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much money or nice clothes.
    Finally, Miss Vest finished reading. She sat back on her desk with her shoulders drooped like all the life had just run out of her body.
    â€œThey’re wrong,” Ida shouted. “They didn’t get nothing about us right.”
    â€œI know, Ida,” Miss Vest said in a tired voice. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œ
Sorry?
” somebody called out.
    It was Poke. I jumped at the sound of his voice. Like me, he had barely said a word since school started, but now he was talking faster than ever, spitting out words like he was trying to get rid of a sour taste in his mouth. “You must think we’re just a bunch of hillbillies, too,” he said. “Must be why you keep giving us all these fool exercises. How you reckon we’re gonna learn real reading and writing, copying them baby words off the blackboard all day long?”
    Miss Vest looked shocked. “Poke,
of course
I don’t agree with those reporters. I hate what they wrote. The only reason I read those silly articles out loud was to get your attention . . . everybody’s attention.”
    She took a deep breath and went on, using her hands to talk again. She hit the air with her fists. “I
know
we can prove all those reporters wrong. But it takes work, and we all have to start with the basics. It wouldn’t matter if I was teaching in the Blue Ridge or New York City, I’d still use the same methods to teach you. Learning to read and write takes time and patience and—”
    â€œWell, I don’t have that much time,” Poke cut in, his jaw muscles working. “I reckon my pa would sooner have me home clearing stumps than sitting here making this hen scratch.” He glared down at the paper on his desk with an evil look. Then before we knew it, he had shoved himself out of his desk and started scuffing up the aisle.
    â€œWait, Poke!” Miss Vest called out, her voice sounding panicky.
    But he was already out the door. Miss Vest dropped her hands to her sides. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, almost like she was trying to comfort herself. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”
    But the rest of us knew better. Poke was gone for good.

Six

    Â 
    Â 
    I was leaning against my chestnut tree at the beginning of recess a few days later when Dewey started whistling again. It was that same song he always whistled—“Let Me Call You Sweetheart”—and as he started the tune over and over, I could almost hear the man’s voice from our old record, singing the words so waltzy and slow.
    Dewey was pitching a baseball back and forth with Vernon Woodard. Every time the ball smacked his stiff leather glove, his whistling seemed to get louder. For a while I huddled down into my sweater, trying to block out the cold wind and the mournful sound of Dewey’s high-pitched tune.
    If they had given me half a chance, I would have joined Ida and Luella and the other girls sitting on the porch steps. They were bunched together looking at the new Sears, Roebuck mail-order catalog. Ever since Ida had spotted it on Miss Vest’s desk the week before, she and her friends had met at recess every day to flip through the pages and
ooh
and
aah
over all the fancy things for sale.
    Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
    â€œStop it, Dewey!” I yelled.
    It seemed as though everybody in the schoolyard turned at once to look at me. Even the girls on the porch tore their eyes away from the catalog to stare.
    â€œStop what?” Dewey asked with a smirk.
    â€œThat whistling,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “You’ve whistled that song four times through already.”
    Dewey looked confused for a second, then his eyes lit up. He walked toward me, tossing the ball up and catching it in his glove. “I know why you want me to quit,” he said with a sly smile creeping across his face. “I’m singing one of your old