Gabriela (American Girl Page 3

  “Liberty.”

  An idea was forming in my head. I stood up from my desk. “At Liberty, we’re all connected like a network! And that’s what’s most important, the connections we have and all the other—other stuff that we share.” I knew that “stuff” wasn’t the right word, but I couldn’t get my words out fast enough. “What if, until Liberty is fixed, instead of shutting down our network, we moved it someplace else? Just hold classes and rehearsals somewhere else?”

  Silence.

  I looked from Mama to Daddy to Red.

  “W-Well, it seemed like a g-good idea,” I muttered, sitting back down.

  “It’s not a good idea,” Mama said. “It’s a great idea!” She came all the way into my room and began to pace. She only did that when she was really excited about something. “I’ll talk to my college dance buddies, see if any of them knows of a studio we can use.”

  “I’ll check in with the guys at work,” Daddy added.

  “We can ask Principal Stewart if the gym at Thomas Jefferson is free,” I said. Red nodded in agreement.

  “After all,” Daddy said, “one person is only—”

  “As strong as his network,” we finished in unison. That was one of Daddy’s favorite computer metaphors.

  Somebody, somewhere was bound to have a space we could use. My heart soared.

  “All right, you two,” Daddy said, “even computers sleep sometimes. How about we humans do the same.”

  I said good night, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed, bringing my journal with me. It was a good night. I didn’t know how we’d raise the money to repair the Liberty building, but with our network held together, I was sure we could do anything.

  Network

  Linked together

  We can weather

  Any storm

  In any form

  Righting the wrong

  Million-man-and-woman strong

  Ready to fight

  Turn darkness back to light

  On Monday morning, Red and I got up and got dressed, ready to meet Teagan at Thomas Jefferson Elementary to talk to Principal Stewart. Mama had filled in Mr. Harmon yesterday, and Red and I had FaceTimed with Teagan and made a plan to go to the school first thing in the morning. Mama was already downstairs in the kitchen, ending a call on her cell phone.

  Daddy looked up from his bowl of cereal. “Who was that?” he asked.

  Mama sighed. “One of my senior girls. I left her a voice mail about rehearsal being canceled today. She and the other girls are disappointed, to say the least. This is their last big show at the center before most of them go off to college.”

  “But the show could still happen, right?” I asked. “Especially if we find another space?”

  Mama took a seat at the table and exchanged a look with Daddy.

  “The show could go on,” Mama said slowly. “It all depends.”

  “Depends on what?” Red asked.

  “You know, I really don’t want you two getting so wrapped up in all of this.”

  “We just want to know what the show happening depends on,” I said.

  “Fine. It depends on what the city says and how much money we can raise for materials with other endeavors. Okay? Now that’s it. No more questions about this. You two need to enjoy your summer, especially you, Gabby. You start middle school in the fall, which will be a big change for you. I want you to have fun these next couple of months, okay?”

  It was not okay. How was I supposed to fix what I messed up if Mama wouldn’t even let me ask any questions about it?

  “So … does asking for a ride to the school count as a question?” Red asked.

  “We need to get to TJ to talk to Principal Stewart,” I said. The words came out like a stomp in tap class.

  “To ask him if Liberty can use the gym,” Red reminded her.

  Mama frowned. “You two don’t need to do that. I’ll handle it.”

  Mama’s laptop was open on the kitchen table beside her, and she had a pad of yellow paper in her lap. The top page had a to-do list on it that was very close to reaching the last line on the paper. “See, it’s right here on my list.” She pointed at number seven.

  “But it could be a while before you get to that,” I said. “Besides, Red and I want to help because—” I almost said because the outage is our fault, but I stopped myself. I didn’t really think Mama would be mad if I told her about pushing the big silver button, but she built the programs at Liberty from the ground up all those years ago and had been working hard ever since. I didn’t want to tell her that her own daughter had made it all come crashing down. “Because we want to do as much for Liberty as we can.”

  Mama’s frown deepened. I couldn’t understand why she was frowning at all. Couldn’t she see how much Red and I wanted to help?

  “It was my idea,” I said. “Can we please handle it?”

  “All right,” Mama said at last. “You two can do this one thing. But that’s it.” Red and I opened our mouths to protest at the same time. Mama held up her hand for silence. “All of what’s going on with Liberty is too heavy for you kids to be dealing with. So, yes, you may talk to Principal Stewart. After that, I want you to get on with enjoying your summer. Let the adults do the heavy lifting. Everything is going to work out.”

  “But we want to—”

  Mama’s raised hand cut me off again. “I know what you want, and I appreciate all the help you’d like to give, but you need to leave this to the grown-ups.” Mama’s phone vibrated as a text message came through. “Give me a minute to work through some things on my list and I’ll drive you over to TJ.”

  I went to the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. Red flopped down beside me. It wasn’t fair—Liberty was all about community. Weren’t Red and I a part of the community, too?

  “Mama is treating us like babies,” I said miserably.

  “Yeah,” Red said, punching the couch. “We need to prove that we’re not.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “No idea,” Red said.

  Suddenly, another of Mr. Harmon’s favorite sayings popped into my mind: Prove yourself through your actions, not your words.

  “We have to show Mama that we can handle tough stuff. Show her that we are, um, capable. That’s it. We need to show her that we’re capable of doing more.”

  “How?” Red asked, his voice just as flat as before.

  “By doing really well with the job she’s letting us do today. If we go to TJ and manage to get Principal Stewart to let us use the gym for the next few weeks, Mama will see that we are capable—”

  “And she’ll have to let us help out more!” Red put in, already cheering up.

  “Exactly.”

  It turned out that proving yourself is easy to say but not actually easy to do. Especially when Red and I met up with Teagan outside TJ’s main office and the first thing Teagan said was, “Are you ready to talk to Principal Stewart, Gabby?” We had decided the night before on the phone that I would talk to Principal Stewart, which meant that I was going to have to do the exact opposite of Mr. Harmon’s quote. I was going to have to prove myself with my words.

  “I’m r-ready,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Teagan asked.

  I nodded.

  Principal Stewart was behind the desk in the main office, writing on the dry-erase board. His back was to us. I stood silently between Teagan and Red, waiting for him to turn around. Teagan elbowed me gently in the ribs. When I looked over at her, she opened her eyes wide and jerked her head in Principal Stewart’s direction, as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Mama and Daddy always encouraged me, when I was too nervous to talk to someone, to just take my time and get my words out, stutter and all. I cleared my throat. Principal Stewart turned around to face us, marker still held up as if he were getting ready to scribble a message in the air.

  “Good morning,” he boomed, and then held up the pointer finger on
his free hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Teagan Harmon?”

  Teagan nodded.

  “And—”

  “Clifford Knight, but everyone calls me Red. I’m up at the middle school.”

  “Ah, that’s why I don’t recognize you.” Principal Stewart’s eyes landed on me. He frowned. School had never been a second home to me the way Liberty was. School was the place where, in fifth grade, Aaliyah Reade-Johnson gave me a nickname that followed me the whole year like a shadow: “Repeat,” because I was always saying stuff more than once. School was where I’d learned to keep my eyes on my desk when the teacher was looking to call on someone to read. Where the same comment appeared on my report card year after year: “Gabby’s reluctance to participate in class is negatively impacting her grades.” Everyone saw me at Liberty; people hardly noticed me at school.

  “Hmmm.” Principal Stewart tapped his chin. He frowned. He had no idea who I was. He stared at me, waiting for me to tell him my name. Red stared at me. Teagan did, too.

  “Ummmm,” I said softly.

  “Gabriela McBride,” Teagan put in quickly. “Her mom runs Liberty Arts Center.”

  “Ah yes!” Principal Stewart said so loudly I almost jumped. “First year. Did not quite get to know every name and face.”

  “And speaking of Liberty …” Teagan elbowed me again.

  I wished she would stop doing that. And I wished everyone would stop staring at me, too. The inside of my mouth felt like I’d brushed my teeth with sawdust. Principal Stewart glanced at the clock and then back at the dry-erase marker in his hand.

  “W-W-W-We were wondering if, um … yyyyyyou could like, um. No. Wait. Liberty is in the dark—”

  “In the dark?” Principal Stewart cut in. “What do you mean, it’s in the dark?”

  “I mean … I mean that it’s … it’s … it’s …” I paused, remembering one of the strategies Mrs. Baxter had taught me to use when my stuttering got out of hand. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, tried to see the words I wanted to say. I had to pin them down and say them, no matter how they came out. We had a blackout at Liberty and there’s no telling when things will be fixed. So, in the meantime, we need a place to hold classes and rehearsals and were wondering if we could use the gym.

  There. I opened my eyes and my mouth, ready to try again when Teagan chimed in. “What Gabby is trying to say is that this past Friday, the power went out at Liberty. Now the dancers won’t be able to rehearse for our Rhythm and Views show at the end of July. We’ll also have to stop all the programs at Liberty, like art classes, unless we can find another space to use in the meantime. Which is why we’re here this morning: To ask if you’d allow us to use the gym to rehearse for the next few weeks?” Teagan glanced at me. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  “It’s okay,” I mouthed back, trying hard to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Principal Stewart rocked back on his heels. “Well, Ms. Harmon, you are some type of orator,” he said, letting loose with a laugh like a cannon blast. “Unfortunately, the gym is full-on booked for the next few weeks. I’ve got summer youth basketball and volleyball in the evenings and junior varsity cheerleading on the weekends. And during the day, the district is using the gym for its Gifted Youth program.”

  As Principal Stewart ticked each team off on his fingertips, my spirit sank lower and lower.

  “But I’ll tell you what,” he added, checking his watch. “Gifted Youth is in the gym right now for the next fifteen minutes. After that, it’s lunch in the caf. I’ll walk you down there and see if the director will let the three of you make an announcement of sorts, asking the students in the program if they know of a place you can use to rehearse and whatnot. Sound good?”

  “That’s a great idea!” Red said.

  “It is,” Teagan agreed.

  I just nodded.

  “Great. Off we go then!”

  Principal Stewart led the way to the gym. Once inside, we waited on the bleachers while he talked to the director of the Gifted Youth program.

  “You’re going to do the talking, right, Gabby?” Red asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I still had to prove myself. But as I looked around, I saw the faces of some kids I knew, and a lot I didn’t. Some of them looked too big to be in TJ, and a few of them I was certain were already in middle school. My skin grew cold. Beside me, Teagan and Red were saying things like, “Make sure you mention how much Liberty means to the community,” and “Tell them how important the show is, too.” But I hardly heard them. I was thinking about the time Mrs. Baxter made me write down a list of stuttering triggers, all of the situations that made my stutter worse than usual. Number one on that list was speaking in front of people I didn’t know.

  “Understandable,” Mrs. Baxter had said. “And now that we’ve identified that, we can be ready for it.” I wasn’t feeling ready now.

  Just then, Principal Stewart called the three of us over. “Mr. Ludwig, the director, says it’s all right for you to make an announcement. But make it quick, okay?”

  And before I knew it, a whistle was blown and all of the members of the Gifted Youth program were sitting on the floor in front of Teagan, Red, and me, waiting for someone to say something. And that someone was me.

  Make yourself say the words, Gabby, no matter how they sound, I told myself.

  “Um, g-good afternoon … noon. My … my … my name is Gabriela McBride and I … I … I …”

  Someone snickered and made a sound like a record skipping. The director rushed to remove the person from the gym. A boy I’d never seen before. My face grew hot and the words I’d planned to say caught in my throat. I cleared my throat, trying to force the words out. But they wouldn’t come.

  “I’m getting hungry,” a boy called out.

  “Yeah, me, too,” a girl replied.

  Hot tears pushed at the back of my eyes. I blinked them away. “Um—” I began.

  “Good morning,” Teagan cut in. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Teagan Harmon and I’m here on behalf of the Liberty Arts Center, a place that is as beloved by many of you as it is by me.”

  I listened as the words I was supposed to say came flowing out of Teagan’s mouth. If she’d just given me another few moments, I could’ve said them myself. Right?

  “So we are asking anyone who knows of a place we can rehearse to please, please let us know. That’s Gabby McBride, me, Teagan Harmon, and—”

  “Red Knight,” Red said, stepping forward. “If we don’t find a space, we’ll be all over the place. So go on and dig deep; we’re counting on you, my peeps!”

  “Thank you!” Teagan said hurriedly. The Gifted Youth students were already getting to their feet.

  Principal Stewart came over to us as the gym emptied out. “Mission accomplished. Why don’t the three of you grab some lunch in the cafeteria before you go? Maybe some of the kids are waiting to talk to you already.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Red and Teagan agreed. “Gabby, what do you think?”

  I shrugged. I saw Red and Teagan look at each other, then at me. I wished the gym floor would open up and swallow me whole. If we were at Liberty, where we were supposed to be, just like every other Monday, I would’ve gone to sit in the special place in the auditorium that echoed. But I wasn’t at Liberty, couldn’t go to Liberty. I felt the tears coming again.

  “It’s all right, Gabby,” said Red, thumping me on the shoulder. “Someone’s gonna have a place for us to practice. Liberty’s gonna get all fixed up in time for the show, and what happened here? It won’t even matter anymore.”

  I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t even matter now,” Red said. “I bet those kids already forgot. All they were thinking about was lunch. We’ll get back into Liberty. We’re big-time now, ready for crowds.”

  “Skyscraper-high,” Teagan continued.

  Red wriggled his eyebrows at me. I smiled a little, thinking of Liberty up and running again in time for the show
.

  “Touching clouds,” I finished.

  Teagan, Red, and I were just sitting down in the cafeteria with our lunch when a boy I’d never seen before plunked his tray down right next to me. I noticed two things about him immediately: He had an Afro at least three inches high, and his lunch box looked more like a red briefcase with a lightning bolt down the middle than any lunch box I had ever seen. We watched, open-mouthed, as he unzipped it and pulled out a thermos and a plastic container.

  “Good morrow,” he said cheerfully.

  “What?” said Red.

  “Good morrow,” the boy repeated, pulling open his plastic container. It had three sections. The largest compartment held a sandwich—the two smaller ones, apple slices and graham crackers. “You’re probably wondering why I’m sitting here right now.”

  “I’m actually wondering about something else,” Red replied, eyeing the boy’s sandwich. It was cut in the shape of a goldfish.

  “I’m here to help. As the Bard once said, ‘ ’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.’”

  “The feeble?” Teagan asked.

  “Yes. The weak, the frail.” He clenched a fist and dropped his voice to a whisper. “The helpless. In other words, you.”

  “We’re not weak!” I cried.

  “Or frail,” said Teagan.

  “Or helpless,” said Red.

  The boy took a bite of his goldfish-shaped sandwich. “No,” he said around a mouthful of turkey and cheese. He sounded a little disappointed. “I guess you’re not. But that’s one of my favorite quotes by the Bard.”

  “Okay,” said Red, putting his milk down on the table. “Exactly who is this Bard you keep talking about?”

  “William Shakespeare,” the boy answered. “The greatest writer and poet who ever lived.”

  “The greatest?” Red cocked his head to the side. “I heard they use Shakespeare to torture kids in high school. Nah, if you wanna talk the greatest poet, you need to be talking about Langston Hughes. Maya Angelou. And the best spoken word poet today, Saul Williams.”