report them to somebody!” Heather gobbles two chips.
“Well, you just messed up your count. You’re eating your research!”
“Oops! Well, you may as well eat some too!” Heather offers the bag to Imani, who takes it and gobbles a few herself.
That’s probably just what Imani needed—a Dorito distraction. I think it worked! Imani seems more relaxed than she did this morning.
Hearts in every color under the sun are pasted everywhere—the cafeteria walls are covered. Tiffany and a couple of other girls are still at it, taping more on the far side of the lunchroom.
“How’s your baby sister?” I ask, trying to tiptoe around anything serious.
“She’s so sweet—like a little chocolate drop,” Imani says, pulling out her phone to show us new photos. Then she says, looking around at all the decorations that we’ve put up, “The hearts are really nice. It’s like the school vomited construction paper.”
Heather and I almost fall out of our seats laughing. Then I look at her, worried that might hurt her feelings. But she’s cracking up with us.
“Just trying to show the haters they won’t win,” I say carefully.
“Cool,” she says as she sips on a juice box. “Really cool.”
Several kids stop by our table and say nice things. Even a couple of eighth graders. I’m genuinely surprised.
“Hang in there, Imani,” several kids say.
“We got your back, kid,” others say with stern nods.
“Ignore stupid people.”
Jontay, carrying a tray with only a salad and a bottle of water, pauses at our table.
“Just want you to know I’m here for you, Imani,” he says. “Anything you need, just holler. You need somebody to walk you home?”
Heather jumps in. “Me and Imani ride the bus together. I’ll look out for her.”
Jontay gives a chin nod, then disappears into the crowded room.
When Tiffany finishes with the hearts on the wall, she comes over and brings Imani a container of slime—three red globs, shaped into hearts.
“Wow. Thanks,” Imani says, her face brightening. I can tell she’s not faking.
I’m sipping on a Mountain Dew, which all four of my parents say is unhealthy, by the way. I deliberately drink one every single day—just because I know they don’t want me to. I finish it with a slurp and a burp. It’s almost time to go.
I stand up to take my tray to the trash, but walking toward our table is Clint Hammond. I sit back down.
He’s wearing a red Ohio State jersey. Pinned to it is a small lavender paper heart. He stops. I tell myself to stay chill. But he doesn’t even glance my way. He reaches out his right hand to Imani. “Uh, I just want to say I got your back, Imani. Me and my friends. Not all white people are haters, ya know.”
Imani blinks hard, then smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot.”
She offers him her own hand. They touch. Four fingers of her slim brown hand grab four fingers of his surprisingly large pale hand. For just a second their palms brush. Their thumbs latch.
CHAPTER 27
Mom’s Week
DURING THE WEEKS I stay with Mom, she goes to the grocery store to stock up on my favorite goodies, like Flamin’ Hot Fritos, Kool-Aid, gummy bears, Cocoa Puffs, and Skittles. And broccoli. Yep, broccoli. For some reason, I like it—raw or cooked with butter. I think Mom caves on what she calls horrible junk food because I always eat my veggies—well, except for carrots. Whoever thought digging up a random orange root—then eating it—was a good idea? Certainly not me.
On the evenings she has to work, she gets off at eight so she can take me home and get me to bed at what she calls a “decent hour.” She won’t let me listen to music on my phone with earbuds while we’re in the car together. She says it’s rude. We’re supposed to talk to each other. She usually starts.
“How are things at school these days, Izzy?” she asks me tonight. “All this racial turmoil has got to be upsetting.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say glumly. “Things are okay, I guess.” I shrug.
She clicks on her turn signal and checks all her lanes—she’s a really careful driver. When she’s safely on Montgomery Road, she asks, “What’s going on inside, kid? Talk to me.”
I let her drive a few blocks before I figure out what to say. “I’m not sure,” I tell her. “It’s confusing.” I hesitate. “I’ve got friends who are white. And friends who are Black. We’ve got kids at our school from all races—and most of the time we all kinda blend without thinking about it, like cookie dough. But this noose thing with Imani has really changed the recipe, at least for me.”
Mom waits a tick, then asks, “How do you mean?”
“Because I am that dough, Mom! Am I the chocolate chip or the vanilla bean? I’m not really sure.”
Mom chuckles. But for some reason that makes me mad.
“It’s easy for you to laugh!” I tell her. “You’re white! You have no idea what it’s like to be me!”
Mom sucks her breath in.
“Isabella,” she begins. She hardly ever calls me that. “You’re right! I will never know what it is to be you, because you are your own unique, beautiful, talented self.”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” I grouse.
“You’ll figure it out one of these days,” Mom says with a confidence I’m not feeling. “You know, your father and I don’t seem to agree on much, except for the most important thing—in spite of our problems, we both have always been so very proud of you. Because you are half of me and half of him—and all of both of us. We love you so—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I interrupt, trying to find the words for something I’ve never really said out loud. “I love you, Mom, but I’m not white. I never will be, and . . . I don’t want to be. Because the half of me that is Daddy is stronger.”
She draws in another breath, sharper this time. Her hands have a death grip on the steering wheel.
I gnaw at my lip—she doesn’t get it, I can tell, so I keep going. “On official school stuff like state tests, there are lots of little info boxes that we have to fill in. One of them asks what race you are. They’ve got choices like white, Black, Latino, Asian, American Indian, and other.”
A pause. “Which box do you fill in?” Mom finally asks.
“Well, I don’t answer ‘other,’ because that’s like being nothing, like maybe I could be Martian or something. I’m not nothing. I am something. I am somebody.” I hear the tinge of sass in my voice, but I don’t care.
The look on her face is like nothing I’ve ever seen. I hope she’s breathing!
“I’m Black, Mom. African American. That’s what I put on my official school tests when they ask. I’m Black and I’m proud of that.”
I hear her breathe out at last. “And I’m so very proud of you, Isabella. So very proud.”
CHAPTER 28
Dad’s Week
MR. KAZILLY, who looks like some kind of bee in his yellow-and-black vest today, is practically buzzing with excitement when I walk into his class after lunch. “For the next week or so, we are going to dig into some Black poetry!” he announces as soon as we are seated.
“ ’Bout time,” Jontay grumbles.
I look around the classroom. I guess about half the kids in our class are Black. Tiffany raises her hand.
Mr. K. looks up. “Yes?”
“Uh, are we doing Black poetry because of what happened with Imani?”
Oh no she did not go there!
I think everybody in the room turns to look at Imani, who glares right back.
“We are following the school curriculum, Tiffany,” Mr. K. replies curtly. “Now, may I continue?”
Rochelle kinda smirks at her friend Erin. But I saw it. So did Imani. We lock eyes for just a second. There is some sort of shift in the classroom—like a temperature drop on an autumn evening.
But Mr. Kazilly drones on with the lesson as if nothing happened, telling us all about this guy Langston Hughes—how he wrote poems and plays and stories, and how he’d started when he was still in high school! I bet he wrote stuff when he was in the sixth grade, too. Mr. K. tells us to find a poem by Mr. Hughes, then write a poem kinda like it.
I remember seeing a few pictures of writers in our literature book—mostly boring-looking white guys with beards. A few women. But come to think of it, I don’t think any teacher has ever mentioned the race of a writer. Hmm—I think this assignment is gonna be kinda cool.
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Isabella?”
“Uh, are there other Black poets besides Mr. Hughes?”
“Oh, lots and lots,” Mr. Kazilly tells me. “I wanted to focus on Mr. Hughes first, but now I want each of you to find a poet you like, and we’ll practice writing a little poetry.”
“But isn’t poetry hard?” Tiffany asks.
A few kids join in with “You got that right!”
Mr. K. straightens his vest. Then he asks the class, “Just glancing at the samples in our book, which takes up less space on the page? A poem or a story?”
“A poem!” Tiffany says, still frowning.
“Just a few words. And boom, it’s done! That’s easier, right?”
Tiffany scratches her head, then smiles. “I think that was a trick question, Mr. K.”
“Relax. Think of musical notes. Then make those into words. That’s poetry!”
That’s the first time anybody’s explained poems like that. I think I get it! Tiffany stops asking questions, so maybe she does too.
He breaks us into groups and gives us the rest of the class period to use our tablets and laptops to start our research. I could do this all day. Wow! Poetry is kinda like my music—it paints a picture in my head, only with words.
I click on the names and photos of the poets we find. Langston Hughes. Gwendolyn Brooks. Maya Angelou. Some new guy named Jason Reynolds; he’s got awesome dreads—cool! And this poet named Paul Laurence Dunbar, who lived in Dayton (just about an hour away from here)! Somehow that makes me feel proud.
Jontay raises his hand and says, “My cousin goes to Dunbar High School—in Dayton. He told me Dunbar was from Dayton, Ohio, and the school was named after this dude!”
Mr. Kazilly nods and says, “Your cousin is absolutely right!”
“That’s kinda cool,” Jontay mumbles. “Can I do my research on him?”
“Great idea,” Mr. Kazilly says with a smile.
