Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner

admired and tried to mimic my mother’s style of oral reading. I now discovered, happily, that I still possessed the ability to read ahead and retain lengthy phrases to speak aloud as I lifted my head to look into the eyes of my audience. Thus, I appeared to be telling the story rather than merely reading it. I am not boasting, for I do not know to what extent this played a part in the children’s attentiveness. I rather think it was the story itself that captivated them.
    At exactly two-thirty Mrs. Edgecombe opened the door and entered. Her round face was drained of color, as if she had been sorely tested during the previous hour. A sprig of her faded brown hair drooped over her forehead. I read, “‘Carefully, Charlie pulled it out from under the snow. It was damp and dirty but otherwise perfect.’” Then I paused and addressed the children. “Mrs. Edgecombe has come to take you back to your classroom, but perhaps she will agree to our finishing this page, which concludes chapter ten.” I held the book up toward Mrs. Edgecombe and pointed to the sentence I had just read, which was midway down the page.
    The children emitted groans of disappointment and cries of supplication, to which Mrs. Edgecombe responded by stepping forward and clapping her hands lightly. “It’s almost dismissal time, children, but it won’t hurt to finish the page.” She looked at me and said, “Go ahead. I’ll wait.” And she sat in a wooden armchair near the door.
    I resumed reading. Though bordering on starvation, Charlie Bucket displayed admirable self-restraint in the use of his dollar, deciding to purchase a single bar of candy and then to take the rest of the money home to his mother. I closed the book when I had read the last sentence on the page but made a mental note to resume with page fifty if by some improbable development I were asked again at a later time to take the librarian’s place with the third-graders.
    Six days later, having acquired a position in the school cafeteria, I borrowed Charlie and the Chocolate Factory from Mrs. Gardner, who had recovered and returned to her duties in the library, and I read the remaining chapters one evening, not only because the thought of the book weighed upon me as unfinished business but also because I truly desired to know the conclusion of Mr. Roald Dahl’s clever morality tale. I recall that when I read of the glass elevator bearing Charlie’s entire family upward through the roof of the Buckets’ house and out into a clear winter sky, I felt that Mr. Dahl had hit upon a very suitable ending.
    But I have jumped ahead of my story and must return to the events of that first day at Emma Weldy Elementary School.
    â€œLine up at the door, children,” Mrs. Edgecombe said briskly, clapping her hands again. I was to discover in the months to follow that Mrs. Edgecombe clapped her hands habitually, oftentimes even when addressing teachers and parents. The children rose obediently and straggled toward the door.
    â€œYou gonna finish it next time?” a boy asked me. His hair was a tangle of blond curls, and his cheeks were cherry red.
    Mrs. Edgecombe answered for me. “We’ll tell Mrs. Gardner where the story left off so she can pick up there next week. Now, let’s all give a big thank-you to your substitute for today.”
    All the children chorused a loud, drawn-out “Thank you!”
    I nodded and said, “You are most welcome,” then stood and watched them as they departed the room.
    The pale boy who had almost upset his chair earlier said to no one in particular, “She reads lots better’n Miz Gardner,” and another boy said, “I betcha Charlie gets a ticket.” As the last child exited—a tiny girl with an ethereal face—she turned and waved to me, her fingers bunched together in a half fist, just the tips of them moving ever so slightly. I nodded to her and said,