The last class of my first day
is science.
My teacher, Mrs. Stanton, has curly hair
like mine, but hers is light-brown-turning-silver.
She wears a forest green skirt that flares,
a beige turtleneck,
and a cardigan buttoned at the top like a cape.
Her glasses are on a chain.
“It will be May before we know it,”
she says, leaning against her desk,
“and time for the Science Groove.”
She waits—for the kids to say something
or clap, but all they do is lean on their arms
or doodle, or yawn and stick out their legs.
They all know what she’s talking about. But I don’t.
I want to ask what the Groove part is all about.
My arm aches to rise. But,
since I already feel like Mama’s maneki-neko,
I wait
for someone else to ask.
“I’ll help you choose a project,” Mrs. Stanton says.
“You’ll write a report and do a presentation for ten minutes.
And, it must be entirely your own work.
No one can do it for you.”
Now my hand springs up.
Mrs. Stanton nods. “Wait till I finish,
then you might not have a question anymore.
Everyone will set up their projects in the gym
and the projects will be judged.
The best projects will win awards.
Did that answer your question, Miss Oliver?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Here they call it a Groove. In Berkeley
we called it a Fair. I won third prize at the Fair.
At the Groove, I will win first.