Osei was relieved when the bell rang for morning recess. Although a classroom was safer—he had his desk, his place where he was meant to be; and he had his tasks, what he was supposed to do; and best of all he had Dee paying attention to him—after an hour and a half the room had become oppressive and he was ready for fresh air, whatever dangers the playground held.
The classroom was like the others he had been a student in—though maybe more liberal than the English and Italian schools. There was schoolwork on all the walls: an art project where students drew self-portraits; posters about photosynthesis, pandas, Australia, Martin Luther King Jr. There were pieces of rock on the windowsill: quartz, marble, granite, lava. There was a whole wall about the Apollo space missions, and a reading corner full of cushions and beanbags, where you could go if you’d finished your work. The walls there were covered with posters of peace signs and the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine album cover. Dee whispered that it had been set up by a teaching assistant enthusiastic about an idea called the “open classroom,” but that Mr. Brabant disapproved of the corner, calling her a hippie radical behind her back, and he only let students use it on the afternoons when the assistant was there.
Mr. Brabant’s desk was at the front of the class, and he sat behind it like a soldier at attention, which made all the students sit straight and still as well. He wore a suit and tie and seemed no-nonsense. Osei preferred that in teachers; you knew where you were when they were strict. It was when they tried to be your friend that misunderstandings arose. On the other hand, Mr. Brabant’s cool gaze was not welcoming, but wary, as if he were waiting for O to do something he could punish him for. Osei was familiar with that drill; he would have to watch himself.
Once Mr. Brabant had quizzed Osei about his pencil case and he had quietly traded with Dee, the teacher said, “All right, class,” and everyone stood and faced the corner by the door where an American flag hung. Placing their right hands on their left chests over their hearts, they began to recite: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…” Dee glanced at him, but visibly relaxed when Osei began to say the words along with the others. He managed to suppress the smile that threatened to undermine the solemnity of the oath. O had never had to perform such a patriotic act in schools outside of the US—though he did once sing “God Save the Queen” at a cricket match at Lord’s in London, which he’d gone to with his father. No one ever questioned reciting the Pledge of Allegiance—except for a faction of students in his school in New York who complained that having to say “one nation, under God” violated their civil rights as atheists. Osei had kept quiet while that argument went on—he didn’t need to bring more negative attention to himself. Besides, his mother would have cried if she’d heard him calling himself an atheist—once he’d found out what it meant. O himself was not sure about God; in church His existence made sense, but when he was being held down and punched just out of sight of his school, he wondered then where God was.
Later when he told his sister, Sisi, what the atheists had said, she grunted. “They want to know about civil rights, they shoulda asked you.” At the time she was going through the phase where she tried to sound more black American than African, with a higher tone, looser grammar, and vowels that took their time. Osei had not yet felt ready to follow her there, though he could sound American when he wanted to. Since they had spent their first years in Ghana, as well as every summer, they could turn the accent on and off like a faucet, unlike their parents. It came in handy sometimes.
O had already decided he would emphasize the African at this Washington school. White people seemed to feel less threatened by Africans. Not always, of course. But he sensed their fear about black Americans—who found ways to take advantage of that fear. It seemed to be the only advantage they had.
After the Pledge of Allegiance, Mr. Brabant handed Dee a red, white, and blue cloth triangle, and she briefly disappeared with another girl, first whispering, “I have to go put up the American flag. I’ll be right back.” Osei had no idea what she meant, but the moment she was gone he felt much more exposed. Around him he could hear whispers and giggles, which he tried to ignore. Across from him, Patty was peeking out from under her bangs, and turned red when he caught her at it. Next to her, Duncan stared more openly, with a puzzled expression, as if he were trying to work up a good joke about O, and failing because he wasn’t quite smart enough—and knew it.
O didn’t want to admit it, but it was a relief when Dee slipped back into her seat beside him.
Though Mr. Brabant was strict, throughout the morning he allowed Dee to explain things to O in a low voice. She was clearly a favorite—a teacher’s pet, they called it in America. O had never been a teacher’s pet, as they never really knew what to make of him. He was conscientious enough: he did his homework, he paid attention in class, he didn’t misbehave. He didn’t raise his hand much either, or write any particularly interesting stories, or paint a good picture, or read books above his ability. Due to moving so much, he often had gaps in his knowledge that regularly tripped him up. He was a solid B student.
O suspected his teachers were relieved that he didn’t draw attention to himself by acting up or flunking or being a star student. Clearly some of them expected bad behavior. They would have been a little nervous of a black boy giving them a hard time, but others may have wanted him to, so that they could punish him. Sometimes they were taken aback by O scoring 100 percent on a pop quiz in math, or knowing that bronze was made of tin and copper, or that Berlin had a wall dividing it in two. They shot him looks that revealed suspicions he was cheating somehow, though actually he had gained much of his knowledge from overhearing Sisi as she did her homework.
Other times, though, he got tripped up on the easiest things: not knowing who the two main generals were in the American Civil War, or who had assassinated Abraham Lincoln, or that John Hancock had an elaborate signature. His method of long division was English and looked very different from the American way—though he still got the same answer. When he made mistakes, Osei sensed the teachers nodding to themselves, secretly pleased. This was what they expected—a black boy messing up.
After an hour the class suddenly rose collectively to its feet, carrying Osei along with it. A middle-aged woman had appeared in the doorway. She had gray hair cut like a helmet, and was wearing a dark green skirt suit and a strand of chunky fake pearls. Authority emanated from her, and Osei knew she must be the principal, come to have a look at him.
“Mrs. Duke,” Dee whispered.
“Good morning, students,” she said.