Somewhere I Belong by Glenna Jenkins Page B

his shoulders, then stared harder at the picture and searched for a clue. “Dog,” he said. “Dog, girl, ball.”
    â€œNot quite.” I pointed to the first word. “Sound out the first letter.”
    He stared at the page and then up at me.
    â€œDo you know your alphabet, Thomas?”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour letters—your ABCs?”
    â€œSome of them.” He looked up at me, eagerly, but I knew he wasn’t sure.
    â€œIf you don’t know your letters,” I said, “how are you ever going to read?”
    Thomas had sat in a desk, in the front row, listening to Mr. Dunphy for nearly six months. And it seemed he hadn’t learned a thing. I grabbed his scribbler, opened it to a clean page, and carefully wrote down the alphabet. I spaced the letters evenly across two neat rows, sounding them out as I printed. Then I slid his scribbler in front of him.
    â€œGive it a go, Thomas.”
    â€œA,” Thomas said, “B, C.”
    Just as Thomas picked up speed, a shadow fell over us, and a large, meaty hand reached down and clasped my shoulder.
    â€œWhat’s this we’re doing, Mr. Kavanaugh?” Mr. Dunphy barked.
    â€œThe alphabet, sir,” I stammered up at him. “We were sounding it out.”
    â€œAnd what are we supposed to be doing?” He circled in front of us, grabbed the desk, and stared down hard. His eyes bulged, their whites a roadmap of thin red veins.
    â€œOur reader, sir.” I shrunk back from him. “But—”
    He raised a hand up, cutting me off. “Young Thomas, perhaps you can tell Peter James, here, what it is we do first thing every morning.”
    â€œOur readers, sir,” Thomas said, his eyes wide with fear.
    â€œAnd what are we doing now?” Mr. Dunphy’s voice sounded like a growl.
    â€œOur letters, sir.” The colour drained from Thomas’s face. He slumped so low in his seat, his bum threatened to slide off the edge.
    Mr. Dunphy shifted a foot and leaned over me. “So you think you’re smarter than we are, do you, Mr. Kavanaugh?” His deep voice filled the now silent room. “You think we’re, perhaps, a little behind up here, do you?” Before I could answer, he stood back and pounded his pointer into the floor. “So you’ve brought your new-fangled Yankee ideas with you to show up your ignorant northern cousins, have you?”
    â€œNo, sir!” I said. I sat paralyzed, wondering at Mr. Dunphy’s accusing stare. Thinking how I had only been trying to help Thomas. This wasn’t the Charlie Dunphy who had helped himself to Uncle Jim’s cider and joked in Granny’s parlour. I looked up at his angry face and conjured an image of him pie-eyed, pestering Aunt Gert in the kitchen, and Uncle Ed practically throwing him out the back door.
    I put my hand over my face and suppressed a smirk.
    â€œSo, now you think you’re funny?” Mr. Dunphy said.
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t.” I wasn’t thinking about the drunk Mr. Dunphy now. The angry Mr. Dunphy leaned down and spewed his stale oatmeal breath all over my face.
    He moved away, a hand swinging out, limped up the steps, then stopped in the middle of the platform. He pointed a finger to a space beside him. “Up here, young man. And be quick about it.”
    I slid from my seat and mounted the steps. My legs shook and my heart pounded. My face burned despite the cool air. My new teacher took me by the shoulders and turned me to face the room. I stood, conscious of my baggy trousers and their rolled-up cuffs, of the too-big shirt with a pocket that drooped to the waist. Of the thirty silent faces staring at me. And I was the only one in the room, besides Mr. Dunphy, wearing a bow tie.
    â€œShow us how smart you are, Peter James.” His lips rolled into a grin. “Let’s hear it again.”
    In his drunkenness at Granny’s he had called me “Peter