Dee was relieved when the bell rang for the end of school. She felt as if she’d been waiting for it for hours. When she’d returned from the nurse, having missed the grammar test, Osei did not smile when she sat down, and he ignored her for what was left of the afternoon. She could feel the ice on him as they sat side by side during Art, making Mother’s Day cards from construction paper, magazines, tissue paper, glitter, pipe cleaners, and other materials distributed to the desk clusters. It was particularly painful when someone was sitting right next to you as they froze you out.
Art was class time Dee had always looked forward to, when Mr. Brabant stepped out and Mrs. Randolph took over and everything became softer and less rigid. You could talk to your friends while your hands were busy. Mrs. Randolph encouraged it. “We create best when we are relaxed and free,” she said, waving her hands so that her myriad bangles jingled. She always wore bright red lipstick that bled over her lips into the web of tiny wrinkles surrounding them. “Light. And passion. That is what we’re looking for. Comme les Fran?ais.” Mrs. Randolph had been to Paris several times and liked to remind the students by sprinkling French throughout her pep talks.
She wanted them to make unusual cards for their mothers, not just a drawing of flowers with “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom” printed inside. “Look at all these things you can use for your cards,” she said. “Feel them.” She threw the tissue paper in the air, riffled through magazines, waved vials of silver glitter. “Be inspired. Think about your mother and all that she does for you,” she added as the students looked blank. “How much she loves you and how much she has sacrificed for your happiness. Express the love you have for her on this piece of paper.” She held one of the white cards she had distributed. “Express yourself and honor your mother. Ah, l’amour pour la mère, c’est merveilleux!”
Dee giggled nervously and glanced sideways at O. He did not look up. His face was stern, his eyes glued to his card. Dee bit her lip and looked across at Patty, who pouted sympathetically. “How’s your head?” she asked pointedly, frowning at O, as if to remind Dee that she should be angry at him.
Next to her, Osei flinched.
It was a timely reminder. She should be angry—she had a right to be. He had pushed her, hurt her unfairly. He should be saying he was sorry. She should be glaring at him, insisting on changing seats so she didn’t have to sit with him—maybe move across to Casper’s empty seat at the next cluster. Other girls would do that. Blanca would be noisy with it, and enjoy the fuss she could legitimately make.
Yet Dee did not feel angry, but guilty—like she should be apologizing to him rather than the other way around. He had a right to be angry at her, she felt, to shout and push her away. He was black, and all day they had treated him that way, differently from how they would treat another new student. Dee knew she herself found him interesting because he was black, and that was not necessarily a good reason—to like someone for their skin color. She watched his hands now, the brown of her dad’s morning coffee, using scissors to cut out a shape from red construction paper that looked like a lopsided heart. His fingernails were long and square and very pink.
“Dee?”
Patty was staring at her, and Dee jumped. “I’m fine. My head is all right.” She quickly picked up a blue pipe cleaner without knowing what to do with it.
“Who do we have here?” Mrs. Randolph had fluttered over to their desks. “You must be new. I’m sure I would have remembered you otherwise!” She smiled down at O. There was lipstick on her large front teeth.
Osei stopped cutting but did not look up. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Randolph laughed. “Oh, no need to be formal with me! What’s your name?”
“Osei.”
“What an interesting name! Well, Osei, you can call me Kay.” Mrs. Randolph was always trying to get the students to call her by her first name. No one ever did. “There is no hierarchy here. There never is in art. There is just expression. And today we are expressing our love and respect for our mothers. What are you making for your card to her?”
Dee wanted to tell him not to worry, that Mrs. Randolph paid this sort of embarrassing attention to everyone at some point. You just had to grit your teeth and let it wash over you, then once she’d moved on you could sit back and laugh at her behind her back. But of course Dee couldn’t say such a thing, not with him so clearly shutting her out.
He looked up at Mrs. Randolph and said, “I am cutting out strawberries for her. They are her favorite fruit.”
Dee’s stomach curdled. Mrs. Randolph clapped her hands. “Formidable! Choosing something specific to her—that’s wonderful! Now, don’t be constrained by the materials here. You don’t even have to use scissors if you don’t want to. You can tear out the strawberries from the paper if you like! Do you want to tear them out?” Clean lines seemed to bother Mrs. Randolph much more than messiness.
Osei looked down and began cutting again. “I am using scissors.”
“Of course, of course!” Mrs. Randolph shrilled nervously. “Super! Now, Dee, what are you doing? How will you celebrate your mother?”
“I—I—” Dee fiddled with the pipe cleaner she held, curling it in on itself so that it became a fuzzy circle. She had no idea what to make for her mother. Mrs. Benedetti was not the sort of mother you “celebrated.”
“Blueberries!” Mrs. Randolph cried. “Is that your mother’s favorite fruit? Maybe this will be the fruit table. Osei, you are setting a trend!” She gazed expectantly at Duncan’s and Patty’s cards, hoping perhaps to see bananas depicted, or oranges. But Duncan was asleep with his head on his arms; while Mr. Brabant would never have allowed Duncan to sleep in class, Mrs. Randolph was more lenient. Patty was painstakingly constructing a tissue-paper flower that the girls had learned to make the year before with another, more traditional art teacher. For a moment Mrs. Randolph looked as if she wanted to pluck the flower from Patty and rip it up. Instead she smiled brightly and turned to another cluster of desks. “And what will we find here? Favorite vegetables?” She let loose her crashing laugh and Dee winced.