Stella by Starlight by Sharon M. Draper Page A

week, boy! You don’t choose your hours—I do!”
    â€œYes, sir,” Mr. Spencer choked out. Stella could tellhe was about to explode, but Pastor Patton placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
    Smitherman must have tired of harassing them, because he abruptly turned and headed for the door. “Keep up the good work, Amherst!” he called out.
    But just before he and Johnny Ray left, Stella saw Mr. Johnson lean over Mr. Pineville’s desk, glance back at the small group at the counter, and say just loud enough for Stella to hear, “See you at the triple K meetin’ tonight.” Then they went out the door, talking loudly about a planned fishing trip.
    Sudden goose bumps covered Stella’s arms. She glanced at her father. She knew they all had heard exactly what she had. But they continued to concentrate on the test, the scratching of their pencils failing to drown out the pounding of her heart. The Ku Klux Klan. The Ku Klux Klan.
    Another minute of scratching, and all three completed the examination. They gave their pencils to Mr. Spencer and handed the papers back to Mr. Pineville, who tossed them carelessly on his desk.
    â€œThat’ll be two dollars. Each.”
    Stella gulped. Two dollars? Each? Two dollars couldbuy enough cornmeal and flour and sugar to keep her family going for a couple of weeks! Then a thought struck her. Those white men! Why, they hadn’t been asked to pay a dime!
    Mr. Spencer had a house full of children. He’d surely get less this week at his job at the mill, assuming he still had a job when Mr. Smitherman returned to work, she thought furiously. And Pastor Patton’s salary came from the collection basket, which usually only gathered a few coins each Sunday, supplemented by the goodness of others who occasionally brought him fresh chickens or eggs or bread.
    Her father and Pastor Patton gave two wrinkled dollars apiece to Mr. Pineville without blinking.
    Mr. Spencer handed the man a two-dollar bill. “I want a receipt for my money,” he said quietly.
    Mr. Pineville looked surprised. “Why?”
    â€œI got thirteen children to take care of,” he told Mr. Pineville. “I aim to show them the power of a two-dollar bill.”
    â€œYou don’t need to be voting! You are wasting your money, boy! Next thing I know you’ll be asking for charity to feed those children.”
    â€œI am not a boy. I am a man. And I want a receipt,” Mr. Spencer stated firmly.
    Stella held her breath.
    Mr. Pineville scowled, then busied himself sorting papers, but at last he got out his receipt book and scribbled out what Mr. Spencer had requested.
    â€œThank you,” Mr. Spencer said as he folded the receipt and tucked it into the bib of his overalls.
    â€œWhen do we find out if we passed the test?” Pastor Patton asked.
    â€œCome back in a week,” Mr. Pineville told them.
    â€œI’d like to know now, sir,” Stella’s father said.
    â€œI told you—come back in a week,” Mr. Pineville insisted.
    â€œThose other two men didn’t have to take a test to register to vote.” Stella was impressed at her father’s nerve.
    Mr. Pineville shrugged. “Them’s white rules.”
    Mr. Spencer cocked his head. “Do you even know the answers to the test?”
    â€œWell . . . well . . . of course I know the answers!” Mr. Pineville sputtered.
    â€œSo grade them. Now.” Mr. Spencer sat down onthe floor. After a moment, Stella’s father and Pastor Patton joined him.
    Mr. Pineville dropped his pencil. “What you doin’ on the floor?”
    â€œWaiting for you to grade the test,” Mr. Spencer replied.
    â€œI’ll call the sheriff if you don’t get out of here,” the registrar warned, standing up.
    â€œNo need to involve the law. We just want the tests graded. Now. Please,” Pastor Patton added.
    Stella sank to the dusty floor beside