real and fresh, even though they’re over a decade old. So is my awareness of the potential risks. My mother started making me aware long before I was LaJuna’s age. She wasn’t shy on topics of sex, teenage pregnancy, the problem of bad choices in relationship partners, of which she’d made quite a few over the years. She was quick to point out that the thing girls in her family did best was get pregnant early, and with loser guys who weren’t mature enough to be decent fathers. That was why she’d left her hometown. Even that didn’t save her. She still got pregnant with the wrong man…and look where that landed her. Stuck working her tail off as a single mother.
The trouble was, it hurt to hear that. It reinforced all my insecurities and the fear that my very existence in this world was an inconvenience, a mistake.
Maybe you should have a talk with LaJuna. I shuffle this to my mental in-basket, along with a dozen other things. And Lil’ Ray. Both of them.
Are teachers allowed to do that? Maybe discuss it with Sarge, instead.
But right now we have a rehearsal to accomplish or a graveyard pageant to cancel, one or the other.
“Listen!” I yell over the noise. “I said, listen! Stop playing with the lanterns. Stop talking to each other. Stop hitting each other over the head with tombstones. Put the little kids down and quit tossing them around. Pay attention. If you can’t, then let’s all just head home. There’s no point going any further with the Underground pageant. We’ll just settle for research papers and presentations in class and be done with the whole thing.”
The rumble dies down a little, but only a little.
Granny T tells them to hush up, and she means it. She’ll report to their mamas about how bad they’ve been. How they wouldn’t listen. “I know where to find your people.”
It helps a bit, but we’re still a zoo. Some kind of wrestling match is breaking out on the left side of the group. I see boys jumping up and doing headlocks and laughing. They stumble and mow over a couple seventh graders.
You should’ve known this would happen. My inner cynic delivers an opportune gut punch. Unicorns and rainbows, Benny. That’s you. Big ideas. The voice sounds a lot like my mother’s—the mocking tone that frequently sharpened the edge during arguments.
“Cut it out!” I yell. I notice a car driving along the street at the field’s edge. It drifts by, the driver leaning curiously out his window, scrutinizing us. The knot in my stomach works its way upward. I feel like I’ve swallowed a cantaloupe.
The car on the street turns around and cruises past again. Even more slowly.
Why is he looking at us like that?
A shrill whistle pierces the air behind me and bisects the chaos. I turn to see Sarge striding around the school building. I thought she was tied up babysitting tonight, but I’m insanely glad that reinforcements have finally arrived.
Her second whistle rises above the din and splits eardrums. It achieves an admirable degree of crowd noise reduction. “All right, you oxygen thieves, it’s cold out here, and I’ve got better things to do than stand around and watch you morons jump on each other. If this is the best you’ve got, you are a waste of time. My time. These ladies’ time. Ms. Silva’s time. You want to act like losers, then go home. Otherwise, clamp your jawbones to the tops of your mouths, and do not release them unless you have raised your hand high and Miss Silva has called on you. And do not raise your hand unless you have something intelligent to say. Is that understood?”
There’s complete silence. A pure, unadulterated hush of glorious intimidation.
The kids hover on a razor’s edge. Leave? Go do whatever they’d normally be doing on a Saturday night in October? Or knuckle under to authority and cooperate?
“I can’t hear you,” Sarge demands.
This time, they answer in an uneasy, affirmative murmur.
Sarge rolls a look my way, grumbles, “That’s why I’m not a teacher. I’d already be