I really wanted to turn in my sentences this week. They turned out pretty good, and I made extra sure they did not include things about junkies and dads and bills.
I had them out, ready to hand to Mr. Savage as he passed my desk. But before he got to me, he was in front of Meg Anderson—the fourth-grader who was always cleaning out her desk and who always had her homework ready—and she told him that she'd left hers at home.
"Meg, I'm disappointed," he said, which didn't sound bad, but judging by how red Meg's ears turned, she didn't like hearing it one bit.
"Yeah—well—but—" Meg said, her ears turning redder with each word. Then she pointed to me and yelled, "Star didn't turn hers in either!"
I gasped, and it was the only sound in the room. Mr. Savage turned his beard in my direction, and I knew from the way he clenched his jaw that I was in trouble. Before I even had time to point at Meg and remind him that she was the one who left her stupid sentences at home, Mr. Savage stomped his way over to my row.
"This is not acceptable," he said. We all shrank down in our seats. I don't think we'd ever seen Mr. Savage mad before. "Don't think I don't know what's going on. Maybe the vocabulary words don't seem that important. Maybe because I've been letting certain people get away with not turning them in, week after week."
I hated how he'd said that, get away with, like I was some kind of juvenile delinquent. And I hated that everyone in the room knew who he was talking about, because they all turned in their seats to look at me.
"So, everyone else who doesn't have sentences today, raise your hands," Mr. Savage said.
At first, no one did. Maybe it was out of fear. I thought, for a second, that it was just Meg Anderson who'd forgotten, and that she'd actually forgotten, because even smart people forget things sometimes. Like the one time Winter left her pepper spray in her locker, and the next day happened to be the day the principal searched it.
I was still planning on handing Mr. Savage my sentences, with one of those smiles that says, See? I'm totally not a delinquent like you think I am, even though I haven't redone the last two weeks yet, and then—
To my left, a hand went up. And to my right, a hand went up. And somewhere in the back corner, another hand went up. Three whole hands. Maybe Mr. Savage was right and they really had decided not to turn in their sentences because of me. Because I was getting away with it.
I felt this hard poke right in my back, and Delilah hissed at me, "Star! Raise your dang hand!" And Denny was turned all the way around and glaring with full force, and even stupid Jared was telling me to put my hand up. Mr. Savage's eyes stayed on me, and he made this "up" sign with his hand so that he was saying it, too, and everywhere I looked, someone else was saying the same thing.
Everyone really thought I was some kind of juvenile delinquent.
So I put my hand up, because I was tired of having to prove that I wasn't. I wondered if this was how Winter had felt last year, after her third and final trip to the principal's office. Did she know that no matter how much she tried, no one would ever look at her the same way again?
But that wasn't true. There was one person who didn't think Winter was a delinquent, besides me, because he hadn't seen her in years and hadn't even said anything to her since she was thirteen.
That must be why Winter wants to see Dad so much. Hope you and your sister are doing well. It doesn't seem like much, but he hopes. Maybe because he knows things will get better.
When the bell rang for lunch, I dropped my sentences into the trash, and hoped.