I brushed the back of my dress off.
“Now,” Jesse told Mae Helen, “you go on home.” He turned to Augustine. “You, too,” he said. He didn't even sound angry.
Mae Helen helped her sister to her feet. They started up the roadâslowly, shooting mean stares back at me to pretend they weren't scared, anyhow. I met every one of their stares. To show I wasn't scared, neither.
“You okay?” Jesse asked.
“Where'd you come from?”
“I followed you.”
“How come?”
“I heard them talking about all they were going to do to you. I thought it was just talk. But I decided to see for myself. So I come this way, stayin' behind you.” He looked past me.
“I'm fine,” I said.
“I'ma go, then.”
I brushed away more dirt and twigs that were clinging to my dress. “Thanks,” I said and watched him walk away. Me and Prez started for home.
More important things came into my thoughts, though. I'd have to really hurry now. With all the delays, it was going to be nearly impossible to rush through everything I needed to get done before Mama arrived home hot, tired, and irritated.
Â
I tutored Jesse every day the rest of the week. Miss Lattimore, busy with her teaching and principal duties, bustled in and out of the classroom and hardly seemed to notice us. I liked teaching Jesse for two reasons: I liked watching his progress, and he kept me safe from Augustine.
I surprised myself. I could tutor Jesse for thirty minutes, run home, and get every one of my chores done and the dinner on the stove by the time Mama was walking up the road toward home. Course, that first night Mama had caught sight of my scraped elbows and said, “What happened to you?” I was in a pitiful state, like someone always doing battle and getting a new wound every time she turned around. Cat scratches, welts from a whipping, and now scraped elbows that promised to crack and sting fiercely whenever I bent my arms.
“I hurt myself,” I'd said simply and Mama was too tired to question me further.
Â
“What's that?” Jesse asked me the following Monday.
“What?”
“That,” he said, laying his finger on the picture of an orange grove. Slowly and painfully, he was making his way
through
The Little Red Hen.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from yawning. It took a lot of patience not to correct him, to wait and let him sound the words out himself. Sometimes I had to tell him. Then he'd repeat it four or five times, even closing his eyes while he said it to see it in his mind. But I never had to tell him that word again.
“That's what you call an orange grove. We don't have any here.” I looked out the schoolhouse window at the trees we grew here. Pine and pecan, peach and sweet gum. No orange.
“Where they have orange groves?”
“They have them in Florida and California.”
“Where's this California?”
“On the other side of the country. Right where the Pacific Ocean is.”
“Where's that?”
I looked in his earnest face. He didn't know where the Pacific Ocean was. I got up and checked the hall toward the small room Miss Lattimore used as an office. Then I got the atlas off the front desk and opened it to the map of the United States. Jesse leaned over me. “We're here,” I said, showing him where Alabama was. “And the Pacific Ocean is here.” I ran my finger slowly across the map to show what a big country it was we lived in. “It's two thousand miles away.”
“Two thousand miles,” he repeated and pulled at his sleeve. “I'ma go there one dayâwhere they grow oranges on trees.” He thought about his own words for a moment.
Then he gave a short nod, like he was settling it in his mind.
He stood and started for the door, just as he did every day, saying that was all the time he could spare.
The next day, Jesse was late for the first time. In the middle of multiplication drills, he entered, head down. Some of the kids stared as he slunk to his seat, waiting to see if he'd get yelled at. But Miss Lattimore didn't miss a beat. She just went on calling on us and snapping her fingers if we hesitated. She didn't call on Jesse and he didn't volunteer. It seemed she was letting him make his way.
The next day, Miss Lattimore had him listen to the second-graders read
Little Red Hen
and follow along as best he could. Later, she gave him a slate to practice writing letters from his penmanship book and only called on him when she couldn't avoid it. Any giggling was met with a piercing stare over her glasses.
Â
Finally on Friday I asked Jesse a question that had been nagging at me. “How do you get all the way here from New Carlton?”
“I walk.”
I thought about this. New Carlton was six or seven miles away. He'd have to start out at sunrise to get here on time.
“Why did you want to go to school? Now?”
“I always wanted to go.” His eyes left the window and settled on me almost defiantly. “My daddy needed me to
work in the fields. I'm the oldest.” He shrugged. “My mama always wanted me to go, too.”
“You going for your mama.”
His mouth quivered and he lowered his eyes. “She died.”
“You don't have a mama?”
He seemed to be struggling to compose himself. Finally, he managed to say, “She died last winterâand I always promised her I'd get some schooling. So that's why I come here.”
“Who do you live with now?”
“My daddy and my younger brother and younger sister.”
“Who takes care y'all?”
“We all take care of ourselves.”
That was the loneliest thing I'd ever heard. Even with all the work I had to do, I never thought I was the only one taking care of me.
“I want you to come home with meâfor dinner.”
He looked surprised. “I can't do that.”
“Why?”
“I'm expected at home. I gotta get there before the sun go down. I got a lot of work that has to be done yet.” He stood then. “Or my daddy will stop me from comin' for sure.”
Mama argued my case and I was allowed to return to Miss Beach's on Saturday.
All the way there, I had to hear Mama's lecture. “I need your help, so stay out of the way of that cat and just do your work.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said, though I was hardly listening. Miss Lattimore had announced that Miss Lafayette would be back on Monday, so my mind was on seeing her, telling her about Jesse. Maybe she even had a present for me.
“Are you listening to me, Francie?”
“Yes'm.”
Miss Beach was up on her porch as usualâTreasure curled on her lap, enjoying Miss Beach's long and slow
strokes down his back. When we got within earshot, Mama called out brightly, “Mornin', Miss Beach! Nice day for doin' laundry, ain't it?”
Miss Beach looked up, nodded, then narrowed her eyes at me.
“Francie's got somethin' she wants to tell you,” Mama said, nudging me.
“I'm really sorry, Miss Beach, for what I did to that cat.” Mama elbowed me in the side. “And I'm never going to put him in your wardrobe again.”
Miss Beach, who was busy checking something in Treasure's fur, looked up. “You better not,” she said. Then, as if she'd just thought of it, she said, “And don't go pestering Miss Lafayette.”
I said nothing, but I felt as if I would burst with joy. Miss Lafayette was really home!
I hurried around the back and started up the stairs. I listened for a few seconds at Miss Lafayette's door, then tapped on it.
“Come in, Francie.”
I stepped in, feeling suddenly shy. Miss Lafayette was still in bed. I'd never seen her in a nightgown before. Her pecan-colored hair, always up and out of the way, was hanging down over her shoulder to her waist. She sat propped against pillows in a white gown with tiny roses around the neck and wrists. She looked as fragile as a china teacup. She had a book face-down on her lap.
She smiled at me. I stayed near the door, my hand
still on the knob. “Hello, Miss Lafayette. I'm glad you're back.”
“Have you all been showing Miss Lattimore you have some home training from ol' Miss Lafayette?”
“You're not old.”
She pulled a flat package out from somewhere under the covers, wrapped in brown paper. “Been waiting for you.” I pressed my lips together to hide my pleasure. “Here.” She held it out to me.
I walked to her bedside. “You sick?”
She waved the question away. “Sit down,” she said, patting the strip of space next to her, and I eased down on the edge, feeling funny about sitting there.
She chuckled. “I'm not going to bite you, Francie. Here,” she said again.
Carefully, I took the package out of her hand and unwrapped it, trying not to tear the paper.
It was a book. I knew it would be. Miss Lafayette knew how I loved books. She knew I'd started my own little library with the books she'd given me.
The Dream Keeper
by Langston Hughes.
“The poet,” I said.
Miss Lafayette looked at me closely and recited:
“Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.”
I flipped through the pages. “I'ma read it on my hill.”
“While you wait for the train to go by?”
“No, I eat my Scooter Pie while it goes by. Then I read.”
She laughed.
“Thank you, Miss Lafayette.” I ran my hand over the cover.
“What have you been up to?”
“We got a new boy, Miss Lafayette. His name is Jesse Pruitt and he's sixteen and he can't read.”
“Oh?” She cocked her head with interest.
“I'm teaching him.”
“Are you doing a good job?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
I heard my name being called then. Miss Beachâcalling up to see what was taking me so long. Miss Lafayette nodded toward the laundry bag hanging on the bedpost. I looked back at her before going out the door. “Will you be at school on Monday?”
She winked at me.
Â
“Is she gonna be there?” Prez said as we walked with Perry to school Monday morning.
“I said she was.”
“You know for sure?” Perry asked.
“Don't no one ask me again.”
We turned into the yard just as Miss Lafayette stepped
out to ring the bell. Prez and I grinned at each other at the same time.
Â
How different the two teachers were. In her smooth, gentle manner, Miss Lafayette leaned on the edge of her desk, looked us over, and said, “I've missed you so.”
“Why were you gone so long?” Perry burst out, and I could have smacked him for his rudeness.
“It really wasn't that longâonly two weeks.” Miss Lafayette blushed almost crimson.
“Felt like a long time,” Bertrum mumbled.
Miss Lafayette looked at her watch. “Let's get busy. Bertrum, please pass out the readers.”
I sighed. Just then Jesse arrivedâlate as usual, but this time I knew why.
He stopped in the doorway, not knowing what to think about Miss Lafayette's presence. Carefully he made his way to the back of the room.
“Are you Jesse?” Miss Lafayette asked.
He was just sinking into his seat. Now he stood up quickly. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Are you always late, or is this an exception?”
“I'm late almost every day, ma'am.”
“May I ask why?”
Jesse stood blinking at Miss Lafayette, not knowing how to take such politeness coming from an adult.
“I come from New Carlton and I can't leave as early as I need to, cause I got chores to do.”
I'd been looking from one to the other. Now I switched back to Miss Lafayette. She frowned, slightly.
“That's a long way you walk.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Noticing he was empty-handed, she asked, “Where's your lunch?”
Jesse didn't answer. He looked out the window, then back at her, then down at the floor.
“Never mind. Please sit down.”
I'd tried to share my lunch with Jesse when after a day or so I noticed he had nothing. But he always acted like he wasn't a bit hungry. Then on Friday I'd pretended to be full, with corn bread left over. He took it then, just so it wouldn't “go to waste.”
At midday, Miss Lafayette dismissed us for lunch but held Jesse back. I knew she'd try to coax him to take some of her lunch. And I was sure he wouldn't take it. He'd be just like those proud Butlersâpretend he wasn't hungry. I'd ask him to come to our house for dinner again.
Miss Lafayette quietly corrected papers at the front of the class while I tutored Jesse in the back. I bit my lip to stay alert while he struggled through a paragraph, putting his finger on each word as he went along at a pace that was torture. I still loved the notion of teaching someone to read, but it sure did take patience.
“Jesse,” I said, when he stopped to take a breath. “Can you come for dinner on Friday?”
He stared at the page he'd been reading.
“Friday Cause you don't have to go to school on Saturdayâmaybe you can put some things off?”
I felt a little anger rise up in him and immediately regretted being so pushy.
“Why you always askin' me to do something I can't. It just makes me feel bad.” He hadn't looked up yet. He clenched his fists. “I said I can't do it.” His voice rose enough for Miss Lafayette to look up and watch us a moment.
“I'm sorry,” I told him.
“I can't do it.” He got up quickly then. “Time for me to go,” he said, pulling himself up out of his chair. He didn't even bother closing the book before he walked out of the room.
Â
Mr. Pruitt came the last Monday in April to take Jesse out of Booker T
J. Dean had led the Pledge of Allegiance and we'd just sat down to work on our readers when a strange man appeared in the doorway in work overalls, holding his hat. Jesse had arrived on time and sat hunched over his book, seemingly with no thoughts of nothing else. The man wore a hard expression on his face. He looked directly at Jesse. Jesse must have felt eyes on him because he glanced up, and immediately flinched. The man lifted his chin, just a little, but it was enough to have Jesse scrambling out of his chair and making his way up the aisle. He didn't even get to the door good when his daddyâit
didn't take long for me to realize he was Jesse's daddyâreached out and grabbed his arm. He gave him a hard shove and Jesse, looking as weak as a sick kitten, let himself be pushed out the door and down the steps. We all watched them through the window hurrying along the road. Miss Lafayette stood and watched with us, saying nothing.
Then she sighed heavily. “Let's get back to work,” she said.
“Who was that?” Serena whispered to me.
“His daddy, I'ma bet.”
For the rest of the day I hoped to see Jesse walk back through our classroom door, but when 3:00 came and he still hadn't returned, I feared he wasn't ever coming back.
Â
For the rest of the week I watched for him. I'd frequently check the window, picturing him loping up the road like the first time I saw him. Then I'd imagine him coming through the door after we'd all settled with our readers. He didn't come.
His absence wasn't lost on Augustine. Toward the end of the week, she squatted down beside me while I was waiting my turn to play the winner in a game of jacks. “Where's your friend?”
I didn't answer.
“He comin' back?”
“Sure. When he can get away.” She considered this, checking me closely to see if I was lying. “It's planting
time,” I continued. “He's gotta help his daddy right about now. But he's coming back and he's my friend.”
She stood up and looked down at me. She snorted. “Betcha he ain't comin' back,” she said.
I swallowed and put my eyes on Serena and Viola's game like I didn't care one way or the other. But I did careâa lot.