Father raced to my room when he heard
my scream. He flipped on the light, and I saw him step back in surprise. And I
knew that he too had just felt the power of the sickening odor. Without a word,
he opened a window, turned toward me. We looked silently at each other.
Then … “Vickie, did you hear—?”
“I did.”
Silence.
And then a long, long conversation before either of us
surrendered to the sway of sleep.
The next two days in
school—Wednesday and Thursday—we worked on our poems in class, individually, with
small groups. Ms. Medwin had already announced a surprising plan for us, too.
“Class,” she’d said on Wednesday, “on
Friday, we’re going to arrange our room for a formal poetry reading.”
???
After she saw all the question
marks hovering in the air like clouds of gnats over our heads, she explained a
little more. “I’m going to borrow the lectern from the school, a microphone.
And those of you who want to read will come up and read your poems at the lectern.
You’ll deal with questions and comments afterwards. It will look something like
an actual poetry reading.”
???
She explained what that was all about. (None of us had ever
been to such a thing.) And then … another surprise.
“And those of you who are going to
read?” she said. “I’d like you to … dress up
for the occasion.”
Now the airy question marks transformed
into noise. All kinds of questions—a
few complaints—but overall excitement. Dress
up! In school?
Well, if I’d had any doubts before
about reading in front of the class, I had none
now. It was not going to happen. But all kinds of hands were in the air right
now, hands of volunteers. And among them was Harriet Eastbrook.
On Friday morning, out in the
cafeteria, waiting for Mr. Leon to open the doors to the academic area, the
poetry-readers stood out. Girls in dresses, boys in coats-and-ties, other curious
kids surrounding and surveilling and questioning. What … ? And Why … ? And:
Poems!?!? I have to say that it was
one of the oddest scenes I’ve ever witnessed at school. The readers—the dressed-up
ones—all behaved in kind of a royal manner. Yes,
I’ll be reading my poem in class today. Even their conversational sentences
seemed more … formal. Some carried in their hand a folder that held, I was
sure, their poems—but the readers behaved as if they were carrying state
secrets.
And even odder than all of this?
The other kids seemed almost cowed by
all of the formality. After the questions ended, they just stared, as if they’d
stumbled into the wrong hotel room and found themselves in an alternate
universe where people they knew looked
somewhat the same—but something else about them was just very wrong.
When English period came, I was surprised
how changes so minor could make such a major difference in the look of the
room. Ms. Medwin had moved our table back a little, and put in front of the
room the wooden lectern that the principal used for assemblies and other public
events. Attached to it was a microphone with a flexible neck to that the
speaker could adjust it. And behind the lectern, I saw, was a little platform
for kids who needed one to stand on. (As you know, middle school kids come in
all sizes.)
And there were vases of flowers
around … flowers!
And Ms. Medwin herself was dressed
up, too, wearing a floor-length dress. She looked as if she were going to some
kind of formal event. It was dark green—form-fitting—and seemed almost to
shimmer as she moved here and there, adjusting things. I’ll have to say that
most of the boys were very attentive
in English on Friday.
When we were all in our seats and
settled, Ms. Medwin approached the microphone and said, “Welcome to our first
seventh-grade poetry reading.” First?
Were there going to be more? “Our theme—the Settlers Cemetery. Today, we
will give voices once again to those who have for so long been silent.
“And our first poet today”—she
looked at her list—“is Dwayne Hardfall.”
Dwayne
Hardfall. The largest boy in our school since the departure of Blue Boyle. Dwayne Hardfall. Who played on the
middle school football team and—so I heard—hit other boys on other teams so
hard that they took a long, long time getting back up off the ground. Dwayne Hardfall. Who was dressed in a
bright blue suit with a bright yellow shirt and a bright red tie. The same red
as his face as he moved toward the lectern to read his poem. Ms. Medwin led the
applause as he approached.
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