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Overview
So why is Anya wearing one? That’s what Keely wants to know. But when Anya’s wig falls off in front of the whole class, Keely realizes what she really wants is to help Anya, even though she’s not sure how—and even though it means she’ll have to do something she’s afraid of: stand up to her friends.
As for Anya, she just wants her hair to grow back, but no one can tell her whether it ever will. How can she learn to accept her disease when she can’t even look in the mirror?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780689869938 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2004 |
| Edition description: | Repackage |
| Pages: | 128 |
| Sales rank: | 298,020 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.12(w) x 7.62(h) x 0.30(d) |
| Lexile: | 710L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter Two
"You were practically waving the note at Mrs. Hobson!" Nicole said as they headed out for recess. "No wonder you got caught!"
"No, I wasn't!" Keely protested. "It was on my lap!"
But had she lifted it up, trying to figure out what Stef was trying to tell her? Tears stung in her eyes, and she angrily blinked them away. She had to be ready. Stef was bound to lecture her again.
But Stef turned around and told Nicole, "Shh. Don't talk about it now. Not until we're..." She tilted her head in a signal they all understood. They were going out to the tree to talk.
The tree was their spot. It was at the very edge of the playground, past the swings, past the jungle gym, past the baby slides the kindergartners used. It was so far out that sometimes at the beginning of the year the teacher with playground duty had yelled at them, "Hey, where are the four of you going?"
Stef had always gone back to explain. Stef knew how to talk to teachers.
Now they could walk out to the tree and nobody said anything. And nobody followed.
The ground was frozen beneath Keely's feet, but the sun was out and the air was warm. It didn't feel like January. Keely didn't even need her mittens. If Keely hadn't been so stupid as to get caught with that note, she could be enjoying the winter sunshine right now, enjoying being back with her friends, enjoying recess.
They reached the tree. Keely leaned against the bark, letting the tree hold her up.
"Listen," Stef said, lowering her voice even though they were a long, long way from any of the other kids. "Forget about Keely's mistake. Do any of you know why Anya's wearing a wig?"
Keely breathed out a silent sigh of relief. She waited for Nicole or Tory to answer. That was how their friendship went. Stef was in charge. She was the one who had decided when they had all gotten too old for dolls. She was the one who had decided soccer wasn't really very much fun after all. She was the one who had decided glitter gel was stupid. She was the one who usually decided what they were going to play every day at recess.
Nicole and Tory were next in line. Sometimes Nicole or Tory could even tell Stef what to do. Just not very often.
And then there was Keely. Sometimes she felt like she was just hanging on by her fingertips. Sometimes it seemed like she was just one mistake away from not having any friends. That's why she tried to keep her mouth shut, whenever possible.
She didn't want to be like Anya. Did Anya ever have anyone to play with?
Nicole shook her blond hair so it bounced against her shoulders. "Maybe Anya thinks she's going to start a new fashion or something," she giggled.
Tory ran her hand through her dark hair. "Well, it's not going to catch on. I'd hate wearing a wig," she said.
Keely noticed that no one waited for her to answer.
"No, no, guys, think," Stef said impatiently. "What if she has to wear a wig? Because her own hair is falling out?"
"Eeww," Nicole said, turning up her nose.
"No, listen. What if she has cancer? And her hair's falling out because she has to have chemotherapy?"
Nobody said anything. The tree's empty branches rattled overhead.
Cancer? Keely thought. Cancer? She felt like her heart skipped a beat.
"But Anya's just a kid. Like us," Tory said.
"Yeah," Stef whispered. "And she might be dying."
Keely had a sudden memory of kindergarten. The first day, Anya had held the door of the classroom open for Keely to go in in front of her. Keely could remember what Anya had been wearing that day: a frilly pink dress. And Anya's mom or somebody had curled Anya's hair and pulled it back in a big pink bow. Keely had watched those bobbing curls and felt her own fear fade away. Someone was being nice to her already. Maybe school wouldn't be so bad after all.
And now Anya, the first person to be nice to Keely at school, was going to die?
"Somebody would have told us," Nicole said. "Mrs. Hobson or...or Mrs. Wiley."
Mrs. Wiley was the guidance counselor. She came into their classroom every month or so and talked about feelings and friendship and having good self-esteem. Stef, Nicole, and Tory always laughed at Mrs. Wiley, but Keely wanted every word she spoke to be true.
"Maybe Anya didn't want anyone to know," Stef said. "Maybe she's being brave and strong, and doesn't want anyone to feel sorry for her. We ought to do something to help her."
Stef got like this sometimes. Just when Keely had decided Stef was the meanest person she knew, Stef would turn everything around and act like the kindest person ever. Keely could tell that Nicole was feeling bad now for making a face and saying "Eeww" about Anya's hair maybe falling out. Keely herself felt bad for thinking Stef had passed her the note about Anya's wig so Keely would laugh at her.
"What do you think we should do?" Keely asked in a small voice.
"I don't know..." Stef let her voice trail off. She stared off into the distance, watching the other kids on the playground. "There's got to be something we can do to cheer up Anya."
"My mom read this thing in the newspaper," Tory said. "There was this high school football player, see? And he got cancer and had to have whatever that stuff's called — "
"Chemotherapy," Stef said.
"Yeah, that. Anyway, he lost all his hair. And to show how much they cared about him, all the other boys on the football team shaved their heads too. So he wouldn't stand out, because they were all bald."
For one horrible second Keely thought Stef was going to say that was what they'd have to do for Anya. No matter how bad she felt for Anya, Keely didn't want to be bald.
Then she saw Stef's hand fly up to her hair, and Keely knew: Stef would never say they should shave their heads.
Keely had never thought about it much before, but all her friends had really great hair. Tory's was dark and sleek and shiny — it reminded Keely of the seals she'd seen at the zoo, flashing through the water. Nicole's was long and blond, and didn't everyone always want to be blond?
But Stef's was the most impressive of all. It was red and wavy, and stood out like a great cloud around her head. People always noticed Stef, because they noticed her hair.
"Anya would probably just think we were making fun of her if we cut off all our hair," Stef said, like that was the only reason she didn't want to shave her head. "Besides, we don't know that she's bald, just that she's wearing a wig. No, we'll just have to go out of our way to be nice to her. That's what we'll do."
As if Stef had planned it, the recess bell rang just then. All four girls took off running, back to the school. Keely felt her long hair thumping against her shoulders as she ran.
I'm glad I have hair, she thought. I'm glad I don't have to wear a wig.
I'm glad I don't have cancer.
Copyright © 2002 by Margaret Peterson Haddix CH02_0689851871.txt |
I continued to ask questions. There was much chance to learn and lots of people to learn from.
Servants gossiped. They had nothing else to do while they mended, chopped, spun, wove, dipped candles, plucked chickens, and ground wheat.
Servants (they were never called slaves) were close to everyone at the mansion house. They changed linens, washed them, emptied slops, knew who was sick and why, heard fevered mutterings and whispered prayers. They held secrets.
Nathan told me how the general had fought the French when he was a young man in the war. How he fought for the British. And now he was fighting against the British. I minded his words. I wanted to keep it all straight.
Nathan told me how the Fairfaxes, who lived in the plantation house next to ours, had been friends of the general since he was a boy. And they'd gone back to England because of the war.
He told me how the general's father had died when the general was eleven, and his older brother, Lawrence, took him under his wing. I couldn't believe the general had an older brother, because I thought the general was God. But then Nathan told me that Lawrence, the older brother, was dead, which I supposed allowed the general to be God.
He told me how this place known as Mount Vernon was once named Epsewasson, or Little Hunting Creek, by the Indians. That the Potomac was an Indian name too. It means River of Swans.
But Sambo Anderson told me about Africa.
I loved to visit Sambo. He raised lots of chickens that he sold to the mansion house. And his hunting dog could rout out grouse, partridge, ducks.
Most of the children were scared of Sambo. On his brown face strange markings were cut in. He wore rings in his ears, an owl's claw around his neck.
On a winter morning he sat outside his rude log hut polishing his old British musket that he hunted with. A small fire burned in front of him. On a spit over it he was roasting a rabbit. A muddy-colored blanket was draped around his shoulders.
"Sambo, I come to give you some biscuits from the house."
He nodded. "Little girl like you shud'na be out in the cole."
"Did you hunt last night?"
He nodded yes and pointed to the fowl hanging from a pole. He would sell it to Lady Washington. She counted on his bounty to dress up her table. He liked to hunt at night, like the owl that guided him. Said he could see better at night. I believed him.
I sat near the fire. "Tell me about Africa," I said.
I knew what would come first. I had heard it all before. The tribes. The way he said their names was like the sound of rain pattering softly on the roof. "Whydahs, Asante, Fanti, Ibo, Coromantee, Ga, Hausa," he said softly. And I waited for more.
"Vanished, all vanished," he said.
"What does that mean, Sambo?"
"Gone. From the Senegal River to the Congo, half a land away. Hausa lay in ambush, waited to capture Asante. Malinke went to war to capture Coromantee. Old, beautiful Africa puke up its own and sell them for slaves.
"Hausa make war on my people. Burn my village, kill my father. I was bound and sold for one hundred and seventy-two cowrie shells. Tied to others by a leather thong around my neck, marched for days to the sea."
I waited.
"My father was Asante king. They burned our village." He sighed and shook his head. "Now I am one of the Gone."
Then he fell into silence. There would be no more today. You couldn't push Sambo. "Tell me how it was when the general went to the Congress," I begged. Lady Washington had told us, but I liked the way Sambo told it better.
He shrugged and humphed. "Candles burn all night in the windows of the mansion house. People come and go. It wuz summer. News from the north bad, news from the south bad. Shadows on the bowlin' green. Paris an' Giles an' Joe from the stables hold the horse's reins. Gen'l's horse paw the ground, like he know sumptin' nobody else do. Heat lightnin' flash, like it did the night they burn my village.
Bad sign.
Finally outta the mansion house come the gen'l and that Henry man."
Patrick Henry. Yes. My daddy talked about that man. My daddy liked the way Mr. Henry talked about liberty.
"An' another man name of Pendleton. They come to ride off wif the gen'l. The gen'l's lady come outta the house an' watch 'em mount up. Then Billy Lee come from the stables all cocky like, 'cause he ridin' wif the gen'l to Philadelphia."
"And when he went to war?" I pushed.
"It wuz April. Whitefish runnin', we wuz plantin' corn. The gen'l's fish schooner on the river. The herring runnin' good. A rider come up the lane from Johnson's Ferry, like the devil be chasin' him. We Negroes all gather round and hear that up north they have a fight outsida Boston. The gen'l all excited. Everybody all excited. You never seed so many visitors as he had here then. This time he gather us round, tells us to work hard. Tells us he could lose everythin', could be taken away in chains, but he goin' to fight. He go off in the old green carriage wif that Mr. Lee and Mr. Carter. Say he be back in July. Well, he ain't come back yet. An' the old green carriage fetched home by Mr. Lund."
Sambo chuckled. "These white people doan know 'bout war. Ride off like gentlemans, wif lace at their necks, to meet and talk. All they do is talk. They doan know how quick you can be one of the Gone."
Aunt Myrtilla came walking down the path in the quarters, a shawl wrapped tightly around her, calling my name. "Oney? Oney Judge, where you be? Your mama want you now!"
Sambo nodded at me. I set down the biscuits from the kitchen and left.
I ran about freely with the other children. To Dogue Run Farm, Muddy Hole Farm. The general had five farms altogether.
Mama didn't like my going to Dogue Run. She knew the general wanted his people to be Christian. She didn't want me learning the old ways, because my future was in the mansion house.
At Dogue Run they had Reverend Will, who practiced the old African religion, besides preaching about Jesus. On Dogue Run the slaves had night meetings in the gullies, and for those meetings Reverend Will was the keeper of the washpot. At night meetings they turned the pot over so the sound of their secret prayers would go under it.
And Dogue Run had old Sinda, who conjured.
Sinda was another saltwater Negro. Born in Africa, like Sambo. We children loved to visit her. She could read the insides of a chicken to tell the future. She could make conjure bags out of red flannel, filled with ground-up toads' heads and goofer dust, which was graveyard dirt. She had a conch shell she said she had brought with her from Africa. "Water bring us here, water take us home," she'd said.
She told us never to let anyone get a piece of our hair.
"De hair is de most powerful thing your enemy kin git hold of," she said as we gathered around her. "It grow near de brain, an' anybody what git hold of it kin make your brain crazy."
She told us that if the general and Lady Washington had let her put a "fix" on Patsy, she would not have died. "Dat Patsy girl go crazy," she said. "She got fits 'cause spiders walk up an' down in her body. I cudda helped her. But no, dey doan want Old Sinda near de big house. Dat Patsy girl, she die 'cause of some sin her father do."
I made the mistake of telling Mama this, and she switched me. "That Mr. Custis, Patsy's daddy, was quality," she said. "An' you doan ever say such! An' you stay away from Dogue Run!"
But I still sneaked away and visited Old Sinda.
I recollect the way Sinda looked at me one day when I visited.
"Dis chile gonna be free one day," she said. "Dis chile gonna have trials, but she gonna be free."
I shivered. Did it mean my daddy would take me with him, when he was no longer bound to the Washingtons? But I soon put the thought in the back of my mind.
It was One-Handed Charles who told me how Master Jackie came to Dogue Run one day to ask Old Sinda to conjure for him. One-Handed Charles liked to brag that he was the last slave the general purchased. "In '72. From Mr. Massey. I come fer only thirty pounds 'cause I gots only one hand."
"But why did Master Jackie want Old Sinda to conjure?" I asked. "He has everything he wants at the mansion house."
"'Cause he be wantin' to git betrothed to Miss Nelly Calvert. He wuz only eighteen. She wuz sixteen, and there wuz carryin' on at the mansion house fer days when he told his stepfather, the gen'l, he want to leave school. Everybody knew to stay clear. Master Jackie come beggin' Old Sinda fer some hush water in a jug, so he could give it to the gen'l to drink and quiet him down."
"What's hush water?"
"Jus' plain water what they fix so if you drink it, you be nice."
"But everybody knows conjure doesn't work on white people," I argued.
One-Handed Charles shook his head. "That still up fer speculation. Old Sinda give Master Jackie powders an' charms in a bag to put under the gen'l's bed."
"Did it work?"
"Is Master Jackie wed to Miss Nelly Calvert?"
"Yes."
"The gen'l come ridin' over here when he find out Master Jackie visit. Say nuthin' 'bout conjure. Complained that the carrots wuz too thin that year, the timothy not good 'nuf. He in a temper, all right. But Master Jackie, he git wed come February."
This was how I learned about life around me, the past of both the whites and the Negroes.
It all became my past. Sometimes I mixed up people in Virginia society with African tribes. When there was fear, after the general left, that the British would come up the Potomac and seize Lady Washington and burn the place, I saw in my head Sambo Anderson's village burned by the Hausa tribe. I saw Lady Washington with a leather thong around her neck, marched for miles to the sea.
My nightmares were about the general's horse pawing the ground, heat lightning flashing overhead, and patsy rolling on the floor in fits because spiders were crawling up and down inside her body.
When you learn about someone, hear their stories, you tote them around. They flow in your blood and your dreams. They become a part of you. So that when something bad happens to you, there is something to liken it to. I know someone else it happened to. And he still lives and breathes.
So, when I was four and my daddy left, I cried, but I understood.
He became part of the Gone.
Copyright © 2002 by Ann Rinaldi
