both, and to everyone else, that I didn’t.
Around me, I heard snickers. One boy hissed, “What a dummy!”
Miss Anderson shook her head and looked at me distastefully. “They must not have taught you very well over there in Japan.”
But they did, I wanted to tell her. Thanks to my mother, I could read and write more kanji than any other child in the Japanese school, even those who had two Japanese parents. I knew characters that fifth graders didn’t know. I had learned the math that she was teaching us two years before and had always scored first in my class. But I didn’t tell her any of this; it wouldn’t have helped.
Instead, I just sat there silently while she declared in a loud voice, “You’re going to really have to work to catch up with the rest of the class. They probably should have held you back another grade.”
That afternoon when I got home from school, my grandmother was already setting the table for company. It was Friday, which meant that Jim Riesling would be coming over for supper. But to my surprise, several of the other coffee shop regulars showed up, too—Earl Watson, Ray Davis, and eventually Uncle Pete, who was a little late, as always. They had come to discuss the Garretts. Because I was the only one who’d actually seen one of them, I was included in the conversation. They let me sit at the dining room table with them while my grandmother ate alone in the kitchen. Normally I would have been thrilled at such an arrangement, at being included in the circle of men. But it didn’t feel like such a privilege that day. Grandma had made my favorite supper—chicken-fried steak, peas, and mashed potatoes—but my food sat untouched while they questioned me. Beneath the table the dog lay on my foot, my only anchor to something gentle and comforting.
“What does he look like?” Earl said, leaning across the table. “I asked Kevin but that boy don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
“What do you mean, what does he look like?” said Ray. “He looks like they all do—black and ugly.”
“Did he try to talk to you?” Earl pressed, ignoring his friend. His eyes were red from anger or beer, and he leaned so close I could see the veins lacing through them. The light shone off his bald spot, which was ringed with the same black hair as his son’s. I looked down to avoid his stare and my eyes settled on his arms. There was a curved, protruding scar on the inside of his right wrist, just where his shirt sleeve ended.
“No,” I lied. “I only saw him in the cafeteria.”
“He ate with you?” Uncle Pete asked, surprised. He was generally so good-natured that it was troubling to see him troubled, to see his handsome face screwed into an angry scowl.
“You know, we don’t need to do this,” Jim said, dropping his hands heavily on the table. “Let her be. He has nothing to do with her.”
“He has something to do with all of us, even Mike here,” said Charlie, and the others nodded. I didn’t like the expression on his face—it was angry and impatient—so I looked past him at the faded reproduction of the Last Supper, and then to his right, at his gun case. It was like a small wooden hutch for china, lifted up and nailed to the wall. Two shotguns and a rifle leaned with their barrels in grooved slots, their muzzles pointing up toward the ceiling. His pistols—a Colt .38 Special and a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum—hung from metal hooks in the back. On the top shelf were my grandfather’s sharpshooting trophies and Brett’s trophies from field trial competitions. Surrounding the handguns, taped to the wood, were yellowed old newspaper clippings from Charlie’s marksman days, and from his time as a baseball player in the amateur leagues.
It bothered me that my grandfather was upset about Mr. Garrett. I had known that he didn’t think particularly well of blacks—I’d heard him say that they were lazy and dependent on welfare, and he seemed to think sensational
Around me, I heard snickers. One boy hissed, “What a dummy!”
Miss Anderson shook her head and looked at me distastefully. “They must not have taught you very well over there in Japan.”
But they did, I wanted to tell her. Thanks to my mother, I could read and write more kanji than any other child in the Japanese school, even those who had two Japanese parents. I knew characters that fifth graders didn’t know. I had learned the math that she was teaching us two years before and had always scored first in my class. But I didn’t tell her any of this; it wouldn’t have helped.
Instead, I just sat there silently while she declared in a loud voice, “You’re going to really have to work to catch up with the rest of the class. They probably should have held you back another grade.”
That afternoon when I got home from school, my grandmother was already setting the table for company. It was Friday, which meant that Jim Riesling would be coming over for supper. But to my surprise, several of the other coffee shop regulars showed up, too—Earl Watson, Ray Davis, and eventually Uncle Pete, who was a little late, as always. They had come to discuss the Garretts. Because I was the only one who’d actually seen one of them, I was included in the conversation. They let me sit at the dining room table with them while my grandmother ate alone in the kitchen. Normally I would have been thrilled at such an arrangement, at being included in the circle of men. But it didn’t feel like such a privilege that day. Grandma had made my favorite supper—chicken-fried steak, peas, and mashed potatoes—but my food sat untouched while they questioned me. Beneath the table the dog lay on my foot, my only anchor to something gentle and comforting.
“What does he look like?” Earl said, leaning across the table. “I asked Kevin but that boy don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
“What do you mean, what does he look like?” said Ray. “He looks like they all do—black and ugly.”
“Did he try to talk to you?” Earl pressed, ignoring his friend. His eyes were red from anger or beer, and he leaned so close I could see the veins lacing through them. The light shone off his bald spot, which was ringed with the same black hair as his son’s. I looked down to avoid his stare and my eyes settled on his arms. There was a curved, protruding scar on the inside of his right wrist, just where his shirt sleeve ended.
“No,” I lied. “I only saw him in the cafeteria.”
“He ate with you?” Uncle Pete asked, surprised. He was generally so good-natured that it was troubling to see him troubled, to see his handsome face screwed into an angry scowl.
“You know, we don’t need to do this,” Jim said, dropping his hands heavily on the table. “Let her be. He has nothing to do with her.”
“He has something to do with all of us, even Mike here,” said Charlie, and the others nodded. I didn’t like the expression on his face—it was angry and impatient—so I looked past him at the faded reproduction of the Last Supper, and then to his right, at his gun case. It was like a small wooden hutch for china, lifted up and nailed to the wall. Two shotguns and a rifle leaned with their barrels in grooved slots, their muzzles pointing up toward the ceiling. His pistols—a Colt .38 Special and a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum—hung from metal hooks in the back. On the top shelf were my grandfather’s sharpshooting trophies and Brett’s trophies from field trial competitions. Surrounding the handguns, taped to the wood, were yellowed old newspaper clippings from Charlie’s marksman days, and from his time as a baseball player in the amateur leagues.
It bothered me that my grandfather was upset about Mr. Garrett. I had known that he didn’t think particularly well of blacks—I’d heard him say that they were lazy and dependent on welfare, and he seemed to think sensational
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