Skating with the Statue of Liberty by Susan Lynn Meyer Read Free Book Online

stack of green books.
    The boy didn’t give Gustave one. As the other students started to read, Gustave examined them. Most of the kids were pale and tall, and there was more blond hair in the classroom than he was used to seeing in France. Not many of the people in this school were Negroes. None of the adults were, and only one other girl in the class was as dark as September Rose. The girls in this class were curvier and the boys had more muscles than the kids his age in France did. Their clothes all looked brand new. Gustave was suddenly aware that his clothes were old and faded. And his pants were wrong. The other boys all had pants that went down to their ankles. His were the French style,
un pantalon de golf
. They were wide and short, ending just below his knee, showing his thin legs. A flush of shame rushed over him, and he pulled his feet as far as he could under his desk.
    Mrs. McAdams dropped a book meant for a small child on Gustave’s desk.
    “READ…THIS!” she boomed at him, opening it and running her finger over the words under the pictures. She smelled of sickly-sweet perfume. Gustave leaned away.
    I know what a book is for! I’m not a moron—I just don’t speak English! he thought. But he didn’t know how to say that, not that he should anyway, so he just nodded,set his elbows on either side of the book, trying to hide it, and bent his head low over the page, the large-print words blurring in front of him.
    A bell rang. Everything instantly became chaotic as the students jumped up, gathered their books, and crowded into the hallway. Gustave was confused. Where were they going? Was it recess already, or lunch? September Rose had gotten up with the others, but she looked back at him and pointed to the schedule card on his desk before going out the door. Gustave looked at it, and then he realized that things must work differently here. In France, when it was time for a new subject, a new teacher came into the room. Here it seemed the students switched rooms. He was the last one left in the room, so he must already be late. He scanned his schedule card nervously. In the block with his next class, geography, he saw the number 611. That must mean it was on the sixth floor. Hurrying through the empty halls, he found the classroom after the bell rang and slid into a vacant seat.
    “Hello. Are you Gustave Becker?” the teacher said slowly and clearly.
    Gustave’s palms and armpits prickled with sweat. “Yes.”
    “I am Mr. Coolidge. I teach geography and history. Come!” Gustave stood up, shoving his pants down as far as they would go, trying to make them look longer. His socks still showed. He shuffled to the front of the room with his hands jammed in his pockets to keep his pants from riding up. Two girls whispered and giggled as hewent by. He noticed September Rose scowling in their direction.
    Mr. Coolidge pulled down a world map and spoke to the class. In the blur of sound, Gustave heard his name, and the words “welcome,” “new,” and “friend.” Then Mr. Coolidge turned back to Gustave and spoke slowly.
    “You are here…war?” Gustave heard. “Refugee…from France?”
    It sounded like a question, and what he was saying seemed to be true. Gustave nodded.
    Mr. Coolidge smiled. “Welcome to America!” He gestured to the class, and they echoed his last words. Some of the voices were enthusiastic, but underneath the cheerful ones, a few were singsongy and mocking.
    “So,” said Mr. Coolidge, and then came another stream of words.
    The teacher seemed to be asking him to tell them about what it was like living in France now, with the war going on. Gustave swallowed. All at once, there were no English words in his head. His eyes swept over the other students, all staring at him. He knew he had to say something. September Rose was sitting in the third row with her brown eyes fixed intently on his face. She held his gaze and then moved her chin slightly, indicating the wall behind him.