of its tale. And a lot of people have all but forgot about that. They don’t know the story of that building and so they don’t appreciate it like they ought. But now, you kids…now you understand what it meant, and that it was hard won. And from here on, maybe you’ll care about it in a different way.”
“That’s the reason I asked Granny T to come share with us today,” I tell the kids, joining Granny T in the front of the classroom as the students pass around old photos. “There’s so much history in this town that most people don’t know. And, for the next few weeks, we’re going to do some detective work, see what we can find out. I want each of you to discover the story of a place or an event in this town—something people probably aren’t familiar with—and take notes, copy photographs, whatever you can gather, and write the story.”
A few groans follow, but they’re muffled. Mostly, there are murmurs of interest, mixed with questions.
“Who do we ask?”
“How do we find stuff?”
“Where do we go?”
“What if you don’t know anything about anything here?”
“What if you ain’t from here?”
A desk screeches and for a bare instant, I’m afraid some form of trouble is about to erupt right in front of our guest speaker. Surely they wouldn’t…
I follow the sound to find Lil’ Ray halfway out of his seat with one hand stuck in the air. “Miss…ummm…Miss…” He can’t remember my real name, and he’s afraid to call me by one of my dubious nicknames in front of Granny T.
“Lil’ Ray?”
“So we gotta write about a place?”
“That’s right. Or an event.” Please, please don’t start a revolt. If Lil’ Ray rebels, so will his crowd of admirers. It’ll be tough to get the class back after that. “This is going to be a big part of our semester grade, so it’s important to work hard at it. But I want it to be fun, too. As soon as you’ve found your subject, let me know, so we won’t have any duplicates, and we’ll learn something different from each report.”
I pan the room with my teacher eye, as in, I mean it. Okay?
Another squeal of desk legs. Lil’ Ray again. “Miss…uhhh…”
“Silva.”
“Miss Silva, what I meant was, instead of telling about a place or a event, can we write about a person, because—”
“Oh, oh.” Laura Gill interrupts—actually cuts him off—but she’s got her hand in the air, as if that makes the interruption okay. “At this school in New Orleans, at Halloween time, they do this thing called Tales from the Crypt. I saw it in the newspaper last year at my cousin’s house. They dress up like the person and stand there in the graveyard and, like, tell the story to everybody. How come we can’t do that?”
The idea ignites something I’d only dreamed might be possible. Suddenly, fresh tinder is everywhere. My classroom is afire.
CHAPTER 17
HANNIE GOSSETT—RED RIVER, 1875
We gather what things we own, fold our quilt, and take down the scrim cloth we hung for shade from the sun that shines off the river in waves and ripples, mile after mile. For days now, our camp’s been steaming upwater on the Red, fighting snags and grasshoppering over sandbars to get crosswise through the rest of Louisiana and out of it. We’re in Texas now, for good or for worst.
Home’s gone. Too far for looking back or going back. The horses been sold off, and I hope the man treats them good. Was hard to see them go, hardest on Juneau Jane, but that money’s the only way we could buy goods and deck passage on this side-wheeler. Still ain’t sure if I chose right in getting on this boat with her, but before we did, I had Juneau Jane write a letter and post it back to Tati and Jason and John. Wanted them to know not to worry over me. I’ve gone off to see after word about Old Mister. I’ll be back before time comes to harvest the crop.