Wingshooters by Nina Revoyr Read Free Book Online Page B

kissed him on his forehead.
    “’Night, Mike,” he said, and I scrambled off to my room, ready to go to sleep.
    I didn’t mind staying with them. I was comfortable there. Although I missed my father and wanted to see him, my grandparents were predictable and safe. As hard a time as I sometimes had in town and in school, their place, their house, was different. Even with what was happening at the elementary school, I felt, at least for that evening, like I was sheltered and protected; like everything could be all right.

THREE
    T he next morning—the substitute teacher’s first day—I got to school without a bit of interference. There were no new ink marks on the front of my locker, no older kids waiting to taunt me. It was as if I had suddenly vanished, and I might have enjoyed this new anonymity if the mood hadn’t been so tense. When I went into Miss Anderson’s class and sat down at my desk, the entire room was abuzz.
    “Have you seen him yet?”
    “No, have you?”
    “I heard Jackie Sanderson’s mother wouldn’t let him come to school.”
    “Well, if that was my teacher, I wouldn’t come either.”
    “All right, all right, children, come to order,” said Miss Anderson, and she sounded frustrated—not a good sign so early in the day. There were bags under her eyes and her mouth looked pinched. The class quieted down quickly and we waited for whatever she was going to tell us. Our school was small—two classes per grade—so whenever a new teacher came, or even a long-term sub, our teachers usually told us so we’d know to be friendly, even though new people were always greeted more with giggles and pointed fingers than with smiles. But though we sat quietly and waited for Miss Anderson to give her assessment of the black teacher, she took attendance and asked us to open our reading books and didn’t mention him at all. We obeyed her and followed along in our books, but as we read about Chester the caterpillar, we were all more aware of what we hadn’t yet discussed; it hung there like a threatening cloud. Finally, at ten-thirty, after a spelling test and a math lesson, Miss Anderson released us for recess.
    We spilled onto the playground slowly, my classmates suddenly unsure of how to do normal, everyday things like playing tetherball or working the swings. Mrs. Hebig’s fifth grade class wasn’t out yet, and it seemed that everyone on the playground, both teachers and children, was waiting for them to appear—waiting to see if they bore visible signs of having spent the morning in the company of a Negro. While I sat at the bottom of the stairs on my usual bench, I noticed a lone figure a bit farther down, standing with his back against the wall. It was Kevin Watson, Earl’s younger son, who was in the fourth grade. Although Kevin was my age, I’d always thought of him as younger. He was short and stocky, unsteady as a wolf pup stumbling out of his cave. Now, he put both hands behind him against the brick wall and rocked back and forth, his thick black hair, which was a bit too long in front, falling over into his face. Kevin often seemed at odds with the few friends he had, crying easily and throwing tantrums if he was left out of a game or passed over when they were picking teams for kickball. Judging from the rocking and the look on his face, that must have been what was happening now. He was sensitive and quiet, with brown liquid eyes and lashes as long as a girl’s. His older brother Jake was burly and tough, more like Earl; he was one of the boys who’d chased me on my bike.
    Thoughts of the Watson family quickly left my head, though, when the fifth graders finally appeared. And as they ran outside—and that is exactly what they did, run—they were immediately surrounded by other students. The whole mass of children moved down the playground away from the door, each of Mrs. Hebig’s fifth graders flanked by two or three kids, as if they had just survived a spectacular accident and were