Somewhere I Belong by Glenna Jenkins

Helen and I both did the same one.” I had read the chapter, like he told us to. And then I wrote that stupid essay. I only mentioned Helen because I hoped it would distract him and send him her way. She had written five full pages, while I had only managed to write three. But the man seemed fixated on me—he wouldn’t let go.
    â€œTell us what chapter six is about, then. Remind us.”
    Nothing, I thought. Some stupid meeting in Charlottetown. It wasn’t even meant to be about Confederation. I looked up at Old Dunphy, afraid to answer.
    â€œGive us the title, would you,” he said. “Open your reader.”
    The day had just begun and my hands were already shaking. I opened my desktop and grabbed my reader. I took a breath and steadied my voice. “The Charlottetown Conference, sir.”
    â€œRight,” Mr. Dunphy said. “Can you tell us why it was organized?”
    I stared down at the page and searched for an answer. I had read the chapter, but I couldn’t remember.
    â€œWho was there then? Can you tell us that?”
    I found a name. “John Hamilton, sir.”
    â€œJohn Hamilton Gray.” Mr. Dunphy replied. “What province did he represent?”
    Mr. Dunphy had given Larry, Helen, and me a week to complete our essays. But, somehow, I had let mine go. The previous evening, I had sat at the kitchen table trying to figure out where to begin. Larry and Helen were re-reading their rough copies and writing their good ones. Larry sat beside me; Helen had moved to the far end of the table so she could spread out her work. Ma was at the kitchen sink, finishing up the dishes.
    Larry glanced up at me. “How’s it going, P.J.?”
    â€œThis is stupid,” I said.
    â€œNo it isn’t,” Helen said.
    â€œWhat do you know, Helen?” I said.
    â€œYou got to do it anyhow,” Larry said.
    â€œSays who?” I slammed my reader shut.
    â€œI do!” Ma said. “We’ll have none of that nonsense, P.J.”
    Larry opened his reader to chapter six and began to read. “Here, P.J.,” he said. “Why don’t we make a few notes.” For the next hour, my brother sat with me and jotted down names and dates and places. It was all so new to me, nothing sunk in. By morning, I had forgotten most of what I had done.
    I looked up at Mr. Dunphy now. By the way his jaw locked and his lips thinned, I thought for sure there’d be another trip to the dummy desk. Instead, he just heaved out a sigh and asked, “Where are we now, Mr. Kavanaugh?”
    â€œPrince Edward Island, sir.”
    â€œThat’s your answer.”
    In the afternoon, Mr. Dunphy scribbled a single line across the blackboard: Living in the city during hard times. His hand shook so much his writing was barely legible.
    â€œGrades one to four, you are to write a list of all the things you do on the farm that help your families. Then draw a picture and colour it in.
    â€œFor the rest of you, we’re following up on last week’s lesson. I want you to imagine what life must be like in a city today. You can write about Charlottetown if you want.” Then he looked over at me. “I would be interested to know what the Kavanaughs have to say on the subject. Based on your own first-hand experience, that is.”
    We got out our scribblers and began to write. Mr. Dunphy grabbed his pointer and moved up and down the aisles. You could always tell where he was from the sound of his brace rattling or his pointer jabbing into the floorboards. Occasionally, he stopped and commented on somebody’s work. If he was satisfied, he grunted and moved on. If he wasn’t, he scowled and stabbed a finger onto a page. I worked feverishly, conscious of how I shaped each letter, of how I joined them together and spaced the words. Making sure I wrote with my right hand, like Mr. Dunphy said. I had always taken pride in my penmanship. I got it from my dad. But as