Because We Are (14 page)

“All right, Ms. Walsh. You may leave the room. Don't come back until you have a permit slip.”

“That's cold,” somebody muttered.

Emma quickly left the room. The anger swelled in her throat, tears blinded her.
Why couldn't she pick up that paper?
What would she say to the vice-principal?

“Hey.” Allan rushed after her, keeping his voice almost in a whisper. “Wait up. Where you going?”

She turned around, but could not say a word as the tears flowed.

“What's the matter, Em?” he asked, alarmed.

She struggled to control the tears. Finally she said, “Oh, Allan, I'm angry, angry, angry. I could destroy that man. He put me out of class because I wouldn't pick up paper.”

“You should be happy.”

“Please, Allan. I'll have to see the V.P. before I can get back in there.”

“For not picking up paper?” Allan laughed. “The V.P. will think he's off his wig, sending you in for that. Here they put you out for smoking dope, for a holdup, assault. You'll get a permit, don't worry.”

Her worry doubled when she discovered that the girl's vice-principal and the boy's vice-principal were away at a special meeting. She would have to see the principal. She waited and listened as a group of boys caught smoking weed tried to implicate one who swore he had walked into the boy's toilet just before the teacher who reported the incident.

“Aw, Ted, you know y' wuz.” A voice was followed by a snicker.

“I wasn't. Smell my breath, Mr. Freeman. I don't smoke nothing.”

That must be Ted pleading, Emma thought. Laughter came from the inner office.

“I don't want to hear any more until I see you with your parents.” The booming voice startled Emma. “Out!”

“But, Mr. Freeman,” Ted cried.

“Out, I said. Bring your parents.”

Four boys came out, three snickering, pointing fingers at Ted, cracking up. Ted was scowling, boiling with rage, yet helpless against their trickery.

Emma remembered the day in the rain with Eoil Can and felt anguished. What if she were told to bring her mother? Her hands began to perspire; she couldn't sit still, so great was the urge to escape.

Suddenly she had an idea: Put Kooner down. Tell the principal about the scramble. Her spirit lifted, but despair returned when the tall, robust, ruddy-complexioned man asked her to come into the office. She had heard that Mr. Freeman was an ex-marine, ex-football coach, who was stern. Everybody was glad he wasn't around often.

“What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“I need a permit slip to return to Mr. Kooner's class.”

“Just like that: You want a permit slip.…”

“I have to … Well, you see, he asked me to pick up some paper … but it wasn't just that. He makes us scramble for books and I … I just can't do it.”

The laughter surprised Emma. “All those big boys in there; a good-looking girl like you shouldn't have to scramble. Let them scramble for you!”

She couldn't believe it. She had the permit in her hand and the word that Mr. Kooner was one of the finest teachers in the school. Something was wrong.
She was wrong
. She could hear her mother complaining:
Emma, you're always making a mountain out of a molehill
. Still she knew that the humiliation, anger, and anguish she felt doing the scramble was real. There had to be someone who would understand. She would call her father.

Seventeen

The waiter set a huge iced bowl of shrimp in the center of the table, placed menus, and retreated. The cocktail waitress quickly followed.

Emma's father looked up. “A double martini for the lady …”

“Ladies?” the waitress asked, looking from Jody to Emma.

“Oh, no, she's not eighteen.” He glanced at Emma.

“I will be soon,” Emma retorted, a scowl in her voice.

“Wine for me. Emma, Seven-Up?”

Emma refused the Seven-Up and took nothing to drink before dinner. She squirmed as the old insecurity she felt with her father returned. Here she was almost eighteen, feeling as incapable as a six-year-old. If only she knew how to cope with Kooner, she wouldn't be at this table.

The menu was of little interest. She knew she would order crab legs, her favorite, but she didn't feel hungry. Why had her father chosen a fancy restaurant at the marina for their talk? Any hamburger place with just the two of them would have been fine.

Emma glanced at Jody. The candlelight flickered and caught the fire in Jody's ring as she flipped the shells off the fresh pink shrimp. Her imported, bottle-green dress was perfect with her light hair and gray eyes. Jody caught Emma's eye and smiled. Emma quickly looked away.

“Em, I take it you need help with your resume and applications to colleges,” her father said.

“Oh, no. That's done.”

He was obviously surprised. “Have you already settled on a school?”

“Not really, but I've narrowed them down to three: Meharry, Howard, and Stanford.

“Meharry? Howard? Never heard of those schools,” Jody said.

“They're Black medical schools: Howard is in D.C., Meharry is in Tennessee. I can understand Howard and Meharry; but with all that Black togetherness lately, why Stanford?” her father wanted to know.

“Maybe I'm ready to test some of the things I'm learning about myself.” Emma grinned. “A friend suggested the idea, and I like it.” She then told of her plans to write a paper for the graduation speakers' competition.

“So you think you have something profound to say about the future?” her father asked.

“I do. So much it's hard to know just where to start. There's the idea of peace and liberation, pollution, whether we'll go on living. There's a lot to say, but who will listen?”

“I'm open,” Jody said.

“I'll listen if you have a meaningful plan of action,” her father said.

“I'm working on it in my own way.” Emma was pleased with the response.

Her father smiled and said, “You seem to have things well in hand; what else is there to talk about?”

This is it, she thought. Now she would have to give the real reason why she had asked to talk to him. She looked out at the sparkling waters and wished she had not asked at all. If only her mother had shown courage and talked to Kooner. She sighed, “Daddy, I …” She sighed again. “I'm having trouble with this teacher.”

“Not again. You just got to that school. Are you in for another transfer?”

Emma lowered her head. “Please.” Then she quickly glanced at Jody. How much did Jody know about her problems? Why does she have to be here? Finally, she said, “No. It's just that I need somebody to talk to him. He's mean; he's really no teacher. He doesn't care—”

“Wait,” her father interrupted, “all you're saying is he doesn't like you. Does it matter whether he likes you? He doesn't have to like you. He just has to teach you.”

“Aw, you don't understand.…”

“Help me understand.”

The waiter interrupted to take their orders, giving Emma time to think of what she would say. When the waiter left, she went straight to the point. “Mr. Kooner makes us scramble for books like animals over scraps.”

“What do you mean, scramble?” her father demanded.

Emma explained exactly what Kooner did and how the reactions of the students compounded her humiliation.

“Now I see the problem,” her father said. Silver gleamed in the light and the glass sparkled as her father sipped the amber wine.

Can he imagine, even, those scenes with Kooner? Emma wondered. She pushed the food aimlessly around on her plate. Crab legs that usually made her mouth water and her fingers eager to get at them did not arouse her appetite. Finally she asked, “So, you'll talk to him?”

“Why do I need to talk to him? The problem is you need a book.” He laid a fifty-dollar bill near Emma's plate. “This should get what you need.”

“That's not the problem,” she shouted.

“Hey, remember where you are,” her father cautioned.

She burned with shame, but she was still angry when she lowered her voice. “
Mr. Kooner
is the problem and somebody needs to do something about him.”

“He's not
your
problem. You're a good enough student to work without a teacher, Emma. You get your book and do your work, pass your exams, and get the hell out of there.”

She had been failed again. She believed her father would understand her humiliation and, at least, talk to Mr. Kooner. Why were her parents so unwilling to let Kooner know he was responsible for finding the books that the schools provided for them? The old feeling of rejection she knew so well when she was with her father welled up inside her. She could never depend upon him to help when she needed him most. Money!

She picked up the fifty-dollar bill and handed it back. “This won't do. Can't you see? I can't walk into class with a book.”

“I don't understand why you are so upset,” her father said.

“Maybe Emma should be upset,” Jody said.

“I think you should stay out of this.” Her father gave Jody a glowering look. “I don't intend to get drawn into a situation where the students themselves don't seem to care.”

“They can't do any more than I can,” Emma cried.

“You either buy yourself a book, or live with that teacher.” Her father pushed the money toward her.

She thrust the money back. “I'll not buy a book, that's for sure. And I don't think scrambling is something I can live with.”

The only sound was the tinkling of silver on china as Jody and Emma's father finished their meal. Emma sat stonily looking at her plate. Why couldn't she do what everybody else thought was the right thing: Get her own book or go along with the other students? Everybody else could not be wrong.

The money still lay near her father's plate. All she had to do was reach for it. Maybe the heavy tension would be relieved and she could enjoy her dinner. But she could not bring herself to pick it up and clear the air. She sat trying to control the feeling of outrage.

Later that evening she tried to work on the graduation speech, make more notes, improve the first few pages. No use. Her mind would not focus on work.

Finally she lay in bed trying to forget the scene in the restaurant. Why had she asked anything of her father? She should have known he would find his solution and ignore whatever she said. But could he be right? Was she being stubborn? Could anybody put Kooner down when the students enjoyed the scramble?

She tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She could see the class poised—some on the edge of their seats—waiting for the signal. Was it because they loved to read? She turned over angrily and said aloud, “Couldn't be.” What made them do it? Suddenly she felt that the answer might be that nobody had told them they shouldn't. Maybe they believed it was the thing to do because it was fun.

Should she tell them how she felt? Would they listen? She thought of Liz and the day the teacher had attacked Don. Certainly Liz would not listen. James was convinced there was nothing students could do; Don—out of the question. Maybe Carrie. She wished she could forget Kooner and fall asleep.

Sleep would not come. She thought about her father again. If only he would do something. She could see him, self-assured, walking into Kooner's class, polite but firm, demanding a stop to the scramble. Wouldn't Kooner be surprised? All the students would want to know, who is that man? What would they think when they learned that he was her father, declaring scrambling had no place in their school?

Don't be silly, she told herself. Come to your senses, act your age, and forget him. Put him out of your life. The fullness now all the way into her throat forced tears into her eyes when she realized she was still kidding herself.
She'd never forget her father
. She loved him too much and had to go on loving him. She fought the tears and willed herself not to succumb to self-pity. He is as he is, she told herself. She must learn to love him as he is and not expect him to help her solve her problems. She felt better as she slowly counted backward from two hundred.

Eighteen

A loud knock on the door startled her out of deep sleep. She would have to hurry. That there was no time to make her lunch for school frustrated her and she wished she could stay home.

“Get your things together and let's get out of here,” her mother demanded. “You're making me late.”

“I have my things.”

“Where's the book I got you from the library?”

“I'm not taking it.”

“Aren't you going to class?” Her mother was impatient.

“I'm just not taking the book, Mama.” Emma tried to control her anger.

“Emma, what's the matter with you? You don't seem satisfied unless you're getting into trouble. Get that book now, so we can go.”

“Mama,
I'm not taking it.
”

“
You are taking it.
”

Emma knew she had backed herself into a corner. How would she ever get out? She could take the book and leave it in her locker, but that would not solve the problem with her mother. She had to let her mother know exactly how she felt, but now she was frightened. Maybe she had gone too far. “I always do what
you
want done. Why can't you see that I have to do something that
I
think is right sometime?”

“I don't have time to argue with you, girl.”

“Then don't. Just listen. I'll soon be old enough to vote—deciding who will be the President of these United States. Why can't I decide whether I want to take a book to school or not?”

“It's not just taking a book to school and you know it. But I don't have time for this. Don't take the book, and if you get into trouble, don't come to me. If you think you're old enough to make your choices, please be old enough to live with them, responsibly.”