How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [50]
And appreciated.
twenty-four
As I’m in the kitchen washing the tins from the blueberry muffins we made in class earlier, Miriam enters and asks if I’d like to help—the kids want to make posters and flyers to promote the upcoming bake sale.
“They just came in from playing basketball. They’re in the fellowship hall.” With that, she leaves me, her tennis shoes squeaking in rhythm.
I can hear them; the fellowship hall is the next room over, and no walls can keep out the noise the kids make when they talk.
As I enter the large room lined with metal tables and chairs, Lisa is pouting because she didn’t get the anticipated visit with her mom last weekend. She moans that she had to stay with her foster family and all they did was rent a movie. “
A movie sounds good,” Zack says to her. He is wearing jeans and a dark brown T-shirt that brings out the flecks of brown in his hazel eyes.
“What did ya see?” asks Bobby. The group is seated around two rectangular tables—tables Miriam has piled with colorful construction paper, poster board, and markers.
“Ratatouille.” Lisa makes a face; the others laugh.
“That’s a fun movie,” says Zack. For some reason, I’m surprised he watches movies. I thought he spent all his time helping the kids. I imagined that when he wasn’t with them, he used every available hour to figure out how to make their lives better, maybe poring over his psychology books from grad school.
Lisa’s frown doesn’t leave her face. “My mom was going to take me to buy clothes at the mall in Asheville and out to dinner at the Fryemont Inn.”
“Your mom ain’t that rich!” yells Rainy, and her voice bounces off all four walls.
“She is so! She’s got more money than all of you!”
“My mom’s got two houses,” Rainy boasts.
“And one of them’s the jailhouse,” quips Dougy. “Where she lives all the time.”
Rainy rises from her seat. “Just because I’m black, you think my mama’s in jail?”
Zack interrupts sternly, “Okay. That’s enough.” He waits for Rainy to sit down again and then he turns and nods to me.
I’m standing by the wall near the door where I entered.
I don’t want to intrude on this gathering, which to me feels like a family trying to work things out. I feel like the intruder, the one who doesn’t belong.
“Miss Livingston,” Joy asks when she sees me, “are we gonna make posters?”
“Can I make them? I’m good at art,” says Rainy.
Lisa announces that she is too sad to make anything.
“You can’t live on sadness, Lisa,” says Zack in a steady voice. “You have to keep on going.” He looks from her straight at me. “People suffer broken promises and dreams many times in their lives.”
“Duh! We know that,” says Bubba.
Then Zack lets me take over the class by stepping aside and gesturing for me to stand before the group.
Broken promises? Why was Zack looking at me when he said that? I feel heat rush to my face. I will not let his comment bother me. I have kids to teach. I march over to the whiteboard and pick up a black dry erase marker. “Why don’t we list the ways we can advertise our bake sale?”
“I want to make a poster,” says Rainy. “I’m good at art.”
“We could put them up on the bulletin board,” says Joy.
“We need everyone to see them,” says Bobby. He expands his hands to show just how wide he wants this coverage to be.
“Duh!” says Bubba. “We need an airplane to fly in the sky with an announcement.”
The class laughs. Except for Darren. He is drawing something in his notebook. With his head lowered, he moves his red pen across the page to make bold lines.
“We can make flyers and pass them out,” says Dougy. “Go all over town and hand them out at places like McDonald’s.”
“And I want to make a poster,” Rainy tells us again.
“Okay, Rainy can make a poster.” On the whiteboard I write Poster and place Rainy’s name by the word. As I write, Rainy’s eyes brighten.
“Do we need another poster?” I ask. “How about one for the church’s bulletin board?” I’ve seen the bulletin