The French Girl by Felicia Donovan

stack of papers up like an accordion, she brought me back to Mrs. Darby’s office.  As we approached the door, I heard Giselle speaking with Mrs. Darby.
    “I have not had a chance to tell her everything, but my biggest concern is that she not be ostracized in any way because of…”
    The woman, Mrs. Blakely, cleared her throat loudly and handed the papers over to Mrs. Darby.
    Giselle smiled and took my hand.  “How did it go?” she asked.
    “It was fine.”
    “Well!” Mrs. Darby said as she flipped through the pages. “It looks like we have a scholar on our hands.” Glancing up, she nodded to me.  “Etoile is actually several grade levels ahead in reading.”  Giselle smiled and squeezed my hand. “And she’s just slightly behind in math, but I’m not at all concerned about that.  A strong reader can often compensate in many ways.”
    Mrs. Blakely returned with a sheet and handed it to Mrs. Darby.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Blakely,” she said as she glanced up and down the sheet. “Very well, then, Etoile.  We’re going to place you in Mrs. Spenser’s class. All of the fifth graders love her.  She has a very strong reading program that hopefully, will keep you challenged.”
    “When would she start?” Giselle asked.
    “She’s welcome to start tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow!” Giselle answered, glancing anxiously at me.  “But she just came to me yesterday.”
    “I understand,” Mrs. Darby said, “but trust me that from my experience, it’s better for the student to get back into a routine as quickly as possible.  For you and for her…” She glanced at the forms Giselle had filled out. “I will notify the bus company this afternoon and they’ll put your address on the route.  She’ll have to wait at the end of the road.”
    “Yes, but tomorrow...” Giselle said again shaking her head.  “I did not think it would be so soon.”  She bit her lower lip and looked at me. “What do you think, Cherie ?  Could you do this tomorrow?”
    I shrugged my shoulders because I did not want to do this tomorrow anymore than I wanted to do it on Monday or the day after that but it did not seem to matter.
    Mrs. Darby glanced at her watch and stood up. “Why don’t we take a walk down and I’ll introduce you?  We’ll catch the class just before they head out for lunch.”
    I stayed very close to Giselle as we walked down the long corridor to the fifth grade wing. A thin band of cork in a silver frame ran along the entire edge of the hallway and all along, papers, drawing and projects were stapled to it.
    Mrs. Darby paused at the door to a classroom and peered in the small window.  She waited a few seconds before knocking and opening the door.  A black woman, who was standing at a blackboard, stopped and smiled.
    “Please, come in,” the woman said.
    The entire class fell into silence as Giselle and I stepped in.
    “Excuse the interruption, Mrs. Spenser,” Mrs. Darby said, “but I’d like to introduce your class to a new student.  Her name is Etoile Toussaint and she’ll be starting tomorrow.”
    Surely this could not be right.  I had never met a black teacher before. The only black people I knew were Mr. and Mrs. Jackson who helped out at Lamont’s dry cleaners back in Cote Nouveau. They worked only in the back and lived in a tiny apartment above the store.  Maman once said that if les noirs were in the front, no one would go in.  Maman also said that they only reason people went to Lamont’s, la chèvre avare, the stingy goat, in the first place was because he was the only one who was able to get the smell of fish off of things.
    Mrs. Spenser came over and offered her hand to me. I could not help but stare at the contrast of her brown skin and her white nails for a second or two.  I had never seen a black person’s hand up close before.  I suddenly felt Giselle nudging me from behind.  Glancing up at her, she flashed her eyes at me towards Mrs. Spenser.  I shook Mrs. Spenser’s