Stiltsville: A Novel - By Susanna Daniel Page 0,51

pros wins.”

I said, “Fourth grade isn’t an option.”

“It’s the standard by which all other grades are measured,” Dennis said.

I said, “Mr. Oxley thinks you might be a little too mature for the fifth grade, sweetheart.”

“Except he pronounces it matoor,” said Dennis, and Margo giggled.

“I like Mr. Oxley,” said Margo.

“Me too,” I said.

“Me too,” said Dennis, and in the fourth-grade box he wrote: MR. OXLEY.

“I don’t think sixth-graders take art class,” said Margo.

NO ART CLASS, wrote Dennis in the sixth-grade box.

I said, “They have health education in the sixth grade,” and Margo made a face. Dennis pointed out that she’d be in a different class from her friends, and Margo nodded solemnly. FRIENDS, wrote Dennis in the fifth-grade box. Margo pointed out that sixth-graders were allowed to take two elective classes per term. SHOP & HOME-EC, wrote Dennis, and she said she’d prefer to take gymnastics.

“Sixth-grade boys are cuter,” she said, which came as a surprise. This was true, from what I’d observed. CUTE BOYS, wrote Dennis with difficulty. Margo said, “Graduation.”

Dennis was always less reluctant than I to show ignorance. “Meaning what?” he said.

“There’s no ceremony for the sixth-graders,” said Margo.

There were plenty of times when I wasn’t certain what Margo was talking about—music bands, for example, or slang, or comic book characters. For an instant, I thought this was one of those times, but then I remembered the most significant difference between fifth and sixth grades: although they were both located on the same campus, one was elementary school, and the other, as of a school board decision two years earlier, was middle school.

“You’ll miss graduation,” I said, and Margo said, “Obviously.”

Sunset School comprised two large buildings, one for kindergarten through fifth grade, and the other for grades six through eight. Grades nine through twelve, which didn’t yet concern us, were located in a different place entirely. If Margo skipped the fifth grade, not only would she occupy a different desk in a different classroom—she’d cross into a new world order. This was not a minor distinction.

“They have lockers at middle school,” I said.

LOCKERS, wrote Dennis.

“They have different teachers for every subject,” said Margo.

DIFF. TEACHERS, Dennis wrote.

“They don’t have to walk single file in the hall,” said Margo.

Dennis wrote, NO SINGLE FILE. Then, in the fifth-grade box, he wrote, SINGLE FILE.

“I’ll go,” said Margo.

I marveled at her flexibility. “You don’t have to,” I said.

Dennis put down the pencil. “Why don’t you sleep on it?”

Margo bit her lip. “No. It’s OK.” She put her arms around his neck. When she drew back, she hugged me, too, then picked up the steno pad with the boxes all filled in. She tore off the top sheet and folded it as small and tight as a matchbook, then slipped it into her back pocket and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Can I have ice cream?” she said.

Two weeks later, Margo left in a van full of local kids for Camp Cherokee in southern Georgia, where she’d spent a month every summer since she was eight. In July, Dennis and I drove up to Atlanta to spend the weekend with my mother—we met my father and Luanne, whom we’d seen only occasionally over the years, for breakfast—and on the way home we visited Margo at camp on her birthday. We took her out for barbecue and she and Dennis went through ten packets of Wet Wipes each. Camp was only half over and already she was tan and hollow-cheeked, with a newly chipped molar. She explained that she’d been doing backward somersaults in the shallow part of the lake, one after the other without coming up for air, and then the back of her head had hit the metal swim ladder. She’d believed she’d been rolling in place, when really she’d been traveling. As soon as her head had hit, she’d felt something sharp roll over her tongue. She’d stood up and spat into her hand, then presented the shard to her counselor. I wondered why we hadn’t been notified. Dennis sighed—thinking, I assume, of the dentist bill.

“On land,” said Margo, “when I do a somersault, I roll about this far.” She spread her arms. “But I thought that in water, I’d stay in place. Wouldn’t you think I’d stay in place?”

“Like laundry in a machine,” said Dennis, nodding.

Margo shrugged. “I guess not.”

Usually when we drove up for her birthday—as we had done three summers running—Margo begged to stay at camp for another two-week session. We’d always refused. A month