Running Barefoot
Page 10
Samuel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thirteen?’ It didn’t sound like a question, but more like a doubtful exclamation. “So you’re what, in seventh grade?” He said this in the same flat, yet incredulous, voice.
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and sighed. “That’s right.” I took my book out of his hands and prepared to tune him out.
“Isn’t that book a little....grown-up for a seventh grader?” He argued. He pulled the book out of my hands again and read on, this time silently. “I don’t even understand what most of these words mean. It’s like a different language!”
“That’s why I read with a dictionary...although I don’t bring it to school with me. It’s way too heavy.” I looked down at the book again, feeling shy. “In some ways it is a different language. My teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, says our language is disintegrating.”
Samuel just looked at me, his face incredulous.
“I’m sure it’s not as different as Navajo is from English, though,” I continued, trying to draw him into further conversation, surprised he was speaking to me at all, especially now that he knew I was just a lowly seventh grader.
“Yeah, Navajo is very different.” Something shuttered over his face, and he turned away from me, looking out the window again, ending our very brief exchange.
It was several more bus rides before Samuel spoke to me once more. I had been shut down on our last conversation, and was unwilling to try again.
“I hate to read.” His tone was argumentative, and he glared at me. As usual, I was tucked into my book, my knees drawn up to support its weight. I looked at him, wondering what he wanted me to say.
“Okay...?”
He drew a book out of his backpack and tossed it on top of the copy of Pride and Prejudice that was opened on my lap. The book was Wuthering Heights. I almost groaned in sympathy. I hadn’t tried to finish it after Sonja had relieved me from it the first time. I had no desire to spend any more time with it. With school work, piano lessons, and piano practice, along with all the chores that came from living with two men - Jared and Jacob were up and mostly out of the house by then - my reading mostly took place on the bus and at bedtime, when I faithfully looked up all my undefined words. I still read a couple books a month, but I didn’t plow through them as I had in the summer. Wuthering Heights was NOT on my list of Books-To-Read and yes, I did have an actual list.
“I’ve read parts of this book,” I said cautiously, not understanding why he’d tossed the book in my lap.
“I was sure you were going to say you had,” he said wryly. “It’s as confusing as that book you were reading the other day.”
“Why are you reading it then?” I asked, certain he must be, or he wouldn’t have it in his possession.
He didn’t answer for several seconds, and I waited, wondering if he would take the book and turn away again. “I am failing English. I have Ms. Whitmer, and she told me if I read that book and write a report on it, she’ll pass me. So, I am trying to read that book. I have to read it and have the report on her desk in two weeks. I could see by the page he had dog-eared that he was in trouble.
Ms. Whitmer was a tough old bird who had taught at the high school for 25 years. She had a bit of a reputation, sometimes drove a Harley to school, and commonly wore combat boots. She was very intimidating, knew her stuff, and wouldn’t take any crap. My older brothers had liked her, but had groaned about the workload. Johnny was barely squeezing by in her class as well.
“Why this book? Did she tell you why?”
“She told me she doesn’t usually give extra credit. I told her I would do anything. She slapped this book down and said “If you can get through this one I’ll know how bad you want it.” So here I am. Now I know why she had that look on her face,” Samuel said morosely.
“Why do you care?” My question just popped out.
Samuel glowered at me. “I want to graduate,” he enunciated through clenched teeth. I promised my grandmother I would graduate.” He said this reluctantly. “I’m going into the Marine’s in May, and I want my diploma. My recruiter said I’ll have a lot more opportunities if I graduate first.”
We sat quietly for a minute. Samuel stared out the window as he was prone to do, and I fingered his book, still in my lap. I thought about how proud he seemed, and how hard it must have been to go to Ms. Whitmer and ask for the extra credit.
He reached over to take the book, but I held onto it tightly and moved it away from his outstretched hand.
“I’ll read it with you,” I blurted out, surprising myself and him. He stared at me suspiciously. I shrugged my shoulders. “I told you I had read parts of it - I want to read the rest.” I cringed at my lie. “We’ll read it together. We spend an hour, sometimes more, on this bus every day. I don’t mind reading out loud if you don’t.” I couldn’t believe I had been so forward. My neck got very hot underneath my hair, and I hoped I wasn’t getting hives, which sometimes happened when I got really upset or nervous.
“You read, I’ll listen,” he said stiffly.
“Now?” I questioned. He just raised his eyebrows.
I opened the book, swallowed my discomfort, and began at the beginning.
4. Progression
I decided our little book club was incomplete without the 1828 Webster’s dictionary, so every day I lugged the monstrous book to and from school for use on the bus. Samuel had rolled his eyes when I had pulled it out of my oversized bag the following morning. Every time he forgot himself and said in frustration “What does that mean?” I would nod my head towards the big green book lying between us. He would sigh and look up the word in question while I spelled it out for him. There were also words I wasn’t sure of, and would make him look those up as well - though I was pretty certain if I didn’t know what they meant, neither did he.
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and sighed. “That’s right.” I took my book out of his hands and prepared to tune him out.
“Isn’t that book a little....grown-up for a seventh grader?” He argued. He pulled the book out of my hands again and read on, this time silently. “I don’t even understand what most of these words mean. It’s like a different language!”
“That’s why I read with a dictionary...although I don’t bring it to school with me. It’s way too heavy.” I looked down at the book again, feeling shy. “In some ways it is a different language. My teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, says our language is disintegrating.”
Samuel just looked at me, his face incredulous.
“I’m sure it’s not as different as Navajo is from English, though,” I continued, trying to draw him into further conversation, surprised he was speaking to me at all, especially now that he knew I was just a lowly seventh grader.
“Yeah, Navajo is very different.” Something shuttered over his face, and he turned away from me, looking out the window again, ending our very brief exchange.
It was several more bus rides before Samuel spoke to me once more. I had been shut down on our last conversation, and was unwilling to try again.
“I hate to read.” His tone was argumentative, and he glared at me. As usual, I was tucked into my book, my knees drawn up to support its weight. I looked at him, wondering what he wanted me to say.
“Okay...?”
He drew a book out of his backpack and tossed it on top of the copy of Pride and Prejudice that was opened on my lap. The book was Wuthering Heights. I almost groaned in sympathy. I hadn’t tried to finish it after Sonja had relieved me from it the first time. I had no desire to spend any more time with it. With school work, piano lessons, and piano practice, along with all the chores that came from living with two men - Jared and Jacob were up and mostly out of the house by then - my reading mostly took place on the bus and at bedtime, when I faithfully looked up all my undefined words. I still read a couple books a month, but I didn’t plow through them as I had in the summer. Wuthering Heights was NOT on my list of Books-To-Read and yes, I did have an actual list.
“I’ve read parts of this book,” I said cautiously, not understanding why he’d tossed the book in my lap.
“I was sure you were going to say you had,” he said wryly. “It’s as confusing as that book you were reading the other day.”
“Why are you reading it then?” I asked, certain he must be, or he wouldn’t have it in his possession.
He didn’t answer for several seconds, and I waited, wondering if he would take the book and turn away again. “I am failing English. I have Ms. Whitmer, and she told me if I read that book and write a report on it, she’ll pass me. So, I am trying to read that book. I have to read it and have the report on her desk in two weeks. I could see by the page he had dog-eared that he was in trouble.
Ms. Whitmer was a tough old bird who had taught at the high school for 25 years. She had a bit of a reputation, sometimes drove a Harley to school, and commonly wore combat boots. She was very intimidating, knew her stuff, and wouldn’t take any crap. My older brothers had liked her, but had groaned about the workload. Johnny was barely squeezing by in her class as well.
“Why this book? Did she tell you why?”
“She told me she doesn’t usually give extra credit. I told her I would do anything. She slapped this book down and said “If you can get through this one I’ll know how bad you want it.” So here I am. Now I know why she had that look on her face,” Samuel said morosely.
“Why do you care?” My question just popped out.
Samuel glowered at me. “I want to graduate,” he enunciated through clenched teeth. I promised my grandmother I would graduate.” He said this reluctantly. “I’m going into the Marine’s in May, and I want my diploma. My recruiter said I’ll have a lot more opportunities if I graduate first.”
We sat quietly for a minute. Samuel stared out the window as he was prone to do, and I fingered his book, still in my lap. I thought about how proud he seemed, and how hard it must have been to go to Ms. Whitmer and ask for the extra credit.
He reached over to take the book, but I held onto it tightly and moved it away from his outstretched hand.
“I’ll read it with you,” I blurted out, surprising myself and him. He stared at me suspiciously. I shrugged my shoulders. “I told you I had read parts of it - I want to read the rest.” I cringed at my lie. “We’ll read it together. We spend an hour, sometimes more, on this bus every day. I don’t mind reading out loud if you don’t.” I couldn’t believe I had been so forward. My neck got very hot underneath my hair, and I hoped I wasn’t getting hives, which sometimes happened when I got really upset or nervous.
“You read, I’ll listen,” he said stiffly.
“Now?” I questioned. He just raised his eyebrows.
I opened the book, swallowed my discomfort, and began at the beginning.
4. Progression
I decided our little book club was incomplete without the 1828 Webster’s dictionary, so every day I lugged the monstrous book to and from school for use on the bus. Samuel had rolled his eyes when I had pulled it out of my oversized bag the following morning. Every time he forgot himself and said in frustration “What does that mean?” I would nod my head towards the big green book lying between us. He would sigh and look up the word in question while I spelled it out for him. There were also words I wasn’t sure of, and would make him look those up as well - though I was pretty certain if I didn’t know what they meant, neither did he.
