The rest of the class move their seats away from mine.
I sit straight in my seat, blinking at the chalkboard, like always. It’s a lucky thing I’m good at pretending.
The teacher, Miss Whitson, comes in as the final bell rings. She stands in the doorway for a long minute, gazing around the classroom. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
She comes over to my desk and whispers, so low only I can hear, “What’s your name?”
“Sarah Dunbar,” I whisper back.
She makes a note on her roll and goes to the chalkboard. The room is still quiet. Everyone must already know you don’t mess around in Miss Whitson’s class.
“This is French II.” She gives us all a hard look. “I expect you to have the fundamentals of the language down. We’re getting a late start this year and we have a lot of makeup work to do, but I’m not lowering my expectations of how you’ll perform on your end-of-year exams. So if you want to pass you’ll have to work hard.”
Everyone looks worried. Good. If they’re nervous about passing the class maybe they won’t have time to yell at me.
“We’ll start off with a refresher on conversation,” Miss Whitson goes on. “I’ll pair you off. You and your partner will talk about what you did over Christmas. Then you’ll drill each other on the irregular verbs on pages fourteen through eighteen. I’ll be listening closely and grading you on your participation. If I hear one word of English it’s an automatic failure.”
There’s low grumbling from the back of the class. A girl raises her hand. “Miss Whitson?”
“Oui?” Miss Whitson says.
The girl replies in English. “Miss Whitson, you’re not going to pair anyone with her, are you?”
“That’s enough,” Miss Whitson says in French. She begins to read the pairs off from her roll book. “Abner, Baker.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter who I’m paired with. None of these people want anything to do with me. My partner will probably go sit as far from me as he can get, even if it means we both get a failing grade. Maybe Miss Whitson will let me do a makeup assignment instead.
“Campbell, Dunbar,” Miss Whitson says.
I have no idea who “Campbell” is. No one remembers my last name, either, so there’s no reaction until Miss Whitson finishes the list, claps her hands and tells us all to go sit with our partners.
I don’t move. I expect everyone to ignore me. So it’s a surprise when the frizzy-haired girl from this morning puts her books down on the empty desk next to mine.
“You got the nigger, Judy?” a boy says behind us. He’s part of the gang who tried to charge at Chuck in the hall this morning. “You better watch out if you don’t want to get any of that black on you! You don’t want to wind up even uglier than you already are!”
“You leave Judy alone, Bo!” the red-haired girl says. She looks furious.
“Bo Nash!” Miss Whitson says. “You heard me. One more English word out of anyone in this class and it’s an F.”
I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. What does this girl Judy think she’s doing, sitting down next to me? She moved away from my desk in Math, so I don’t know why she thinks it’s safe to be near me now. Well, whatever she tries to do to me, I won’t give her the satisfaction of reacting.
“Um,” Judy says. “Bonjour?”
Oh.
I wasn’t expecting that.
No white student has said a single sentence to me today that didn’t include nigger, coon or some other hateful word. Except the girl in the hall who spat on my good skirt.
“Bonjour,” I murmur, waiting to see if this is a trick.
“My name is Judy,” she says in terribly mangled French.
“My name is Sarah.”
We’re quiet after that. I suppose Judy thinks she’s said enough not to fail. I look at the clock over the blackboard, wondering how many minutes will pass before someone yells something new at me.
“Um,” Judy says again. She holds the cover of her French textbook out in front of her, squinting.
Then I see the real problem. “My name is Judy” is the only sentence this girl knows how to say in French.
“How are you?” I ask, hoping a simple sentence like that will be familiar to her.
She stares at me blankly.
This is useless. I turn back to the clock.
“I—” Judy starts to say.
I shake my head to show her she’s still speaking English.
Judy shakes her head, too, and half smiles. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs in what looks like an apology.
Maybe this is an act. Part of an elaborate trick she and her friends are pulling. I bet the cruel red-haired girl is the ringleader.
Or maybe I was right before. Maybe not all the white people in this school hate us.
Miss Whitson is coming our way. Judy peers up at the bulletin board, which lists some common French words. Colors. Parts of the body. Family members.
“Sister!” Judy says. She struggles to say a complete sentence, butchering the French. My mother, who teaches French and English at the colored junior high, would cringe if she heard. “Um. You have sister?”
What?
The only way this girl could know I have a sister is if she’s seen her. Everyone always says Ruth and I look alike.
I haven’t seen Ruth all morning.
“Did you see my sister?” I ask Judy in rapid French. “Where? How was she? Was she safe?”
Judy frowns and shrugs helplessly. She doesn’t understand.
“Have you seen her?” I repeat in English. “Is she safe?”
Miss Whitson is watching us. I’m sure she heard me speaking English, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Oui,” Judy says.
“Was anyone hurting her?”
“No,” Judy says. “I mean, non.”
I close my eyes and breathe in, long and slow. I feel like I haven’t breathed all morning.
Maybe we really can do this. Maybe it will be all right.
I’m so relieved I don’t even mind practicing French with a girl who can’t pronounce bonjour. So we get out our books and take turns conjugating regarder.
When the bell rings I grab my books. I try to move straight for the door, but before I’m even out of my desk the red-haired girl is blocking my way.
I wish she wouldn’t stand so near. I try again to force that feeling down. The strange buzzing in my chest that comes with being so close to a girl who’s this pretty. It doesn’t work.
“It’s a shame you had to work with her, Judy,” the girl says, looking right at me. “I’ll speak to my father tonight. He’ll get us both transferred out of this class. Math, too. We shouldn’t have to suffer just because some Northern interloper judge says so.”
The girl is right in my face. Her bright blue eyes are narrowed and fixed on mine. I can’t let her know she’s getting to me. I try to edge around her but she blocks my way with her purse. It’s just as fashionable as the rest of her—a cloth bag with round wooden handles covered in the same plaid fabric as her skirt.
There’s something about the way this girl talks. Something about the look in her eyes.
She