15 DECEMBER 1960

Can van ban persevere

Victoria smirked at the words she had just typed. They appeared like some kind of riddle. But as long as she correctly typed the words, Mr. Hiller didn’t care how they appeared together and she received an A for the typed exercise.

Next to her, Phil pulled out his correction liquid and fixed the spelling of “persevere” before his fingers clanked away at full speed. Though it hadn’t worked out for Victoria to eat lunch with him and his sister, she still enjoyed “talking” with him through their typing. Today, though, he focused intently on his own work, leaving Victoria to write the exercises on the board. Easier than trying to think of what to write instead.

Caw car care cart

Sigh.

At least by reading from the board, she was starting to slowly type without looking at her fingers and had stopped thinking that she’d been given a faulty typewriter when she couldn’t find a certain letter.

She glanced over to read Phil’s paper again when she saw him wave his long brown fingers in the space between their desks, their secret signal for her to look at his sheet.

This is a bit awkward, but will you do something for me?

The lack of misspelled words surprised her almost as much as the question.

Of course.

His shoulders immediately relaxed.

Could you proofread a story I want to publish in my uncle’s newspaper? He said he would print it if I hand it in without any mistakes.

Victoria thought about it for a second, but mostly to make sure she used the correct grammar in her response. Yes, I would like that. Shall I read it after class?

Thanks! I need it to be presice

Precise, she corrected with a grin. Maybe the class wouldn’t be as boring today as she thought.

TWEEEEEEE!

The wail of an alarm caused half the students to jump in fright and the other half to dive under their desks.

“¿Qué ’tá pasando?” Victoria cowered, her hands clamped against her ears at the siren.

“It’s an air raid. We’re under attack!” someone shouted.

“Duck and cover, children,” Mr. Hiller called from the front of the room. His voice for once had lost its monotony. “Duck and cover!”

Victoria did as the others had and slid under her desk, crouching into a little ball. Her heart beat hard against her chest. Would this be the end? Would this be the reason why she never returned home?

“The Soviets are coming! We’re going to die!” the same voice shouted.

Victoria turned to see a boy screaming hysterically over the sound of the alarm and darting across the room like a madman. Mr. Hiller tried to tell the boy to duck and cover, but he wouldn’t listen. He seemed to have forgotten about the door and dashed to the window next to Phil. Except he also forgot about the glass pane.

He crashed against the window and crumpled to the floor.

“Sir, he’s bleeding!” shouted the girl two desks up from Phil.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mr. Hiller crawled out from under his own desk to the boy, linked his arms under the boy’s armpits, and began hauling him across the floor between the desks and out the door. “Nobody move until I’ve returned or I’ll fail you.”

The siren continued to wail, but the room felt strangely silent with no one shouting over the noise. Some of the students were quivering in fear or crying. Others held their hands clasped out in front of them in prayer.

Nothing else, however, happened. Despite the pain in her ears, Victoria’s heart eased its throbbing. More likely than not, this wouldn’t be the end.

She turned back to Phil. He had liberated his typed sheet from the machine, as well as a notebook, a pen, and a bag of chips from the basket under his chair for his under-the-desk refuge. He grinned sheepishly and offered Victoria the bag.

She reached in, assuming they were potato chips, and pulled out a handful to find out she had been wrong. “¡Mariquitas!”

Phil cocked his head to one side. Understandably. She hadn’t spoken loud enough to be heard over the relentless wailing, and since he didn’t understand Spanish, he wouldn’t know the word to read her lips. She retrieved her own notebook from the basket under her seat and dumped the snack on an open, blank page. Then she unfurled and lay on her stomach on the dirty floor, crossing her ankles behind her.

If the Soviets really were about to drop a bomb, at least she would die comfortably.

I didn’t know people here ate plantain chips. I love these! Victoria popped a couple into her mouth as she wrote on part of the page not covered in salty, crispy goodness.

Plantains are a family favourite. Remember my mother is Haitian.

She hadn’t forgotten he was Caribbean. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about his mannerisms and personality was very familiar and relatable, as if they shared some kind of island bond. Whereas his sister, Monique—the little Victoria had spoken to her—seemed more like an estadounidense, a stranger, an outsider.

Of course. However, in this country the word is spelled FAVORITE.

Blah! I think it looks better with a U.

Victoria shook her head in mock exasperation, though secretly she agreed. She favoured British spelling too.

The wailing siren stopped as suddenly as it had started, though the sound continued to reverberate in her head. Some of the kids began to crawl out from under their desks, while others scolded them to stay put like Mr. Hiller had said. Voices and footsteps started coming from the hall, though no one entered the classroom. Victoria alternated her crossed ankles but otherwise didn’t move. She was very comfortable lounging under her desk. Phil likewise stayed put.

So as not to be overheard, they continued their handwritten dialogue.

Do you have that story you want me to proofread? Victoria wrote.

Phil smiled the same way Nestico did when he knew he had gotten his way, and passed her a folded piece of paper and more plantain chips.

Her left hand absently fed her mouth chips while the right hovered a pen over what Phil had written, correcting the occasional spelling mistake.

“What’s a ‘cornette’?” She pointed to the word on the page.

“A musical instrument. Like a trumpet.”

Victoria nodded and corrected the spelling. Even though she hadn’t known what the word meant, that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to spell it. Some kind of literacy instinct she’d always had.

At first, Phil’s story seemed inspiring. It was about a talented musician joining an elite orchestra, except that every time he blew a note on the cornet, everyone else would play their instruments louder or ignore his parts completely. The cornet player questioned whether he should stay in the orchestra where he wasn’t wanted. The conductor insisted he was needed to complete the sound but didn’t tell the other musicians to stop their behavior.

What did you think? Honestly.

Victoria savored a plantain chip, letting it dissolve on her tongue, as she thought how to best phrase her thoughts. Is this autobiographical?

No, I don’t play the cornet.

But it is an allegory, isn’t it?

I suppose.

Victoria swallowed the chip mush left on her tongue. The story is great—well written and interesting. The part about the mean tuba player being too constipated to blow was funny. But I don’t understand why the other musicians don’t like the cornet player. He seems perfectly nice as well as talented.

He’s just not accepted, Phil wrote back. He’s different.

How come?

Phil held his brown arm against Victoria’s pale one.

She still didn’t understand.

Then she remembered that people’s reaction to race was different here than it was in Cuba. Back home, their family doctor had been one of the most celebrated practitioners on the island; his skill had been more important than his skin color. When they had read about Rosa Parks in the English newspaper, Papalfonso, who always rode the bus to socialize with his guajiro friends, had commented that a true gentleman would have given up his seat for the lady.

Here, however, they liked to segregate everything, including bathrooms, water fountains, and swimming pools. When she had been apartment hunting, she remembered, some ads in the newspaper had said “white only.” None of those restrictions made sense to her, but now she understood why Monique had called Victoria “one of them.” Phil and Monique were possibly the only children currently in the school with obvious African ancestry.

No wonder the cornet player—and Phil—felt excluded. Estadounidenses only looked at people through one lens.

I’m sorry you’re not accepted here.

It’s just how things are. Phil shrugged. Our pastor warned Monique and me that we’d be tokenized in the school’s integration, but reminded us of its importance.

But as Victoria well knew, “how things are” didn’t make them right or any easier. I’m glad you’re here.

Phil beamed. Victoria turned away from him to shield her burning face. How forward she must seem!

A few of the children had left the room despite being told they would get into trouble. Two continued with the typing exercises they had been doing before the alarm, while repeatedly glancing at the door. Others gathered in groups to talk about their plans for the weekend. Only one person other than them remained under a desk. From the looks of it, she had fallen asleep or fainted.

“How is everyone in here?”

Victoria turned to see Marge from the front office standing in the doorway in fringed buckskin boots and an asymmetrical skirt. She never seemed to care for traditional fashion.

“Just letting you know the alarm was only a drill. Your teacher should have told you that.” Marge made a face that revealed exactly how she felt about Mr. Hiller. Victoria had forgotten how much she liked Marge.

“What happened to Richard?” The girl two seats from Phil pointed to the window.

“He’s with the nurse, and his parents have been called. He’ll be fine. The rest of you, get your things. You’re dismissed from this class.”

Victoria scooched herself out from under her desk, sweeping the floor with her clothes while at it. She brushed off her front and hoped she could change before Mami saw her. She bent over to retrieve the refuge supplies she’d accumulated and handed Phil the proofread story. “I think your uncle is going to love it.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re here too, friend.”

“Friend?” she asked, surprised.

Phil stopped dead in his tracks. “We’re not?”

“I was thinking more like cousins.” Victoria let a proud smile cross her face. “Who’s to say that your Haitian ancestors weren’t related to my Cuban antepasados?” And as long as they were related, she could treat him like family without worrying about coming across as forward.

“Cousins.” Phil said the word slowly, as if testing out how it sounded. “Yup, I could use more family members here.”

Couldn’t we all. But Victoria pushed that bitterness out of her mind before it could fester.