At-Risk by Amina Gautier Read Free Book Online Page A

notes. But we did not think of leaving or skipping out. We were all there because our mothers made us go. Because the Zeta Alpha Deltas took attendance and we couldn’t cut. Because we didn’t have anywhere else to be. The library surrounded us; our sounds echoed off its high ceilings. Normally, we felt crowded in there with several classes meeting at once. But with just us there, the room seemed to swallow us. We filled only two of the eight tables. We had journals to write in, but after the fiasco with the mother essays, no one ever checked them to see what we wrote.
    I showed up late for one of the Saturday meetings. The girls were clustered around the tables in the library. Something was different. They weren’t their usual sullen selves. No one seemed to be biding their time. Not one pair of eyes was watching the tedious movement of the minute hand on the clock at the front of the room. The girls were all whispering. A current of energy filled the room. After I hung my coat over my chair and sat down, I heard one of the girls say, “Wait until I tell my father. He’ll probably go and buy a new suit.”
    â€œWho are you going to bring?” she asked me.
    â€œTo what?”
    â€œTo our tea,” she said. She slid me an ivory-colored envelope from a stack off the table. While the sorority women were setting up a game for us, I opened the envelope and read the invitation. They were samples of the invitations the ladies were sending to our homes. The tea would commemorate the end of our year’s program and we would all be awarded certificates for our participation. The ladies thought we would be excited about the chance to get dressed up and show off. They said the tea would give us a chance to display our social polish.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal about tea anyway?” I didn’t understand why we needed a special event just to sit around and drink tea. Tea was what my mother and I had each day after school as we sat in the kitchen together, before we did anything else, before we turned on the TV or prepared dinner. Tea was how we settled into the evening. It was our private cozy shared intimacy.
    All the eyes at my table turned on me. Four girls started talking at once.
    â€œDuh. It’s not just tea,” the girl to my left said.
    One girl said that it was good practice for social functions we would attend in the future.
    The girl to my right said that it would be like a miniature debutante ball, only without boys.
    â€œRich people go to things like this all the time,” the girl with the bad skin said. I could tell that they were just repeating what they’d heard before I arrived, but their enthusiasm was genuine. The women had finally gotten to them. They’d found the one activity that would make the other girls come alive. Up until the mention of the tea, our Saturdays had been boring. Each time we came, we were forced to play stupid games we hated. One of the sorority women made us play
Jeopardy!
only the questions she made up for us were all in math. Another time, we’d played bingo. Every square on theboard was a fact about their sorority. Sometimes, we didn’t play any silly games. We would just gather around one table, knotting and pulling embroidery floss into friendship bracelets. In February, they quizzed us on famous black inventors and scientists. Most sessions ended with them awarding some prize to the winner. Once I won a sachet made of rose-scented potpourri, which I kept in my underwear drawer long after the scent had faded.
    Everyone seemed to be excited but me. Girls who were normally despondent, who didn’t speak until called upon, were chattering away and making plans that included their fathers. Those that didn’t have fathers were borrowing their uncles or grandfathers for the day. I was the only one in the group without someone to escort me as I made my debut. I could see it now. Each girl would make a grand entrance