The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (43 page)

Suddenly the young woman with Hoshi stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at the two men, her pale eyes rounding in fright. Her head jerked and she looked toward us on the steps—but not at us. Looking at the house. But I had a full view of her face.

My heart tightened in my chest. I could hardly breathe.

“What is it, Sara? ” Hoshi asked kindly, taking her arm.

The young woman's eyes locked on mine for half a second; then she took another frightened glance toward Mark and Denny. She jerked her arm out of Hoshi's grasp. “You—you
tricked
me! You brought me
here
? ” Her voice was almost a screech. “How
could
you, Hoshi? !” And the pale young woman spun around and ran—
fled!
—back the way they had come.

Hoshi's hands flew to her mouth in total bewilderment as she watched her new friend disappear.

“Lord Jesus, have mercy on us! What was
that
about? ” Nony hurried down the short walk to Hoshi's side. “Hoshi, are you all right? ” Her arm encircled Hoshi's shoulders, pulling her close.

I looked at Denny. I looked at Mark. Neither man had said a word. Both men seemed in shock. They knew.
I
knew.

The young woman fleeing down the street had been to this house before. Had been at the racist rally with the White Pride people. Had probably been the one who'd bravely tipped off the police, leading to the arrests of the monsters who had beaten up Mark Smith and left him for dead.

The girl with no name I'd been praying for, for months.

“That girl.”

Sara.

40

M
ark Smith muttered something sharp under his breath, shattering the frozen tableau. Throwing down the greasy rag he'd been holding, he strode quickly toward the house, stumbling on the bottom step. “Mark! ” Nony ran after him. “Mark, be careful! What's wrong? Denny, come, please!”

My husband ran to Mark's side. Mark brushed off Nony's and Denny's help and stumbled inside on his own steam; the three disappeared inside.

Hoshi's eyes were wide with confusion. “Jodi? What is happening? I do not understand.”

I took her hand. “Come on. Let's get inside out of this damp air.” How did I tell her about this? She couldn't have known. She hadn't been to the rally. Had no reason to make a connection. Nony, either, for that matter.

In the family room, the waiting Yada Yadas started to babble welcomes as Hoshi entered, then faded when they saw she was alone. “Where's your friend? ” Yo-Yo asked bluntly. “Thought she was comin' tonight.”

I glared them all into silence with a shake of my head. I wished Nony would come back in. But minutes passed, and she didn't return. Avis hadn't made it tonight; too tired after the church marathon that day. Neither had Flo. So I held Hoshi's hand and told them that this girl, Sara, had been at the rally last spring with the White Pride people, that Mark had recognized her then as one of the pair passing out hate literature in this neighborhood. “And when she saw Mark outside this house tonight . . .”

Hoshi began to weep. “Oh. I have hurt Dr. Smith and Nonyameko. I have brought their enemy to this beloved house.They have given me a family, trusted me with their children—and look what I have done!” She buried her face in her hands, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder.

“Hoshi, baby.” Adele's strong voice and massive presence moved to Hoshi's side. “Why you makin' this your fault? You didn't know who she was. Mark and Nony aren't going to blame you. They're bigger than that. Fact is,
God
is bigger. God knew who she was. God sent you to reach out to her, baby, to be her friend—”

“Yeah.” Becky butted in. “An' ain't she the one who ratted on the guys who beat up Nony's husband? Doesn't that make her one of the good guys? ”

“Well, we
think
she is. The papers never named her,” I said.

Hoshi slowly raised her head and looked at Adele. “God sent me? ”

“God sent you, honey.” Adele laid a hand on Hoshi's silky head and began to pray. We all gathered around Hoshi, touching her, holding her hands, giving her tissues, praying words of comfort and hope and blessing for listening to God, for reaching out to that hurting girl in her class, for making her a friend. We prayed for Mark, who'd been through so much, who'd had a shock tonight. We prayed for Nony, who only tonight had learned the identity of Hoshi's friend.

And we prayed for Sara.
I
prayed for her. Prayed that she would know that Hoshi only wanted to be her friend, that what happened tonight wasn't a trick or a conspiracy. Just a holy coincidence. Prayed that she would be free of her connections to that hate group. Free to discover her real identity. And I thanked God—oh, how I thanked Him, hallelujah! And glory to Jesus!—that He had put a burden on my heart to pray for “that girl,” and now God had given her a name: Sara.

“PRINCESS.”

“What? ” Denny was already in the bed, weary after sitting with Mark Smith for over an hour, listening to the feelings, the anger, the fear that seeing “that White Pride girl” had pulled from the deep place they'd been buried during his convalescence.

“That's what Sara means: ‘Princess.'” I'd looked it up in my name book as soon as we got home.

Denny groaned. “Give it a rest, Jodi. Not everybody lives up to the meaning of their name. I'd say this one is a stretch.” He buried his head under his pillow and groaned. “Turn off that light, will ya? ”

BUT IT STUCK IN MY MIND all that week.
Sara. “Princess.”

It was a strange week, schoolwise. Veterans Day was a Monday holiday. (No school for the kids; slaving on midterm student reports for me.) Then two and a half days of school (mostly useless). Then a day and a half of parent-teacher conferences.Why the powers that be planned it that way, I'll never know. They never ask me, anyway.

Oh God!
I prayed, as I trudged to school Tuesday morning, lugging my tote bag full of student reports, hunkering inside my fall jacket against the early morning nip.
Adele said none of this was an accident. You must have a plan for Sara! Is that how You see her? As a princess? Royalty. Beautiful. Graceful . . .

It was a little hard to do—see her as a princess, that is. She was so plain! So pale. Even for a white girl. No healthy color.
Huh
. I'd love to see what miracles Adele could do with her. Not likely to happen, though. She wasn't likely to trust
any
of Hoshi's friends at this point.

I stopped in the school office to see Avis before heading to my classroom, but her office door was closed. Avis had missed out on the whole Hoshi-Sara fiasco Sunday night, and I hadn't talked to her since. Well, somebody else would have to fill her in; I had my hands full with thirty-one miscreants. Even my “good” kids were pushing on my last nerve. I did everything but bang on my desk with my shoe, trying to keep order.

Good grief,
I thought, using the time-out chair for the third time that day. How did the school district expect us to teach anything with so many days out in one week? Another day like this, and I'd end up snarling at all the parents during conferences too.

But I kept sending up prayers—the old
“Help, Lord!”
kind. Help came when I remembered Amanda's flip advice last year:
“They're third graders, Mom. Play games.They all like to play games.”
So I came to school on Wednesday with a large bag of assorted candies, a yardstick, and a book of Aesop's fables. We did fractions with the different colored candies and gobbled up the results. Measured their height in inches on a long sheet of butcher paper I'd taped to the door; then they had to figure out how tall they were in feet and inches. We ended the day acting out two of Aesop's fables in the Reading Corner. Carla Hickman's interpretation of the squeaky Mouse in “The Lion and the Mouse” had us all giggling.

They were squirrelly and loud all day—but fun squirrelly. Fun loud.

I felt good. I felt ready for parent-teacher conferences.

BUT I WAS DRAGGING by late Friday afternoon. I looked at my list of conferences still to go. Parents had signed up using the student's name:
5:30 Caleb Levy . . . 5:45 Mercedes LaLuz . . . 6:00 Carla Hickman . . . 6:15 Adam Turner.

The end. Home.Dinner. Long bubble bath. Could hardly wait.

Couldn't blame Carl and Florida for signing up late in the day, if Carl was going to come after work.Well, good for him. He was working hard to be the provider and father, making up for lost time. Just hoped I was still coherent by the time they got here. I really did want to talk about Carla's progress and behavior issues in a professional situation.Teacher to parent. Hear their concerns too. I could tell them about her starring role in “The Lion and the Mouse,” start off on a good foot, go over some of her reading progress, then discuss her short attention span and quick temper. Maybe come up with a school-and-home plan. Parents and teacher hand in hand, so to speak.

So to speak.
Six o'clock came and went. Neither Florida nor Carl showed. I would have called in the next set of parents, but Adam Turner's mother arrived promptly at six fifteen, not a minute before. A gushy woman. Probably sold real estate. Bragged about Adam for ten minutes, how bright he was, maybe they should put him in a class for advanced students, didn't I agree? I let her gush. When she finally took a breath, I agreed Adam was bright. But he was also lazy. Did as little as possible to get by. He often lost his homework papers or didn't even take them home. Maybe we could work on that before we pushed him into a class for advanced students, didn't she agree?

OK, so I was a little snippy.Ms. Real Estate got off easy, because, truth be told, I was mad. Mad at Carl and Florida. The nerve! They stuck their daughter in
my
class and then didn't show for the first parent-teacher conference? I'd tried my best to limit discussions at church or Yada Yada of how Carla was doing in school, because I knew—yeah,
right
—I knew we'd have a chance to discuss stuff at the appropriate time.

Didn't figure on them just blowing off conference time. They'd signed up, hadn't they? How could I expect a third grader to follow through on tasks and be responsible if her parents didn't even show up for appointments? So what was
that
about?

I gathered up my things and headed toward the office to leave the conference sign-up list.Well, the Hickmans were going to get a call from me tonight. No ncey-nice teacher-talk either. I was going to give Florida a piece of my mind.

Avis's office door opened just as I came into the school office. She looked flustered. “Oh! Jodi. Just the person I want to see. I need—” She stopped, as if changing her mind. “Come in my office a minute, can you? ”

I dropped my conference list in the tray and followed Avis into the door marked Principal. As she shut the door behind me, I was startled to see Rochelle slumped in a chair, arms wrapped protectively around Conny, who was playing with some sticky notes. She turned her face away, but I could see her eyes were puffy, red with crying.

“Jodi, is Edesa still volunteering at that women's shelter on the North Side? ”

“Manna House? ” I nodded. “Josh too. Most weekends. Friday night, all day Saturday.”

“Do you know the add—”

“I don't
want
to go to a shelter, Mama!” Rochelle's eyes flashed, in spite of the puffiness. “I came to you for help, and you're going to send me to a
shelter
? ” She stood up, hauling Conny up onto her hip. “Fine. It was a waste of time coming here.”

“Sit
down
, Rochelle.” The firmness in Avis's voice took me by surprise. “But you did come here. And I'm glad.” Her voice softened. “What did you expect me to do at school? You can't stay here.”

Rochelle rolled her eyes, still standing. “Oh. Well. I came
here
because if I showed up at your apartment, just Conny and me, Big Boss Man Peter would throw me out. But I thought my
mother
might take me home with her. Yours and daddy's home, Mama. Where we were always welcome until . . .” She pressed her beautiful mouth into a tight line and slumped back into the chair. Conny whimpered. She put the toddler over her shoulder and rubbed his back.

Avis closed her eyes a moment, steadied herself on the corner of the desk. Then she motioned me outside, shutting the door behind us. The office had cleared, though there were still a few stray parents and teachers out in the hallway. I closed the main office door, locked it, and turned the wands on the Venetian blinds covering the office windows between office and hallway. Diffused light filtering through the blinds bathed the office in a tranquil hush, as if the sound had been turned off.

I leaned against the door. I had never seen my friend look so stressed. “Avis,” I whispered, “can't you just take Rochelle and Conny home with you tonight and decide what to do tomorrow? Peter isn't that mean; he wouldn't just kick them out, would he? ”