‘Sir? What are these? Are they pirate ships?’
A giggle ran around the class. Many of the lower and middle school kids genuinely believed Greg Abimbola was a pirate. Why else would he have an eye patch?
One of the seventh-grade refugees – Landon Worthington, if Greg had got their names straight – was pointing curiously at two ornate models of wooden sailing ships. Tiny brass cannon poked out from immaculately painted gun ports, miniature crosses of St Andrew flew proudly from gold-filigree sterns, streaming in an imaginary wind.
‘They’re the Mirny and the Vostok,’ Greg explained. ‘Ships of the imperial Russian navy. Among other things, they were the first ships to discover Antarctica.’
Across the room, another teenage hand shot up.
‘I thought the English discovered Antarctica, like Captain Scott, or somebody?’
‘Captain Scott made it all the way to the South Pole, slap bang in the middle of Antarctica,’ Greg said, smiling. ‘But that was almost a hundred years later. And even then, he wasn’t the first to get there. The Norwegians beat him to it – by about a month, I think. Their leader was a man named Roald Amundsen. Who was also the first man to fly over the North Pole – in an airship, no less. Interesting guy.’
The bell rang. Lunchtime. Kids started to head out of Greg’s classroom, though, like the students before them, far more slowly than usual. The corridor was still freezing. And Andrea’s little radiator was still fighting the good fight. A small group of kids lingered around the model ships, apparently intrigued.
‘God! I wish my lab was as warm as this.’
Demetrius Freedman, the school’s chemistry teacher, waded upstream against the current of hungry children, and crossed over to Greg’s desk. He was wearing a puffy, quilted coat, but no hat or gloves. He looked absolutely miserable. Demetrius had that tall, rangy, African American build that most Americans associated with basketball. To Greg, who was not American, he looked like a Maasai warrior. A cold one. One who’d swapped the East African savannah for the foothills of Western Pennsylvania and only just realized he’d got the shitty end of the deal.
‘By all means come in and warm up.’ Greg waved vaguely in the direction of the children. ‘It’s not like you’d be the first.’
‘Not your regular class, then?’
‘Nope. Kids are basically camping out here because it’s warm. There are maybe half a dozen classrooms with some sort of heating, so the kids are being sent through on extended study. I’ve got Russian II straight after lunch, and then I think Emily told me to expect some freshmen for the rest of the afternoon.’
Demetrius nodded.
‘Yeah. Emily’s been sending kids my way, too. I’ve been running the Bunsen burners all morning, but it’s not been having much of an effect.’ He looked enviously in the direction of Andrea’s radiator. ‘Where’d you get that heater?’
‘I threatened a custodian with torture and death.’
Demetrius chuckled.
‘I hope you did. Vernon Szymanski’s an old-school, racist bastard.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ Greg said, mildly. He was not in the mood for one of Freedman’s diatribes.
‘I’m serious. He’s—’
‘There are kids here, Demetrius.’
‘Yeah. White kids. Let’s not hurt their feelings.’
The last of the children left the classroom. Greg braced himself for another onslaught and was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t come.
‘I hear you’ve been crossing swords with Lindsay Delcade,’ Demetrius ventured. He was looking at Greg curiously, head cocked to one side.
‘You could say that.’
‘Well, you have my sympathies, brother. That woman is an A-grade bitch. God help anyone who says or does anything to “undermine my daughter’s aspirations”.’ Demetrius’s hands might be cold, but that didn’t stop him from curling his fingers into air quotes.
‘I take it I’m not alone, then.’
‘No. But she has a special place in hell for the black folks who get in her way.’
‘Demetrius, please. I’m too cold for this.’
‘Yeah, well, just because you’re English doesn’t mean it don’t apply to you. This whole country’s a white supremacist shithole.’
‘I’m sure it is. But there are far worse places in the world.’
‘Do you think so? You might want to change your mind about that.’ Demetrius glanced meaningfully across the classroom. Greg followed his gaze, landing on the Mirny and the Vostok. They were still sitting on their shelf, still sailing across invisible, iceberg-laden seas.
And yet.
Greg’s long stride took him across the room in a handful of steps. The dark, varnished wood of the ships’ hulls had been scratched over with jagged, clumsy letters.
Captain Bimbo, one said. Greg turned to the other. Took a slow, calming breath. Read it over. Reminded himself there were worse things in the world. Only then did he allow a wave of sadness to wash over him.
Nigger. The words stretched raggedly along the port side of the Vostok.
Nigger Go Home.