She’s short, not much bigger than me. Her hair is curly black, her lips bright red, and she wears high heels. They click-click as she comes into the room, smiling, looking like a Barbie doll. At my old school, Mrs. Baker wore tennis shoes, sat, always complaining about how her feet hurt “teaching, running after you kids.” I never saw her run once.
Miss Garcia claps her hands—one, two, three—amazing, kids quiet and sit in their seats, hands folded on their desk. No way.
One kid dashes for his backpack.
“Charles, sit.” Laser-eyed, Miss Garcia stares and Charles—not even a Charlie—sits.
“I was just getting my pencil.”
“You’ll get it later.” Then, as if she remembers, Miss Garcia says, “Please. You’ll get it later, please.” Then she smiles extra wide like the lips do on Mrs. Potato Head. She’s nervous. Her red index finger taps the desk; her forehead shines with sweat. Miss Garcia didn’t even introduce herself. I know her name ’cause it’s written in big script on the whiteboard. She stops smiling, then, remembering, smiles again.
I look over at Ben. He nods, looking at me. He’s not dumb, after all. He knows no teacher acts like this on the first day of school. At my old school, there were usually the bubbly types who work really hard and leave after a year. Or drill sergeants who shout, “Do this. Do that. Stop talking.” They yell until my head aches and I don’t learn anything.
Miss Garcia seems a bubbly type, but not so bubbly today. She also seems like a bubbly type who didn’t quit teaching. At my old school, teachers were either really old with wrinkles and graying hair or else young with ponytails and, sometimes, pimples. Miss Garcia’s skin is clear; her hair, loose. On her finger is a diamond ring.
“New school year,” pipes Miss Garcia. “Principal Thompson wants us to try a new curriculum.” She licks her lips. “All lessons are to be integrated.”
What’s that mean? This school is already integrated. More integrated than any school I’ve ever been.
In front of me, heads turn, kids whisper. Something’s not right. Different. Even the fifth-grade regulars are surprised by Miss Garcia’s nervous squeaks.
“‘Be relevant,’ Principal Thompson likes to say. ‘History is alive.’”
I’m getting worried. Principals are always giving orders. Maybe Miss Garcia doesn’t like it?
Ben raises his hand.
“Yes?” Miss Garcia squints at him like she’s trying to remember who he is.
“Aren’t you going to introduce the new kids?”
Every head spins toward us. I want to kick Ben. I hate being the center of attention. My clothes aren’t fashionable. I don’t even have a backpack. Or a pencil.
I squint my “don’t you make fun of me” look as hard as I can. Nobody stares back. Or gives me an evil look. One girl with a head scarf waves. I sigh. Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to play it cool? New kids have to prove themselves.
“My name is Benjamin Rubin, the third. Call me Ben.”
Voices murmur, gurgle, shout, “Hi, Ben.”
“This here is—”
Palm open, Ben waves toward me. I’m supposed to speak. I don’t want to speak. But if I don’t speak, they might think I’m afraid.
“Dèja. Just Dèja,” I say. “The original. One and only.”
I don’t say my last name, because, in my old neighborhood, folks knew the Barneses were really poor. Saw boxes of our clothes, Ma’s trunk, her “Hope Chest” she calls it, broken in the street. Saw Leda hanging on to her raggedy baby doll. Raymond crying. Me helping Ma and Pop stuff what they could in our car and still have enough room for five of us to sleep. After a month living in the car, we got a room at Avalon.
“Welcome,” says Miss Garcia, and I notice this time her smile is for real. “We don’t get many new students. Especially in the fifth grade.”
“Nope,” says the girl with the scarf. “We’re a small school. Most of us have been friends since first grade.”
I knew it.
“Welcome, Benjamin and Dèja. Students, say hello to Ben and Dèja.”
Kids say “hi.” Some say their name. I’m surprised. For the first time, Miss Garcia looks relaxed, happy. Then she stands taller, clasping her hands.
“We’re going to have an interesting start of the year. Special.”
Miss Garcia’s still smiling, but her voice trembles like “special” is a problem. She breathes deep and shakes herself. Her hoop earrings wiggle. “Today is September 6.
“This is an important week,” says Miss Garcia, looking left at the wall of windows. “An important month.”
I’m worried again. It’s September. What’s so important about that? School always starts in September.
Miss Garcia claps her hands again—one, two, three. We all quiet.
“Our first essay. Please write about your summer vacation.”
Everybody groans except Ben. He opens his backpack and hands me a No. 2 pencil. I don’t know why I take it.
“Sabeen, please pass out the paper.” The girl from earlier leaps up. Teacher’s pet, I think.
Sabeen is smiling, passing lined paper to the left then the right, between aisles. Some kids even say, “Thanks, Sabeen.”
She pauses, looks at me. She looks at Ben. She looks at the two empty desks separating us.
“Here.” The lined paper flops like a dead bird’s wing. I don’t take it. Sabeen places the sheet on my desk. “Here,” she smiles, turns to Ben.
“Miss Garcia, I’m going to sit here. Between Ben and Dèja.”
“That’s fine.”
Sabeen sits closer to Ben than to me. Good thing. I was going to yank her scarf if she sat next to me.