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

Mwila said it for me: “Lucy Raleigh. Frieda Banks. To chorus. Now.”
    They shot me looks of sympathy and solidarity before taking off. I walked to the library and showed the librarian my note.
    I did as Mr. Mwila told me. I went straight to the reference section and found the Encyclopedia Britannicas. I took the M for Merriam and the W for Webster , just in case, and brought the heavy, leather-bound books over to a table. I dried my eyes some more and started with the search for Merriam. But I didn’t find her. Instead, it was as Mr. Mwila had said. She turned out to be a he. And he was three he’s. There was a Noah Webster and two Merriam brothers. My eyes flooded up before I could read any of it. And then I just put my head down and cried. There were other kids in the library but I couldn’t stop crying.
    I felt the way Fern must have felt when she found her doll baby, Miss Patty Cake, all blacked-up thanks to Vonetta’s Magic Marker. Like someone she loved had been turned into a joke and taken away from her.
    I’d had a picture of Miss Merriam Webster in my head for so long. I heard her showing me where to look for words. How to pronounce them. What they meant. How to spell them. I imagined she was plain, and that it was all right to be plain.
    When I finished crying, I knew I had to do like Fernhad done with Miss Patty Cake. I had to leave Miss Merriam Webster and all my pictures of her behind.
    I asked Mr. Mwila if I could just do my paper over, and he nodded.

Brooklyn Magic
    Uncle Darnell had been home for a few weeks, but he still woke up in the middle of the night. I’d hear the floorboards creak under his footsteps but I’d pretend to be asleep. From my window I’d watch him leave out the front door and walk down Herkimer Street. Pa told Big Ma Uncle D spent a lot of time in Fulton Park with the other soldiers who were home from Vietnam. Then I wouldn’t see him until we came in from school and he’d be laid out on his bed in the parlor room where Cecile slept when my father and uncle first took her in.
    We got home from school and found Uncle Darnell buttoning his shirt, getting ready to go out. He said he was going to the candy store around the corner and weasked if we could go with him. He said, “Drop your books and come on.” Uncle Darnell was always easy that way.
    â€œPut on your army clothes,” Vonetta said. “So we can show everybody.”
    Uncle Darnell almost grinned, but he didn’t give his all-out dimpled grin. “Show ’em what, Net-Net?”
    Without missing a beat Vonetta said, “That you been to Vietnam.”
    Fern added, “Fighting the war.”
    He made a low hum. “They know,” he said. “’Sides. Better to show ’em I’m back home, right?”
    â€œRight on,” Vonetta said. Then Fern had to say it too.
    Uncle Darnell wore what he called his “civvies.” His regular clothes. We were so glad to have him home and just walk with him. We also knew he’d buy us candy or take us down to the record shop so we could moon over the Jackson Five album. We’d be with our uncle, moon over the Jackson Five, and get candy without spending money that could go toward our Madison Square Garden savings.
    We passed by Friendship Baptist without Uncle Darnell making mention of the Arabian Knight or his sword, plastered into the yellow brick face of the church. The pastor said the church had been built by an Arabian Order of Shriners decades before Friendship Baptist made it its spiritual home. Uncle Darnell used to tell us stories about the Arabian Knight and how he died defending this blockfrom urban decay and that his face had been immortalized in plaster to keep watch over Herkimer Street. Vonetta, Fern, and I were so giddy about candy and maybe strolling over to the record shop that we hadn’t noticed that our uncle didn’t say what he always said when we walked by the