Free Maizon at Blue Hill by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

me?”
    Someone coughed. I looked over at her and she covered her mouth with her hand.
    I stared hard into Sybil’s eyes, all the while knowing that what I was doing was wrong of me. What I saw there was Sybil’s own fear of me and this made me madder than I had ever been. She had no right to have such a fear. She had never met me before, had never spoken to me or sat down beside me at dinner. It was the same fear that was in all of their eyes, but Sybil was the bravest. She was in charge and had chosen to raise her eyes and show me the fear there. I hated them all. But because she was brave, I hated Sybil the most.
    â€œWhat’s different?” I asked, giving a quick look around to include the others in this question. “I can’t see me now, so you have to tell me, Sybil. What’s so different about me?”
    â€œYou’re black, Maizon,” Sybil said. There was a near-silent longing in the back of her voice. I heard her desire, if only for a moment, an hour or a day, to be who I am. In Sybil’s voice I heard the part of her—of each of them sitting in the room—who had always wanted to be the special one. The one like no other, who stands out and above only because she is allowed to, only because others have chosen to shrink in her presence.
    I brushed at my skirt with my hand like I was flicking lint away, but it was really the moment I was ridding myself of. I thought of Marie and how she had brushed her thigh in the same way the first day we met. I was brushing away all of them with a flick of my hand. I felt the room shrink back away from me, felt their individual disappointment and felt the new strength of this power I had discovered within myself. “Yes, I am,” I said, bringing the back of my hand to my eyes as though I were checking for the first time. “I am black, aren’t I?”
    No one said a word. I listened as someone called the meeting to order. It moved on slowly. I felt the other girls stealing glances at me. I felt mean all of a sudden. As they discussed the coming debates, my skirt had all of my attention. I stared at the pleats riding along the front, at my skinny brown legs beneath it. I raised my feet in front of me and stared at my penny loafers, folded my arms across my chest, exhaled loudly to show my boredom and gazed at the starched, white creases in the sleeves of my blouse.
    It seemed like hours before Sybil adjourned the meeting. Only then, with the exits of the others, did the air in the room seem to lift.
    â€œI hope we’ll be friends, Maizon,” Sybil said, when only she and I were left.
    â€œYeah. I hope so too.” But the lie rode freely on the words, and Sybil knew it.

15
    S o what’s the scoop, dupe?“ Charli asked, sitting across from me and blocking my view of the sunset. I had wanted to be alone and had hoped that no one would try to join me for dinner. ”To debate or not to debate?“
    Marie and Sheila sat down next to us. Two other girls sat at the far end of the table, because all the other tables had already filled up.
    â€œI don’t know yet,” I said, even though I knew I wouldn’t join the debate team.
    I turned to Marie and Sheila. “I want to join something. That’s the only way I’m going to feel like I belong here.”
    â€œYou ain’t never gonna belong here,” Charli said.
    â€œCharli!” Marie scolded.
    â€œYou won’t ever belong here,” Charli corrected herself. “This school isn’t about us. It’s about them.” She gestured toward the two white girls seated at the end of the table. “And them,” she said, making a sweep of her arm to include the whole dining room hall.
    â€œThen why are we here?” I demanded.
    â€œTo get their education, Maizon,” Marie said calmly. “To get what they get, small classes, good teachers... blah, blah, blah.”
    â€œBut not to be with them,”