seriously, tomorrow Iâm gonna have to think of a way to get out of that room.
But how?
I canât tell them itâs haunted.
Are you kidding me? Theyâd send me straight back to Iowa in a straightjacket. And then no one would hear the end of it.
And Iâd be haunted by a far more frightening specter. My mother.
TWELVE
B y the time Contemporary Lit comes, I look like Iâve been up for two days straight. What can I say? I barely slept last night, thanks to the visitation from beyond.
âWhoa. Look at you. Have you turned to a life of crime and prostitution?â
Itâs Remy. Of course.
âNope. My room is haunted.â
âReally?â
âWell, itâs my bathroom, actually.â
âOooo-oooo. The case of the haunted bathroom . . .â
âBasically, the whole area of my floor where they put me is haunted by some sort of bath ghost.â
âYou are . . . odd. âRemy stares at me, openmouthed. Browraised. But that open mouth . . . is in the shape of a smile.
Ms. Ingall comes in and everybody sits up in their chairs.
âNow, class, Iâm assuming weâve all read the book in full? Show of hands?â
Everyone raises their hands but Remy. Sheâs too busy writing me a note on the corner of her paper.
It says: âWhat are you gonna do?â
Ms. Ingall calls on someone in the front row. It annoys me Iâm not in the front row, but itâs assigned seating. How am I supposed to make my quizzical face from not in the front row?
I write back to Remy, on the corner of my paper: âMove.â
Remy writes back: âHow?â
I write back: âAsk?â
Remy scribbles back: âThey wonât let you.â
I gulp.
She shakes her head at me.
Ms. Ingall is writing something on the blackboard. Something about âthe otherâ and âliving in the margins.â
I whisper to Remy. âBut . . . they have to. Iâm desperate.â
Ms. Ingall turns around.
Remy scribbles back: âI know what to do. You have to pretend youâre gonna kill yourself if they keep you there. Then they have to move you. Or theyâll be liable . Like in court. You know, if you actually try to go through with it.â
Oh, thatâs interesting. All this time I had to pretend I wasnât gonna kill myself, now I have to pretend I am gonna kill myself. Up is down, America!
Also, Ms. Ingall is on to us.
âWilla? Remy? Do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?â
âNo, Ms. Ingall.â We say it in unison.
âGood. Now, Willa. What do you think it means? Living in the margins?â
âUm . . . I think maybe it means that the whole world, the whole story is focused on something else. Like men. Rich men. Rich white men, actually. And their hero stories. Like, American history. Itâs not about you. Not if youâre a woman. And especially not if youâre an African-American woman or a Latino woman. And especially if youâre poor. So, youâre, like . . . in the margins, living in the margins, making your case in the margins, trying to make a difference maybe, from the margins . . . but nobody really wants to listen to you. To see you. âCause youâre not the story they want to tell.â
Ms. Ingall looks at me. And so does the rest of the class.
âThatâs right, Willa.â
Ms. Ingall turns around. Waits a beat. Turns back to me.
âAnd Willa . . . why is it not the story they want to tell?â
âI guess because . . . if you tell your story from themargins . . . it kind of weakens their story, their storyline . . . kind of like their brand. It threatens them. All of their justifications for doing all kinds of horrible things go out the window if anyone listens to you.â
âGood, Willa. Very good.â
Remy looks at me, whispers, âTotally! Wow, youâre smart! Or that ghost took you over and now you are possessed by a nerd.
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