Free Soil by Jamie Kornegay Page A

and noticed similar confusion on the faces of other students.
    â€œJust do your best here, push yourself,” she said. “The only way to fail is by not participating.”
    The district discouraged teachers from touching students, so Sandy patted Balivia’s desk. The wiry unkempt girl looked up, one eye bulgier than the other, and bared a baffled, candy-stained smile. Sandy winked in return. She thought the girl didn’t mean to make trouble, only yearned for some validation that no one else in her life had cared to offer.
    Sandy took a seat at her desk and watched them trying to make sense of the words. One of the girls in the back resembled Lila Jenkins, her best friend in junior high. She thought back to all those weekends she’d stayed over at the Jenkins house. Lila’s divorced mother, Sissy, would come in from work like a hurricane, always on her way somewhere else. She’d have Lila mix her a drink while she ran from closet to clothes pile, cursing at someone on the cordless phone, burning their frozen pizza in the oven. Later, as the girls pretended to sleep, came the laughter and strange male whispers, followed by horribly adult moaning and creaking, gasps and slaps, the shouting and sobbing and slamming of doors—things a child shouldn’t hear. They’donly wanted to play dress-up and be left alone with their sleeping bags and corn chips and R-rated horror movies, but Sissy kept exposing them to this futility of adulthood.
    Now, twenty years later, Sandy had recently squirmed through one date herself. She’d wanted to prove that she could make it on her own without Jay. It was nothing more than a brief, awkward dinner, but it felt like a betrayal—against her estranged husband, sure, but mostly against her son, Jacob. If she was going to truly be single and wanted more than simple conversation with an adult, how could she ever bring a man like that back to their cramped apartment? What if Jacob were sitting up at night, listening to their groping and fleeting lust behind the bedroom wall? What kind of hatred would she be sowing inside of him? Already, at the age of six, he was facing life at a deficit. She shuddered to think what kind of man he might turn into, having witnessed his father unraveling.
    Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Sandy caught her mentor and savior, Mrs. Puckett, walking past in the hallway. She jumped up to catch her and told her students, “Everyone quiet, let’s pretend we have manners.”
    She scampered into the hall on precarious heels. “Mrs. Puckett!” Sandy called.
    Mrs. Puckett turned and smiled. The tall, elder teacher was dressed in bland attire, an embroidered sweater and long denim skirt. They met halfway between their rooms. “My, don’t you look stylish today,” Mrs. Puckett said, brushing a hand against the fabric of Sandy’s blouse. She detected something else in Mrs. Puckett’s remark, just under the surface— It’s a bit much for school, don’t you think?
    â€œThanks,” said Sandy. “I like your sweater.”
    Mrs. Puckett accepted the fib politely.
    â€œCan I ask a favor?” said Sandy.
    â€œWhat is it, hon?”
    â€œI have to make a delivery at lunch today, during my open fourth period. I was wondering if you would mind looking in on my fifth-period class in case I’m a few minutes late?”
    Mrs. Puckett tightened her lips and considered the request. “You know, Principal Reynolds is on the warpath about leaving kids unattended.”
    Sandy hadn’t expected resistance. “I suppose you’re right,” she replied. “I just didn’t want to go through the ordeal of calling in a substitute for five minutes.”
    â€œYou know I wouldn’t mind. I just don’t want it to reflect poorly on you if something goes wrong. Turn your back for a minute and these kids will be at each other’s throats.”
    That was a