Somewhere I Belong by Glenna Jenkins Page A

much as I tried, the letters became a scrawl.
    Mr. Dunphy completed his tour of the centre aisle. A board creaked as he circled back toward my row. I heard his pointer jabbing the floor. He leaned over the desk behind me and the foul smell of cider filled the air.
    â€œWhat’s this all about, Connor? Have you nothing to say on the subject?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Connor said.
    â€œWell, you’d better think hard, or you’ll be doing it up there.”
    I pictured Mr. Dunphy aiming his pointer straight at the dummy desk and Connor Murphy cowering beneath him. I shrunk down low and tried to look busy. Hoped he would keep right on going and I’d be in the clear. But before I knew it, he was standing right next to me.
    â€œWhat’s this we’re working on, Mr. Kavanaugh?” He jabbed his pointer into the floor and clenched his jaw. “What’s it say? I can’t read it.”
    I put my pencil down and stared up at him. I leaned away from his musty vest and his sour breath. My heart pounded; my stomach churned.
    He bent over my scribbler and ran a finger under each line. He picked it up, separated the pages I had written on, and ripped them out. Then he crumpled them up and nodded toward the platform. “Start again, up there—neater this time. You’re going to get very used to this if you don’t learn.”
    The room fell silent as I stepped into the aisle and moved toward the platform. I caught a glimpse of Helen with her hand to her mouth and her eyes tearing up. I eased into the dummy desk and looked toward the back of the classroom. Larry sat, red-faced, shaking his head.
    At the end of the day, I waited on the platform for the schoolroom to empty. Then I grabbed my jacket and went outside. Larry and Helen waited near the stoop. Thomas and Pat Jr. stood by the gate.
    â€œYou’ll soon beat the Daleys to the dummy desk,” Thomas laughed.
    â€œShut up, Thomas,” I said. He was one to talk about being a dummy.
    â€œIt ain’t funny, Thomas,” Pat Jr. said.
    â€œWhat got into Old Dunphy?” Larry asked no one in particular.
    â€œLikely had a rough weekend,” Pat Jr. replied. “But, you can never tell.”
    â€œI don’t get why he’s making such a big deal over P.J. being left- handed,” Larry said.
    â€œNobody cared back home,” I said. “Nobody ever said anything.”
    â€œYou never know what Ol’ Dunphy’s gonna pick at,” Pat Jr. said. “Only thing is, when he’s in a mood, you can count on it bein’ something.”
    â€œThat left-handed stuff’s just stupid,” I said. “My favourite baseball player’s left-handed, and he holds the world record for home runs.”
    â€œBabe Ruth!” Pat Jr. said.
    â€œYou know him?” I said.
    â€œWe listen to the ballgame on the radio sometimes,” Pat Jr. said.
    â€œP.J. and I saw him at Fenway Park last summer,” Larry said.
    Pat Jr. and Thomas’s mouths fell open. “No!”
    â€œSure did,” I said. “He even signed my baseball.”
    â€œCan I see it?!” Pat Jr. said.
    â€œMa packed it away when we moved,” I said. “I’ll ask her where it is.”
    â€œSomeone as famous as Babe Ruth is left-handed and you wonder why Mr. Dunphy’s makin’ such a big deal of it,” Pat Jr. said.
    â€œThat’s what I want to know,” I said.
    Ma waited at the back door as we straggled across the yard. I moved past her, dropping my satchel onto the mudroom floor. I hung my jacket over a hook, pulled off my boots, and walked into the kitchen. Granny and Aunt Gert were sitting at the table, sipping their tea. Uncle Jim was leaning against the counter, cradling a steaming mug. Alfred was kneeling on a chair, stuffing his face with cookies.
    â€œWhat’s goin’ on, young fella?” Uncle Jim asked. Somehow, my uncle could tell when things weren’t