P.S. Be Eleven by Rita Williams-Garcia Page A

fight the war. I knew our teacher wasn’t talking about a cold house or the army. Still, it was a wonder Miss Merriam Webster kept everything straight in her dictionary.
    Mr. Mwila told us everything about what a first draft is and what a great opportunity a first draft provides. He said a first draft isn’t meant to be marked on, because it was an “idea paper.” First drafts are meant to be thought about. Rethought. Then rewritten. And wasn’t it good to have a chance to improve upon our first effort?
    He didn’t mean for us to answer, but we all said no. Even Rukia.
    I was certain no other sixth-grade class was being taught how to write an essay this way. Main subjects. Subtopics. First drafts. Second drafts. Squiggles and half-moons. And no grades.
    Mr. Mwila thought his teaching was just grand. He drew each squiggle and explained what it meant. “Proofreading marks and drafts go hand in hand.”
    â€œLike Michael Sandler and Evelyn Alvarez,” someone piped up from the boys’ side when Mr. Mwila was turned toward the board.
    Evelyn tossed her head to deny that she was Michael’s girlfriend. It wasn’t official, but Evelyn’s brothers letMichael walk to school with them, and they weren’t friends with him. Everyone knew he was really walking with Evelyn. At least Evelyn didn’t have to worry if anyone would ask her to the sixth-grade dance.
    That didn’t stop Lucy from liking Michael Sandler.
    When the second bell rang, the students with musical instruments went to band class and the rest of us were on our way to chorus. Before I reached the door, Mr. Mwila stopped me. I had forgotten about the See me but he hadn’t. Lucy and Frieda waited for me but he told them to hurry along to class.
    I stood at his desk not knowing what to expect.
    â€œDelphine,” he said. “You’re in grade six?”
    I nodded and couldn’t figure out why he started out asking what he already knew.
    â€œAs such, you’re a leader in this school. An upperclasswoman. You’re in the highest grade in our school.”
    And taller than every boy, except Ellis, and taller than most teachers. Including Mr. Mwila.
    I answered, “Yes,” to break myself from nodding.
    â€œThen how is it that an upperclasswoman in grade six would believe Merriam-Webster was female?”
    I heard his question correctly. His accents were so clear. The King’s English and whatever his people spoke in Zambia. I heard him but I was in shock like I hadwalked into a glass wall. I didn’t know what to say. He had to repeat the thing he had just told me. “How is it that an upperclasswoman in grade six would believe Merriam-Webster was a female?”
    â€œShe is,” I told him. “Isn’t she?” My breathing was fast and my mouth dry.
    â€œDelphine Gaither. I’m excusing you from chorus this period. Instead, you’ll go to the library and write an essay on Merriam-Webster. So, first, you’ll go to the encyclopedia for an overview. Then seek out other sources and begin your essay.”
    â€œSources?”
    â€œBooks. Magazines articles that you’ll use in your essay.”
    Mr. Mwila must have seen my eyes filling up. He scribbled a pass quickly so I wouldn’t be standing there crying in front of him. “Go now.”
    Lucy and Frieda were waiting for me in the hall. I wished they had gone on to chorus. They could see my face. Tears about to roll. I sniffed back the snot and blinked back the tears.
    â€œDelphine, you’re in trouble?” Lucy asked. “Did you write some Black Panther stuff? Girl, you can’t write that stuff in school.”
    â€œShe can write Black Power papers,” Frieda said. Her brother was in the Brooklyn chapter. “John-Isaac will have an army of Brooklyn Panthers down here if you want.”
    I wanted to cry and was still in shock, not knowing what to tell my friends. Then Mr.