Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) by Patti Sheehy

hopefully. I moved a little closer to her and smelled a light touch of Jean Naté.
    She looked embarrassed and confused, and I was afraid I had spoken too soon. I didn’t want to scare her away. A crimson rush crept up her neck. She didn’t answer my question.
    When the bell rang, Magda and I walked down the path to our class together. I felt happier than I had felt for a very long time. I had great hopes that something would come of this meeting. I looked up at the sun filtering through the trees and imagined what it would be like to hold this sweet girl’s hand.

CHAPTER 11
    Magda’s parents
were
well off. She had attended Lancha, a private school owned and run by her Aunt Sophia. A brilliant woman with a doctorate in education, Sophia was horrified when Fidel closed all private and parochial schools in Cuba, forcing Magda’s parents to send their daughter to the public school.
    I was now entering the second half of eighth grade, and I felt like I’d been away from my friends for a very long time. I was trying to figure out the lay of the land socially, while attempting to ingratiate myself with Magda.
    I soon realized that the government-run school had been far superior academically to my old public school. I was almost a year ahead in my class work. Although I did not excel in English, I was at the top of my class in all other subjects. I was especially good at math, and my classmates were amazed at how quickly I could solve difficult problems.
    Three weeks after I got to school, I was nominated for a seat on Student Council. I was elated, mostly because I thought it would impress Magda. Shortly thereafter, I was elected council president. Gilbert, Jabao, and I went out after school to celebrate. We walked around the park, eating tamales from one of the street vendors, and talking about the upcoming year.
    The next day I met with the council to come up with plans for the students—dances, sporting events, and outings of various kinds. We drafted a school calendar, making sure nothing conflicted with fiestas and holidays.
    The school had limited space for sporting events and social gatherings, and things had to be carefully orchestrated to meet conflicting demands. I worked very hard on the schedule and was pleased with the work of the council.
    But Fidel had his own plans for the school. Shortly after my election, he announced the establishment of a Communist Youth Council to oversee what was called “government-related student business.” The Student Council would oversee student activities, and the Youth Council would oversee the promotion of communism. There would be two separate student governing bodies—with two different agendas and two different leaders.
    Our experiences with the CDRs had taught us that whoever occupied this position would wield much power, and there was great speculation as to whom it would be. Student support for Fidel was split pretty much down the middle.
    I was very sure where I stood. My stay in the mountains, my stint at Tarara, and my talks with Abuelo had dispelled my former confusion. These experiences had sharpened my views regarding the Party into stark-white clarity: as bad and corrupt as Batista had been for Cuba, Fidel was worse. Under Fidel, freedom was quickly becoming a casualty and, despite his claims to the contrary, he was well on his way to usurping all our liberties. The writing was on the wall for anyone who chose to read it.
    Magda and Miriam shared my views. So did my cousins.
    It was a bright, sunny Tuesday when a general assembly was called into session at the school. There was more than the usual commotion with students conferring and whispering about whom they thought would be president of the Communist Youth Council.
    The principal stood in front of the auditorium looking very serious. He was a short, stout man who worked hard to maintain control of his students. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened themicrophone,