4

Hakim’s news on Wednesday morning left me with only two days to figure out some kind of send-off. I didn’t want Hakim to just disappear with no good-bye. What would be appropriate? I stewed about it all the rest of that day and into the next. Keep it light. Keep it fun. But let him know he’s been an important part of our class . . .

For some reason my mind didn’t churn out the usual string of ideas, and the more anxious I got about it, the more I came up blank. Then I realized this was Old Jodi behavior: stew about it first; pray later, when all else fails.

“Didn’t Jesus say God cares about a sparrow who falls out of the sky?” I muttered as I let myself into the house after school on Thursday and put Willie Wonka out. “He’s gotta care about Hakim leaving our class.” So I prayed aloud as I put a saucepan of water on the stove to heat and started peeling potatoes for supper. “Sorry, God. Didn’t mean to be slow talking to You about this. You know the situation; You know how awkward it is that Hakim is even in my class! Yet I do want to thank You. Yes, thank You for putting Hakim in my class. He doesn’t know it, but he’s brought so much healing to me just by his presence . . .”

Healing. Didn’t Hakim’s name mean something about “healing”? I dropped the potatoes I was peeling and hunted up my lesson plan notebook. At the beginning of the school year, I’d made a welcome bulletin board with each child’s name and its meaning in colorful bubble letters. I had the list somewhere . . . there it is.

“Hakim. Wise healer.”

Hm. What could I do with that? He’d been pretty scornful last September when I told him what his name meant. I studied the list, trying to think.

The back door banged. “Mo-om! Wonka’s digging up the flowers Becky Wallace just planted!” A split-second lull. “Why is there a pan heating on the stove with nothing in it?”

“Ack!” I made a mad dash for the kitchen and pulled the empty saucepan off the burner. “Boiled dry,” I said lamely to my fifteen-year-old, who was holding Willie Wonka by the collar and wearing that I-can’t-believe-how-dumb-parents-are look. I glanced out the back door window; sure enough, a freshly dug hole decorated with topsy-turvy marigolds had materialized in the newly planted flowerbeds along the fence.

Grabbing a rag from the bucket under the sink, I got it wet and threw it at Amanda. “Make yourself useful. Clean off Wonka’s paws,” I said, heading out the door to repair the damage. The dog, oblivious to his crime, licked Amanda’s face as she bent over his muddy paws.

By the time I’d rescued the marigolds, Amanda had her head in the refrigerator looking for a snack. Refilling the saucepan with water, I put it back on the stove and tackled the potatoes again. “Tomorrow is Hakim Porter’s last day in my class,” I said, trying to make normal conversation. “Got any ideas how I could make it special?”

Amanda gave up on the refrigerator and raided the cookie jar. “Cupcakes. And play some kind of game. It’s third grade, Mom.”

I stared at my daughter as she grabbed the phone on her way out of the kitchen. Cupcakes! Of course! And a game . . .

Suddenly I had an idea. I grinned as I plopped the last skinned potato into the now-boiling water. Thanks to God and Amanda.

MS. IVY WAVED ME INTO THE SCHOOL OFFICE the next morning, grinning slyly as if she was guarding a national secret. Ignoring the fact that my hands were full with a tray of chocolate cupcakes, she dragged me behind the main desk, threw open Avis Johnson’s office door, and flipped the light switch. “Ta-da!”

Somebody had been busy. A long paper banner on the wall behind her desk said CONGRATULATIONS, AVIS AND PETER! Twisted yellow and green crepe-paper streamers crisscrossed the room like a spider web, and on the desk sat a pile of wedding gifts wrapped in colorful paper and gold ribbon. “Better come in early on Monday if you want to see the look on her face.” Ms. Ivy giggled. “Haven’t had this much fun since we had a sit-in for two days in the president’s office in college—oh! Don’t forget to tell your students to say, ‘Congratulations, Ms. Johnson’ whenever they see her on Monday.”

“Except it’s Mrs. Douglass now—but don’t worry. She’ll love it. Just ignore anything she says like, ‘What’s all this nonsense?’ and, ‘Did you get any work done last week?’ ”

I left Ms. Ivy still chuckling, made it to my classroom without dropping the cupcakes, and hid them in the supply closet. Once the bell had rung and the students were more or less in their seats, I announced that today was Hakim’s last day in our class, so I was declaring Friday “Hakim Porter Day” and everyone should try to think of something special he or she could do for Hakim. Embarrassed, Hakim slid down in his seat and put his hands over his ears—but I saw a tiny smile flicker at the edges of his mouth.

A few of the students really got into it. Chanté offered to sharpen his pencil. Ramón said Hakim should be first in line to go to lunch. Cornell broke his candy bar in two and gave Hakim half. During creative arts, several students labored over good-bye cards.

With an hour left in the school day, I told the students to put away their papers and books—to loud cheers—and it was time for Hakim’s good-bye party. We pushed back the desks, and on the floor I laid down a number of flashcards with a large capital letter written on each one. “Who can make a word out of these letters?” Jade picked out SEE. D’Angelo put together RAT and OWL. We kept mixing up the letters, and others began to get the idea, finding OR and REAL and HAT. The word game took a detour when Terrell discovered POW and proceeded to act out a few karate kicks: “Pow! Pow!”

After marching Terrell to his seat for a five-minute time-out, I noticed Hakim studying the letters intently. Suddenly, he said, “Let me.” In thirty seconds, he had spelled out HAKIM PORTER and sat back on his heels grinning.

“But what are the other letters for, Ms. Baxter?” Kaya asked.

“Just to fool us, I bet,” scoffed Ramón. “It was Hakim’s name all the time, ’cause it’s Hakim Porter Day.”

“You’re right, Ramón. It is Hakim’s name, but the rest of the letters spell out the meaning of Hakim’s name. Remember our bulletin board at the beginning of the school year?”

Several heads nodded. “But I only remember my name,” said Britny. She stuck her nose in the air. “It means ‘England,’ and I’m going to go there someday.”

A hubbub ensued as several students shouted out the meaning of their names. But I finally managed to corral everyone’s attention again. “Whoever can put together the two words that are the meaning of Hakim’s name can bring out the treat I’ve got locked in the supply closet.”

Again there was a flurry of waving hands. Hakim said gruffly, “Let me. It’s my name.” And in short order, he had spelled out WISE HEALER with the remaining cards on the floor.

I smiled. “You remembered.”

He shrugged. “It’s still stupid. Can I get the treat now?”

The cupcakes, which also had capital letters spelling out Hakim’s name in green frosting, one letter per cupcake, were a big hit; so was the game of pin the tail on Shrek’s donkey friend. We played and laughed until the bell rang. “Don’t forget!” I called out as the kids scrambled for their backpacks and jackets. “When Ms. Johnson comes back from her honeymoon on Monday, you can say, ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Douglass!’ ”

Hakim lingered, cleaning out his desk and stuffing papers, pencils, colored markers, and other stuff that he had collected throughout the year into his backpack. Finally, he came up to my desk. “Thanks for the party, Ms. B.” A frown collected on his creamy brown face. “I—I won’t get to say good-bye to Ms. Johnson. Will you”—he fished in his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled, handmade card—“give this card to her?”

I took the card. “Of course, Hakim. She will really appreciate it.”

He fished in his other back pocket. “An’ this one’s for you.” He handed me another crumpled, construction-paper card. The front was decorated with curlicues and flowers and stick figures holding hands. Inside were just four words: I LOVE YOU. HAKIM.

OK, SO MAYBE TEACHERS AREN’T SUPPOSED TO CRY and give their students big hugs, but I couldn’t help it. I was still sniffling as I started home with my tote bag and the empty cupcake tray. Even if Hakim’s mother didn’t know if she could forgive me, Hakim’s “I love you” went a long way to healing the pain in my heart.

No wonder Jesus said we should “become like little children” and “a little child shall lead them.”

Besides, I told myself, wasn’t it a good thing Hakim would be getting the help he needed? In fact, so many good things had been happening lately that I should be dancing in the street! Avis getting married . . . Yo-Yo getting baptized . . . Becky getting an early parole . . . not to mention that spring was busting out all over, draping the rough edges of our Chicago neighborhood with a canopy of green leaves overhead, while tiny lilies of the valley embroidered the grass along the rough concrete sidewalks.

Wow, God. Given how this school year started—MaDear throwing a hissy fit at Adele’s beauty shop, sending a mirror flying at my husband’s head; Bandana Woman busting into a Yada Yada prayer meeting waving that wicked knife; getting screamed at by Hakim’s mother at our first parent-teacher conference when she realized who I was—given all that upset and trauma, it seems like “all things are working together for good,” just like that verse in Romans promises.

As gladness swallowed up my sadness, I even tried skipping down the sidewalk of Lunt Street as I approached our two-flat . . . until I tripped over a crack. OK, forget skipping. I could be happy, but I needed to watch my feet.

That’s right, Jodi. Don’t let down your guard. I could almost hear Avis’s voice speaking firmly in my ear. Satan likes nothing better than to lull us to sleep spiritually when things are going well. Keep up the prayers. Pray for Yo-Yo. Pray for Becky—you better believe Satan isn’t happy about “the ones who got away.” Pray for your kids, pray for Hakim and his mother, pray for—

The phone was ringing as I came in the house. Shedding my jacket and dumping my tote bag on the way to the kitchen, I grabbed the receiver just as the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, it’s Jodi! I’m here.”

“Oh. So glad you are home, Jodi!” Nony’s rich voice seemed curiously breathless. “I have such good news. I can’t wait till Yada Yada meets—two whole days. I will burst wide open before then.”

I laughed. “What?” I had an inkling. “I’m a glutton for good news.”

“It’s Mark! He came home from work today and told me . . . oh, bless the name of the Lord! Let the whole world know what He has done! For the Lord is good. His unfailing love endures forever!” Nony burst into one of her Scripture prayers, and I had to wait several moments before she came back on the phone.

“Nony! What did Mark say?”

“Oh, Jodi. He applied for a sabbatical from Northwestern, and it was approved. We are going to South Africa when the boys finish their school year!”

Ha! Take that, Satan, I thought as I hung up the phone a few minutes later. God’s on a roll, doing good things for all the Yada Yada sisters!

But as I let Willie Wonka out into the backyard—supervised this time, till we put some little fences up around the flowerbeds—the Voice in my head said again, Be on your guard, Jodi. Pray.