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shattering right before one another's eyes and we don't understand what terrible thing we have done to deserve it. I prayed that Daddy would change back to being Daddy and that Mama's heart wouldn't crumble. I prayed that Brenda would stop being so angry and that I would stop crying.
    I fell asleep with Mr. Panda in my arms. In the morning, as usual these days. Daddy was already gone by the time Brenda and I went to breakfast. Mama looked peaked and white and very tired. It wasn't hard to tell that she had been up all night.
    Uncle Palaver was arriving in two days. How would he find us? Would he see the turmoil, and would he try to help, or would he turn and flee from it? He was never one to contradict Daddy. He was too gentle and easygoing a man. Daddy's words would surely devastate him. I feared.
    I couldn't recall a time in my life when I was more nervous and distracted. I felt as if I were walking in a thick fog when I went to school, and sure enough. I got into trouble when Mr. Leshman asked me a question in social studies class and I didn't respond. I was lost in thoughts about all the turmoil at home and never heard him. I didn't even hear him repeat it, even though I looked as if I were paving attention, my eyes on him. It confused and annoyed him.
    He raised his voice and stepped toward me, and finally, I blinked. He stared, waiting for a response. I gazed around the classroom and saw the way everyone was looking at me, each with an expression half of wonder, half of amusement. Some of the boys were already giggling, and that fed the fire of rage building in Mr. Leshman.
"Well?" he demanded.
    "Well what?" I replied, and the entire class roared with laughter.
Mr. Leshman's face turned ruby red. "I'll tell you well what, young lady. You go see the dean this minute," he shouted, and pointed at the door. "Go on!"
I shook my head. "Why? What did I do?" I asked him, which made everyone laugh again,
"Get yourself to the dean's office," he said, pronouncing each word distinctly and holding his arm out, his forefinger pointed at the door.
There was a hush in the room while I gathered my books, closed my notebook, and rose. I hunched my shoulders to use my body the way a turtle uses its shell and hurried out of the room. The back of my neck burned with the embarrassment that scorched my spine, e. I could barely breathe, because my throat had tightened with a stiffness close to rigor mortis.
The dean's office was next to the principals office. His name was Dean Mannville, and he looked like a former professional wrestler, with a physical presence that was intimidating and eyes that were unmerciful, eyes that looked as if they had witnessed capital punishment. He was bald, with large facial features. If he ever smiled, it was behind closed doors. The students actually believed he was a retired hit man. No one, not the meanest, toughest students, could stare him down-- or eyeball him, as he would say. He had no hesitation about throwing someone out or turning him or her over to the police if he or she had committed any sort of criminal act. In his eyes, there was always a war under way in the building. A sign above his desk read: "This is a school. Anyone who prevents learning is the enemy and will be so treated."
His office was small, with no windows. When anyone was sent there, the dean would close the door and, according to students who had told me about it, he or she would feel very threatened. Sometimes, they were left sitting there for hours with the heat turned up. There was the story about one boy who had been violent and supposedly even attacked the dean, who then battered him in defense, beating him so much that he had to be taken to the hospital in an
ambulance. The boy claimed he never attacked him, but once that door was closed, who would believe him? Some kids thought the story was an urban legend, something created to keep the mystique of the dean's unflinching hardness believable. Whether it was true or not, it