Stella by Starlight Page 3

  6

  Silver-Wrapped Chocolate

  “Let’s go, y’all,” Stella urged them forward. “Mrs. Grayson is gonna have a hissy fit if we’re late!” Their school was still half a mile away.

  The back-and-forth that occurred nearly every morning rose up yet again.

  “I wouldn’t want to go there,” Johnsteve declared. “Too proper!”

  “And they wouldn’t want you!” Tony countered. “Too dark!”

  “You think they got better teachers?” Johnsteve asked.

  “Better than Mrs. Grayson?” Stella asked, with a smirk. “Not a chance.”

  “I like our school, even though it’s old,” Jojo said. “And everybody’s got ashy legs and scabby knees just like me!”

  “Speak for yourself!” Stella retorted.

  With that, they all laughed and hurried on to their next stop—Cathy’s Candy Store. Mrs. Cathy Cooper opened early so that the children could buy sweet treats on their way to either school. Her twelve-year-old daughter, Thelma, helped her until it was time for her to go to Mountain View.

  As they crowded into the store, Stella waved at Mrs. Cooper. She had to be the nicest white lady in Bumblebee, not just because she sometimes gave them free candy, but because she didn’t shoo them to the back door like most of the other store owners in town did. It felt kinda good to walk in the front like everybody else. Stopping by the candy store made every day start off sweet.

  Carolyn had a penny, so she bought a bag of red hots.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Tell your mama I said hello.” Carolyn promised she would.

  Stella poked her friend. “Girl, you know I can’t eat those things—they make my tongue go thick,” she grumbled.

  Carolyn grinned. “Maybe that’s why I got them!”

  “No fair!”

  Because they visited the store so often, Stella felt comfortable enough to say hi to Thelma. “It sure must be nice having a mom who owns a candy store,” she said this morning.

  Thelma laughed. “I probably get less than any of you—Mommy’s pretty strict!” She handed Stella a Bazooka Joe bubble gum when her mother wasn’t looking.

  Just then a group of five white children walked into the store, also carrying lunch pails and school bags. The room was suddenly quiet.

  Stella inhaled sharply, a thought striking her. Had any of their fathers been in that field last night?

  “Welcome!” Mrs. Cooper called out cheerfully, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Looks like we’ve got a full house this morning. Nothing better than a store full of children!”

  The two groups, however, moved around each other like oil and water.

  Paulette Packard, the doctor’s daughter, pushed herself right up to the case and started choosing. Stella could scarcely take her eyes off Paulette’s dress—it was a pale lavender, and clearly store-bought. She wore patent-leather shoes and carried a matching pocketbook.

  A pocketbook at school? Stella thought.

  While most of the children in the store, both black and white, scraped for pennies in their pockets, Paulette pulled out two crisp dollar bills and bought three large bags of candy. She sure liked Goo Goo Clusters!

  So as not to be caught staring, Stella turned from Paulette back to Thelma and got up the nerve to ask her something she’d always wondered about. “How’s school?”

  What Stella really wanted to know was what the rooms looked like—the books, the desks, even the pictures the Mountain View teachers posted on their walls. She would love to have just a teeny peek inside Thelma’s classroom.

  But Thelma just shrugged. “Grumpy teachers. Lots of reading and reciting. Basically boring. How about yours?”

  Stella couldn’t understand how school could ever be boring. “It’s not bad,” was all she told Thelma. But she wondered if white kids ever had trouble figuring out writing and reading stuff.

  Barbara Osterman, the daughter of the mill owner, must have been listening, because she stepped close and said in a low voice, “I don’t get why we gotta go to different schools anyway. Seems kinda stupid to me.”

  Stella agreed 100 percent, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say that to a white child. She glanced down to pick at the bubble-gum wrapper in her hand.

  A tall, thin white boy whom Stella knew only as Kenneth leaned over and whispered to Thelma, “School together? Ha! We don’t go to school with them because we don’t have to.” Stella kept her eyes on the Bazooka as Kenneth went on. “They’ll never amount to anything. My daddy says if they learn to cook and sew and clean, that’s all they’ll need. Hey, can I have some of them Zagnuts?”

  Stella wanted to call him a Zagnut, or a Dum Dum, or a word that was not a candy, but a curse. Instead she gritted her teeth and looked away to notice that Paulette was slipping out the door. Without her classmates. For a moment Stella wondered if Paulette was uncomfortable with what Kenneth was saying, but she quickly realized that wasn’t it. Through the front window she saw Paulette’s father on his sleek black stallion, reining in the horse. Paulette hurried to greet him. She held her hand out, and her father smiled and placed a bill in it.

  Randy, who’d joined Stella by the window, grabbed her elbow. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed as Paulette tucked the money into her purse and headed across the street to her school. Her father rode off in the other direction, breaking into a full gallop.

  “Five dollars!” Stella breathed. “I’ve never had that much money in my life.” But her mind was churning. Dr. Packard’s saddle was shiny black. And it was decorated with silver studs that glinted in the sunlight, that would have glimmered in the moonlight. . . .

  “All right, young ones,” Mrs. Cooper called out, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t want the teachers getting angry at me because you were late for school again. You may each take one Hershey’s Kiss as you leave.”

  As the children from Riverside School and the children from Mountain View School filed out of the store, each grabbing one silver-wrapped chocolate from Mrs. Cooper’s basket, it struck Stella that everyone got the same thing, no matter which school they went to.

  7

  Piano Frogs

  Mrs. Grayson, as they had predicted, was in the doorway waiting for them as they arrived. They were late.

  “Is she mad?” Hugh asked, ducking behind his brother.

  “Not enough to use the paddle, I don’t think,” Herbert replied.

  Stella thought she saw a hint of a smile cross the teacher’s lips as they scooted past her to their desks. Grades one to eleven, about thirty-five students altogether, sat in one room. There was no twelfth grade—students got a diploma and could go to college when they finished eleventh. Stella remembered how proud folks had been last year when Liza Twitty had left for college in Atlanta.

  The potbellied stove was already stoked with logs the older students chopped each afternoon. The wooden desks of the younger children sat closest to it, but the whole room felt toasty.

  Stella slipped into her own seat, next to the upright piano that Mrs. Grayson plinked out hymns and folk songs and ballads on. The thing was ancient, but Mrs. Grayson managed to work around the keys that were out of tune.

  In the front of the room stood the American flag, which always tilted a little to the right in its stand. On the front wall were silhouettes of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, a map of the world, and a map of North Carolina. A red thumbtack marked the location of Bumblebee, smack-dab between Spindale and Forest City.

  After the Pledge of Allegiance and morning prayer, Mrs. Grayson announced that they had a great deal to do that day, including arithmetic for all grades.

  Everyone groaned.

  The teacher held up a hand. “But first we have something to discuss.” Once she had everyone’s attention, she said, “I know you’ve all heard about what was seen in the woods last night. And I know your parents have warned you all to be careful. Let me add my two cents. Don’t ever walk alone—stay in groups. Do n
ot go into the woods for any reason. If you see anything that looks out of place, run—I say run—and find an adult. I am always here for you, and you are safe when you’re with me. Any questions?”

  Jojo was the first to raise his hand. “The—those—they—they wouldn’t hurt children . . . would they?”

  Mrs. Grayson looked Jojo in the eye. “Let’s just not take any chances. Is that clear? Now, for something far more jolly, how about we start the day by practicing for the Christmas pageant!”

  While her classmates began murmuring happily, Stella couldn’t shake a sudden feeling of foreboding. Christmas was still a good ten weeks off. Why were they starting so early? Then it dawned on her that Mrs. Grayson was trying to distract them. It sure worked with Jojo.

  “Ooh, when is it? Where’s it gonna be?” her brother asked, not bothering to raise his hand this time.

  “Jojo, where you been? At New Hope Church, as always!” the teacher replied. “Christmas Eve, just like we’ve been doing forever. It’s our Christmas gift to Bumblebee—to our parents and friends and everybody in our community. Why, I remember you weren’t even walking yet when you first played Baby Jesus.”

  Jojo beamed.

  “We all get parts?” Carolyn asked, glancing at Stella excitedly.

  “Of course. Every one of you has a part—”

  Randy broke in, “Even all the Spencers?”

  Everyone laughed, and Mrs. Grayson smiled. “Yes, the whole Spencer clan. All thirteen of them. Even little Hetty! Now, I’m going to expect you older students to help the young ones, and please tell your folks I’ll need some bedsheets and feed sacks for costumes.”

  “And cookies!” Herbert reminded her.

  “And candy!” Jojo added.

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course, but let’s start with memorizing our lines before we plan the menu,” Mrs. Grayson said, holding her hands up.

  “What’s more important than dessert?” Johnsteve asked.

  “Some might say music,” she replied. “I want to start with one of the songs we’ll sing that night. A new one. And”—she gave a sly smile—“we’ll do some arithmetic at the same time!”

  Math and music? Stella looked to Carolyn, who made a don’t ask me face.

  Mrs. Grayson walked over to the piano and started lifting the lid. Before it was even all the way up, she let out a screech. Everyone jumped up. “I do declare!” Mrs. Grayson exclaimed, staggering backward as two fat frogs leaped from the piano. “Good gracious, my Lord!”

  Henrietta, whose desk, like Stella’s, was close to the piano, leaped away screaming. Johnsteve and Hugh and Carolyn were already on the floor, scrambling under seats, trying to catch the frogs. Randy had both hands up high in the air, yelling, “It wasn’t me!” Everyone else looked about ready to pop with held-in giggles, but the look on Mrs. Grayson’s face was a thunderstorm.

  “Which of you boys did this?” she demanded. “Johnsteve? Tony?”

  Tony shook his head, sputtering, “We didn’t do it. Honest.”

  “You Spencer boys?”

  Herbert held one of the squirming, leggy frogs in one hand. Hugh held the other. Their eyes were wide with innocence. Herbert spoke up first. “We didn’t bring no frogs in here, miss. But can we keep ’em?”

  That stopped Mrs. Grayson short. “Keep them? For pets?”

  “No, M’am,” Hugh answered. “For to eat. My sister Hannah can put ’em in some stew!”

  Mrs. Grayson’s eyes finally softened. Herbert was awfully thin and hungry-looking. Stella hoped Mrs. Grayson would say yes.

  “Do what you want with them, boys. Put them in those old Mason jars over there, poke a few holes in the top. Mind now that they don’t get loose again.”

  As Herbert and Hugh hurried off, Mrs. Grayson turned to the rest of the class. “I still need to know which young man hid frogs in my piano! Jojo, was it you?”

  “No, M’am. I promise,” Jojo replied. “But you gotta admit—it was kinda funny.”

  Mrs. Grayson did not look amused.

  Stella looked around, as curious as her teacher. Finally one small hand went into the air.

  “It was me, Mrs. Grayson,” Claudia Odom said quietly.

  Mrs. Grayson didn’t seem quite sure how to respond. She’d clearly been prepared to swat a naughty boy, and now looked at the first grader in astonishment. As did Stella. “Claudia? But . . . why?”

  “I like stuff like frogs and snakes and bugs,” Claudia said simply. “I found them last night, and I put them in my lunch pail to show everybody.”

  “So . . . how did they end up in my piano?” The teacher looked flabbergasted.

  “I figured they needed some exercise. I was gonna move them at lunch. You don’t ever do music until afternoon. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I most certainly was not frightened,” Mrs. Grayson said, straightening her back. “Just very surprised.” She pursed her lips tightly, tried to look angry, then finally, explosively, she burst out with the biggest laugh Stella had ever heard from her. “Lord have mercy, child!” she cried out. “Don’t ever do that to me again! That’s about all the botheration a body can stand for one day!”

  “Can I still keep ’em?” Hugh called out from where he was jabbing holes into a Mason jar lid.

  “Sure, Hugh,” Claudia said amiably. “Kilkenny Pond is full of frogs!”

  Stella found herself thinking about the frogs she’d heard in the pond. What might a family of bullfrogs have witnessed under the darkness of other nights?

  8

  Go Where I Send Thee

  “Well, we have wasted quite enough time with frogs and foolishness,” Mrs. Grayson said, buttoning up her smiles. “So let’s get started. Most of you probably have heard this song, but we need to make sure we have the words and rhythms right. This is for a performance.” She raised an eyebrow at Claudia. “I trust no other animals shall land in my lap while we proceed?” Then she sat down at the old piano, and her fingers seemed to glide over the keys.

  Stella grinned as she recognized the tune. She’d learned it when she was only two or three, sitting on her granny’s lap at church. She suddenly remembered sliding the thin band of silver—her grandmother’s wedding ring—up and down her granny’s thin fingers.

  Now Mrs. Grayson, pulling the children into the heart of the song, began to sing. “First verse!” she called out.

  “Children, go where I send thee

  How shall I send thee?

  I’m gonna send thee one by one

  One was the little bitty baby

  Born in Bethlehem.”

  “I know this one,” Jojo cried. “It gets longer and longer.”

  “And faster and faster!” Henrietta added.

  “You should be singing, not talking,” Mrs. Grayson told them, keeping to the song’s melody as she did so.

  “Verse two,” Mrs. Grayson now called out. “As you can see, we are doing our arithmetic lessons while we sing!”

  “Children, go where I send thee

  How shall I send thee?

  I’m gonna send thee two by two

  Two was Paul and Silas

  One was the little bitty baby

  Born in Bethlehem.”

  The teacher kept adding more verses until they had completed all twelve:

  “Children, go where I send thee

  How shall I send thee?

  I’m gonna send thee twelve by twelve

  Twelve was the twelve that couldn’t get help

  Eleven was the ’leven that all went to heaven

  Ten was the Joseph brothers

  Nine was the nine all dressed so fine

  Eight was the eight who stood at the gate

  Seven was the seven couldn’t get to heaven

  Six was the six that never got picked

  Five was the five that came back alive

  Four was the four that stood at the door

  Three was the three old wise men

  Two was Paul and Silas

 
One was the little bitty baby

  Born in Bethlehem.”

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Grayson said. “Let’s do it again, but faster this time!” And so they did. Over and over, faster and faster, until they were all breathless with laughter and song.

  Then Mrs. Grayson abruptly stopped playing. “I know it’s not in the song, but how much is three times three?” she demanded.

  “Nine!” Johnsteve responded quickly.

  She nodded with approval, then looked at the students in the lower grades. “How much is three plus three?”

  “Six!” Jojo chirped.

  “She sure did figure out a way to do it!” Carolyn whispered to Stella.

  To the older children she said, “Four times four?”

  “Sixteen!”

  “Twelve times twelve?”

  “One hundred and forty four! Too easy,” Tony said.

  “Excellent!” The teacher looked pleased. “Now, children,” she continued cheerfully, “let’s begin our writing projects. I will collect them at the end of the day.”

  Stella slumped in her seat. Writing. The perfect way to ruin a perfect morning.

  Mrs. Grayson divided everyone into groups by grades. She tasked the oldest students with looking up each reference from the song in the Bible and figuring out who were the “eight who stood at the gate,” then writing about one of them. The little ones were told to write short word stories or poems about Christmas.

  When Mrs. Grayson got to Stella’s group of nine- to twelve-year-olds, she told them, “I want each of you to write an essay—an opinion piece. It should be one to two pages in length. Your best penmanship.”

  Two pages? Stella’s stomach curled into knots.

  Mrs. Grayson caught Stella’s eye. “Just write down what you think about what happened last night,” she suggested. “Bumblebee belongs to all of us, and what happens here is important.”

  Outside the classroom window stood an ancient apple tree, its branches gnarled and entwined. They’d all feasted on the fruit since the start of school, but the last of the apples had fallen in the past week. Stella gazed out at the few remaining leaves stirring in the sharp breeze. When she opened her notebook, her thoughts snarled like those tangled branches. Stella didn’t like to write.