CeCe’s mother said at full volume, “when they’re not calling you ‘nigger,’ of course.”
CeCe’s eyes opened wide when Mrs. Johnson whirled around and shoved her mother’s shoulders. CeCe’s mother toppled backward to the ground.
“Mrs. Johnson!” Mr. Neumann shouted. CeCe watched as everyone around her covered their mouths.
Ms. Lapham rushed to CeCe while Mr. Neumann stepped in front of Mrs. Johnson. CeCe’s mother raised herself onto her elbows, pausing to catch her breath. Before reaching for Mr. Neumann’s outstretched hand, CeCe’s mother looked up piteously at Mrs. Johnson and shook her head.
“But you want these people to believe my daughter is ‘ghetto.’”
All heads, tsk-tsk-ing, turned to Mrs. Johnson and then looked away. Mr. Neumann helped CeCe’s mother to her feet. She met CeCe’s tearful gaze and nodded.
I’m OK, she mouthed to CeCe. CeCe allowed herself to breathe.
“Your mama is mean,” the twin boy, Michael, said to CeCe as the three children waited inside the classroom. Their mothers, their teacher, and the principal were all in the office sorting things out. That’s what Ms. Lapham had called it when she deposited CeCe and the twins in her classroom and spread out crayons, papers, and the big bin of blocks.
“No, she’s not!” CeCe said. “Your mama is mean!”
CeCe and Michael sat on the floor in front of the storybooks with their short legs splayed in front of them. The other twin, Michelle, sat at a table on one of the tiny yellow chairs and cradled her sad face in her chunky little hands.
“Both our mamas are gonna get in trouble,” Michelle said.
“Maybe,” CeCe offered after a moment. “Maybe you only got a little monster in you.”
Michael, whose skin was dark as espresso, turned toward CeCe. His mouth was tight with disapproval.
“I ain’t got no monster in me,” he said, stuffing his arms into an angry twist across his slight body. When splitting cells, he had assumed the thinness genes while his twin had staked claim on all the beauty.
“Yeah, we ain’t no monsters,” Michelle said, her tone still softer than her brother’s. “We didn’t know you was gonna get mad about living in the ghetto.”
“But I don’t live in the ghetto,” CeCe said.
“How come none of us ever seen you before, huh?” Michael demanded. “You don’t play at the park, you don’t go to the church, you don’t come to any of the birthday parties. My mama said you don’t live around here. She said you were bussed from the ghetto.”
“Your mama don’t know what she’s talking about,” CeCe said. “I live at 6723 East Fountain Drive.” CeCe announced her address proudly. She’d practiced memorizing it for more than a week.
The Johnson twins looked at each other, with surprise.
“That sounds nice,” Michelle said, her face brightening a bit.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Michael conceded, uncrossing his arms. He swallowed. “I’m sorry for calling you a ghetto kid.”
“Me, too,” said Michelle, moving to sit with CeCe and her brother on the floor.
CeCe beamed, and apologized for ever calling them monsters.
“I’ll bring my jacks again tomorrow, if you want,” CeCe said.
“Yeah!” said Michelle. “We keep losing the ball for our jacks.”
“You keep losing the ball,” Michael corrected.
“Shut up!” Michelle said.
CeCe laughed at them both.
By the time their mothers appeared in the classroom, the children were sprawled across the colorful carpet with sheets of paper scattered all about them like oversized squares of confetti. Each had a fistful of colored pencils, and they were pointing and swapping and challenging and laughing as five-year-olds should.
“Children,” Ms. Lapham said, walking past the mothers. “Let’s pick up our papers and put away the pencils, OK? It’s time to go now.”
The children obeyed their teacher and began cleaning up while they chattered and skipped throughout the room.
The afternoon classes had been combined and released onto the playground for an early recess, in light of the fracas that had consumed their teachers and rooms. These new faces were assembled into impressively straight lines under the portico. CeCe could see them through the glass door.
“Are those your afternoon kids, Miss Lapham?” Michelle asked.
“Yes, and I think they’re ready to come inside now,” Ms. Lapham said. “Why don’t you kids do me a favor and hold the door open for them.”
The twins raced the short distance to the school doors and wrestled them open. CeCe stayed behind to take her mother’s hand.
“I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about this whole incident,” Ms. Lapham said. “I feel horrible that I didn’t recognize what was happening before it turned this . . . um . . . ugly.”
The two mothers were standing several paces from one other in the hallway, forcing Ms. Lapham to pivot and speak to them.
“Ms. Weathers—”
“Carla.”
The teacher smiled. “Carla, I’ll be more attentive from this point forward about any, um . . . racial issues between the children. The only explanation I can offer is that, well, we haven’t really experienced this kind of thing before.”
Ms. Lapham spun to face Mrs. Johnson. “I mean, the children have been exposed to other, um . . . cultures before. It’s just that most of these kids have known each other their whole lives. I can only presume those, um . . . issues were smoothed out elsewhere.”
“Ms. Lapham—” CeCe’s mother began.
“Heather.”
“Heather,” CeCe’s mother gave a weary smile to Ms. Lapham. “I doubt the issue was ever smoothed out, but we’ll get there.”
“I promise to do my part,” Ms. Lapham said, extending a handshake to both mothers. CeCe’s mother clasped her palm with both hands while Mrs. Johnson only offered a stiff pinch with the pads of her fingers.
As the Johnsons walked away, the twins turned to wave at CeCe while their mother moved like a rain cloud.
“Bye, Michael! Bye, Michelle!” she called.
CeCe felt her mother squeeze her hand and they left the school building and stepped into the warm autumn sun.
In the days and weeks following that first week of school, CeCe’s mother retreated into the Sad. She didn’t ride with CeCe to school, but walked her to the bus stop. By the time Christmas came, CeCe was walking to the bus stop alone. The newspaperman, Mr. Curtis, let her sit next to him while she waited. He let her read the funny pages, but she had to give them back when the bus came. CeCe liked Mr. Curtis. He didn’t have lots of stories and questions, like Mrs. Castellanos, but his quiet was just as fun. CeCe would even visit Mr. Curtis’ stand during the summers, too. By the time she was a second-grader, Mr. Curtis was letting CeCe keep the funny pages, and the word search. Mr. Curtis even told CeCe about the city bus.
“You can get all the books you want at the library,” he said. “Just a five-minute ride. Straight down Kennedy.”
When CeCe took the twenties from the nightstand for her grocery trips, she started to keep the change for her bus fare in a separate jar. Her mother would have said it was all right, but CeCe had stopped asking her mother things. Sometimes, CeCe would read her library books aloud to her mother’s silhouette. Mostly, she read to herself while her mother let the