jokes.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because . . . ?” Whatever bravery she exhibited confronting Callie on the first day of school has withered away.
“It’s because I’m stupid.”
We’re both quiet. Rebecca’s hair falls over her face, hiding her full, round cheeks. “You should talk to them,” she says softly. “They’re lonely.”
Now it’s my turn to shrug.
The next day I head for the library, hall pass in hand. Rebecca stands at the circulation desk but busies herself by looking in every possible direction except mine.
It doesn’t take me long to find Violet.
At least, I assume it’s Violet. They are twins, after all.
“Violet?” I ask, nearing the table.
She looks up from her textbook and slips the buds from her ears. “Griff. Wassup.”
I sit down across from her. Her skin glows under the hard, bright fluorescent lights. “I just wanted to officially introduce myself. I’ve been meaning to, but —”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m sure you got better things to do than hang with someone like me.”
The sweat collecting underneath my arms approaches oceanic levels. “What makes you think that?”
“I’m a freshman. Low man on the totem pole.”
“Sophomores aren’t much better off,” I mumble. “So where’s your sister?”
Her smile falters. “In study hall, texting that sorry, trifling boyfriend of hers.” She leans closer to me. She smells like aloe vera. Nice, but nothing like citrus. “I miss my boyfriend, too, but you don’t see me moping around.”
She has a boyfriend.
I want to turn toward Rebecca and her dark curls and citrus-scented skin and yell,
She has a boyfriend!
“It ain’t just him. It’s home.” She strums the table. “She misses home.”
“Hobbs takes a while to get used to.”
“How long did it take you?”
I laugh. “When I get there, I’ll let you know.”
I’m in the middle of telling her about what cafeteria meals to avoid when Mrs. Whittaker walks over. The school librarian is out on maternity leave, so Mandy Whittaker’s mom offered to substitute. Like an English degree, two snobby teens, and a huge bank account make you an expert on all things literary.
“You two getting any work done?” Mrs. Whittaker asks.
“Griffin was nice enough to come over and introduce himself. He’s giving me some pointers about school.”
She glances at Violet’s notebook. “What are you studying?”
“English.” She moves her hand, giving Mrs. Whittaker full view of her notebook. “I’m working on an essay on
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
By Maya Angelou.”
“I’m familiar with the book,” Mrs. Whittaker says, touching the top button of her blouse. “I thought your class was reading
The Book Thief.
”
“By Markus Zusak. I read it last year.” She doesn’t blink an eye. “Mr. Brooks and I thought it would be more worthwhile to focus on another book.”
“I see.” Mrs. Whittaker’s voice is different. Smaller. She looks around the table, letting her eyes settle on the open Angelou book. The pages sport an assortment of highlights and underlines, with notes in the margins.
“It’s my personal copy,” Violet says.
“Of course.” Mrs. Whittaker nods to Violet, then to me. “Let me know if I can help, okay?”
After Mrs. Whittaker leaves, Violet shakes her head. Her eyes remind me of a dull penny. “Sorry ’bout getting you into trouble. My bad.”
It’s almost magical, the way she switches talking like that.
Some people call it slang.
Teachers call it bad English.
Idiots call it Ebonics.
And me — I call it just talking. Like you do with family.
I want to be like her, loose and carefree with my vowels and consonants, right here at Hobbs. Because lately, even at home with my cousins, the words are starting to come out stiff and broken and wrong. The last time I was home, they said I sounded white.
I shake this thought away. “I’m not worried about Mrs. Whittaker.”
“That ain’t who I’m talking
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because . . . ?” Whatever bravery she exhibited confronting Callie on the first day of school has withered away.
“It’s because I’m stupid.”
We’re both quiet. Rebecca’s hair falls over her face, hiding her full, round cheeks. “You should talk to them,” she says softly. “They’re lonely.”
Now it’s my turn to shrug.
The next day I head for the library, hall pass in hand. Rebecca stands at the circulation desk but busies herself by looking in every possible direction except mine.
It doesn’t take me long to find Violet.
At least, I assume it’s Violet. They are twins, after all.
“Violet?” I ask, nearing the table.
She looks up from her textbook and slips the buds from her ears. “Griff. Wassup.”
I sit down across from her. Her skin glows under the hard, bright fluorescent lights. “I just wanted to officially introduce myself. I’ve been meaning to, but —”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m sure you got better things to do than hang with someone like me.”
The sweat collecting underneath my arms approaches oceanic levels. “What makes you think that?”
“I’m a freshman. Low man on the totem pole.”
“Sophomores aren’t much better off,” I mumble. “So where’s your sister?”
Her smile falters. “In study hall, texting that sorry, trifling boyfriend of hers.” She leans closer to me. She smells like aloe vera. Nice, but nothing like citrus. “I miss my boyfriend, too, but you don’t see me moping around.”
She has a boyfriend.
I want to turn toward Rebecca and her dark curls and citrus-scented skin and yell,
She has a boyfriend!
“It ain’t just him. It’s home.” She strums the table. “She misses home.”
“Hobbs takes a while to get used to.”
“How long did it take you?”
I laugh. “When I get there, I’ll let you know.”
I’m in the middle of telling her about what cafeteria meals to avoid when Mrs. Whittaker walks over. The school librarian is out on maternity leave, so Mandy Whittaker’s mom offered to substitute. Like an English degree, two snobby teens, and a huge bank account make you an expert on all things literary.
“You two getting any work done?” Mrs. Whittaker asks.
“Griffin was nice enough to come over and introduce himself. He’s giving me some pointers about school.”
She glances at Violet’s notebook. “What are you studying?”
“English.” She moves her hand, giving Mrs. Whittaker full view of her notebook. “I’m working on an essay on
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
By Maya Angelou.”
“I’m familiar with the book,” Mrs. Whittaker says, touching the top button of her blouse. “I thought your class was reading
The Book Thief.
”
“By Markus Zusak. I read it last year.” She doesn’t blink an eye. “Mr. Brooks and I thought it would be more worthwhile to focus on another book.”
“I see.” Mrs. Whittaker’s voice is different. Smaller. She looks around the table, letting her eyes settle on the open Angelou book. The pages sport an assortment of highlights and underlines, with notes in the margins.
“It’s my personal copy,” Violet says.
“Of course.” Mrs. Whittaker nods to Violet, then to me. “Let me know if I can help, okay?”
After Mrs. Whittaker leaves, Violet shakes her head. Her eyes remind me of a dull penny. “Sorry ’bout getting you into trouble. My bad.”
It’s almost magical, the way she switches talking like that.
Some people call it slang.
Teachers call it bad English.
Idiots call it Ebonics.
And me — I call it just talking. Like you do with family.
I want to be like her, loose and carefree with my vowels and consonants, right here at Hobbs. Because lately, even at home with my cousins, the words are starting to come out stiff and broken and wrong. The last time I was home, they said I sounded white.
I shake this thought away. “I’m not worried about Mrs. Whittaker.”
“That ain’t who I’m talking
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