Someone comes into history
and hands Miss O’Connell a note.
She reads it and nods and walks toward my desk.
My pencil makes a jiggly line in my notebook.
Notes in school are never good news
unless they’re from your friend.
It says:
Please send Mimi Oliver to Mr. MacDougall’s office.
Mr. MacDougall tells me to have a seat
and sits on the edge of the desk,
clasps his hands in his lap
and makes the kind of smile
that can mean he has something awful to say.
Or it can be his way of tilling the soil.
“How are you doing, Mimi?
Are you feeling at home now at school,
making friends?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hear good things about you from your teachers.
You’re a star student—
a real credit to your race.”
I wonder
if anyone ever said that to Mr. MacDougall,
or if he has any idea
how much it hurts.
But I nod and make a little smile
because he’s the principal
and I don’t know why he called me to his office.
He unclasps his hands and sits in his chair.
“I told you
I was going to make a decision about . . .
that ruckus you and Miss LaVoie instigated.
That’s unusual behavior in our school,
in our town.”
“I know, sir,” I say. “But I wanted to stand up for what I believe in.”
“Which is?”
I take a breath,
remember the picture on the wall of Papa’s study,
and say, “Equal rights and protection under the law.”
He leans forward. “I have to tell you, Mimi,
at first, I didn’t like what you were doing.
It was rebellious
and there’s too much of that going on
in our country these days.
But when I saw the other students
supporting your idea,
I thought differently.
And then I realized you were not rebellious
but courageous.
You know what that means?”
“It means being scared
but doing it
anyway.”
Mr. MacDougall leans back in his chair.
“You’re absolutely right. So I’ve been thinking
about girls doing wood and metal work
and boys doing cooking,
and I came up with a solution
that will make everyone happy. Starting in January,
we’ll have two new after-school clubs—
the Carpenters Club for the girls
and the Chefs Club for the boys.
How about that?”
He smiles, wanting me to say something.
“That’s great, Mr. MacDougall—
for now. But it’s not the same as having classes.”
“No,” he says, “it’s not, but we can’t have classes.
So, that’s what we’re going to do.
It’s my decision.”
He might think the subject is closed
but I know it isn’t, so I say,
“Maybe later we can have classes,”
and think Drip, drip, drip.
The bell rings, and he dismisses me.
When I stand up to leave, I say,
“Thank you, Mr. MacDougall.
You’re a real credit to your race.”