Free Sycamore Hill by Francine Rivers

tomorrow morning. You may leave your name off if you wish,” I added.
Faces were beginning to brighten again. “Also I would like you to write down
things you think we should do to the schoolhouse.” A chuckle escaped Sherman
Poole, and I looked down at him with a wry smile.
    “Short of burning it down, of course, Sherman.” The children
laughed. I waved my hand indicating the drab surroundings. “I’m sure you agree
it needs improvement. And if you can forage paint, material scraps, plants,
anything you think we could use, we might just be able to make this pathetic
old building into a pleasant place to behold.”
    “What color paint, Miss McFarland?” Andrew Olmstead piped up.
    “Anything you can scrounge and that your parents are willing to
give,” I answered. “We’ll leave the outside of the building as it is, but we’ll
decorate the inside any way you want... within reason.” I smiled at Sherman’s
devilish look. “As for the play yard, we’ll clean that up little by little and
set up a baseball diamond.” There were cheers at that announcement. I grinned.
“And for those little darlings who get into trouble with the teacher...” I eyed
Sherman and Grant pointedly, “they can help dig a new latrine for that
disgusting outhouse of ours.” The children roared with laughter, and Sherman
and Grant sank down into their seats with mock fright.
    “Well, do you think you have enough to keep you busy and out of
mischief tonight?” I asked with a laugh. There was a loud joyous affirmative.
    “Then there’s just one more thing. From now on, wear clothes you
won’t mind getting dirty. We’re going to try to make school fun as well as
instructive.” I raised my brows questioningly as I glanced over the children.
“Agreed?”
    “Agreed!” they cried.
    I smiled. “Class dismissed. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning at
nine sharp.”
    There was a mass scrambling for the door and rollicking laughter
as the children surged out of the building and ran off in all directions for
home. Chores awaited them before they could begin their foraging for the
schoolhouse.
    Katrina Lane walked out of the schoolroom with the same air of
fragile dignity with which she had entered. I watched her with a slight frown.
No little girl should be so solemn and withdrawn. She should laugh and enjoy
life. I decided to try to make that happen somehow.
    Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez remained sitting in the back of
the classroom. Both looked relieved that school was over. Linda was tracing
carved initials on the desk top with her finger while Diego watched me.
    “Diego,” I said, meeting the boy’s intent scrutiny, “your printing
is excellent. I’d like you to help John Hayes and Toby Carmichael improve
theirs.”
    The boy’s expression closed over. His mouth became tighter. “They
won’t let me,” he told me flatly.
    “Why do you think that?” I asked.
    “They won’t,” he repeated harshly, not elaborating. “Just take my
word for it.”
    “Can we try anyway?”
    He did not answer, but I could see that he was thinking about it.
The idea did not seem to please him. “How about if I just put you in a group
with those two boys? Then they can learn from you without having their noses
pushed into it,” I suggested, feeling that there must be some animosity between
the boys. They had not played together in the schoolyard, but then Diego had
not once attempted to join in the group games.
    “Maybe,” he relented only slightly, but did not seem any the more
eager. Linda looked up, those marvelous violet eyes clear for a moment of their
shyness.
    “The other boys won’t play with Diego because he’s Mexican,"
she explained candidly. For a moment I did not know what to say, and I knew my
face showed my startled state.
    “How can you be sure that the other boys feel that way?” I
directed my question to Diego. “You didn’t try to join in with them in any of
their activities. Have you tried before?”
    “He