Chapter Fourteen

How will I send my thoughts flying without no great birds to use for a guide? — Paul Boeth/ The Great Blue Heron by Robert W. Butler

 

                                    Chapter Fourteen

 

I survived Conferences, but Mrs. Stankoski had me read my Veterans Day poem to the whole class. How embarrassing! At least, she forgot about bringing Woody in. (My nerves had been doing cartwheels worrying about that.)

Now, darn if she doesn’t want us to think about “the true meaning of Thanksgiving” and write about it in our journals after lunch.

“I got nothing, “I wail to Gabrielle in the cafeteria, ready to pull my hair out.

“I’m drawing a blank, too,” she confesses.

So, we was trying to figure it out. I weren’t sure if I should bring this up, but I did anyway.

“Is your daddy coming home for Thanksgiving?” I said boldly. “You know …with the

divorce and all.”

“My father can’t come home!” Gabrielle whispered, tearing up. “He’s overseas, working undercover in the war on terror, on a stupid FBI special assignment.”

Now I was cat-got-your-tongue stunned, gaping at her bug-eyed.

“Dang your father’s like one of them actors on TV; only his job’s for real!” I said, taking a swig outta my milk carton, then wiping off my milk mustache with my baggy sleeve.   “No wonder you’re always thinking everybody’s a criminal. He’s in a war like Woody was. An FBI agent! Don’t that beat all!” I said, awe-struck.

“Emma, swear you won’t tell anyone! Seriously, you have to promise me on your Ying Yang necklace. My parents would kill me if they knew it had slipped out. I’m not even supposed to know. But I overheard them talking once. My father could get into a lot of trouble,” Gabrielle pleaded.

I could see fear burning in her light brown eyes – underneath them brown wire-rimmed glasses – telling me it was serious. So, I pulled out my necklace from inside my baggy blue sweatshirt for her to see it.

“I swear,” I promised, crossing my heart on my Yin Yang necklace. “Relax, I ain’t telling no one your top secret, family stuff,” I whispered back, trying to calm her down.

“Thanks,” she sighed relieved, flashing me a big silvery-braces smile.

I smiled back.

“Well, you can’t write about that!”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Emma?” Gabrielle asked, changing the subject.

“Not much. Mama probably has to work,” I said matter-of-factly.

Gabrielle didn’t talk none after that. Just sat there, lost in her own thoughts, looking low-down sad.

“I guess we’ll have to journal about the Pilgrims or something stupid. We ain’t got nothing be thankful for.”

Later, Mrs.Stankoski was teaching us about the Equator in Social Studies class. Pretty soon, I started thinking about Thanksgiving being one of Mama’s big tip days at The Blue Heron Restaurant. I wondered if Gabrielle, her mother, and grandmother will be some of them rich folks Mama will be waitin’ on tomorrow. Daydreaming and starring at that Equator line in my book, give me an idea. I do have something to be thankful for! Yeah! My pencil was doing summersaults, writing so fast.

Diary,

           Pine Lake, Indiana

           Mid -November, 2005

 

             Sometimes

           The true meaning of Thanksgiving

             is being thankful.

             I’m thankful for my friend, Gabrielle.

Problem is she’s rich.

             And I’m poor.

             Most of the time, we work it out.

             But sometimes . . .

           Strange how that rich- poor wall

             gets jammed between Gabrielle and me,

             separating us from time to time;

             like that line on the Equator,

             separating the Northern and Southern Hemisphere.

Gabrielle and I are in two different hemispheres.

             Sometimes. . .

             No wonder it ain’t been easy

           being her friend, because

           Sometimes . . .

           She’s a half a world away. 

 

     Mrs. Stankoski’s perched her eagle eyes over my shoulder, glaring down at my journal. I reached into my sweatshirt sleve for a tissue to wipe my tear-stained eyes. Then blew my nose one them loud honker sounds, hoping to chase her away. (Sometimes, I get so emotional!) Lord, I hope she don’t make me read this one to the class. It’s personal, I thought slamming my journal shut, hoping she’d get the idea.