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to respond to it. I can’t let that slide.

7
Imaginary or Not
LETICIA
    C LASS IS IN FULL SWING WHEN I ARRIVE . Mr. Walsh doesn’t bother to ask for the late pass. It’s not the first time I’ve strolled in after the second bell. He figures, why waste valuable class time asking for a pass he knows I don’t have? So I shock him, uncrumple the bathroom pass with Miss Palenka’s signature and smooth it out on his desk so he can see it’s legitimate.
    â€œA long bathroom break, Miss Moore.”
    â€œA long dump, Mr. Walsh.”
    Now isn’t he sorry? He upset his morning coffee and McBiscuit commenting when he should have nodded and kept teaching. A lesson for you, Mr. Walsh. Stick with your classics. Stick with what you know.
    I sashay s-l-o-w because I want to freeze the moment for him like we’re on a TV show where the funny blackgirl puts a cap on the scene. I take my seat, dig out A Separate Peace , a sheet of paper, and a pen.
    You know, life is unfair. Bea’s class has Push and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings for winter-break reading. They’re reading true-to-life dramas. Stuff that makes your eyes run right, left, right like feet on fire. Our class has Black Boy , The Stranger , and Mr. Walsh’s favorite, A Separate Peace . “A book every high school student must read,” according to Walsh. I see his point. One day I might transfer to an elite military school, befriend a bunch of losers, climb a tree, and watch a classmate fall and break his leg. That’s right. Pushed or fell, the classmate breaks a leg and dies. He doesn’t die on the spot. Dying drags out over time so the so-called friend can Hamletize over to tell or not to tell that he’s responsible for the broken leg and his classmate’s death. So yeah. I see how it all relates to my life because every other day I’m up a tree pushing some loser to his eventual death, then breaking out into a soliloquy. Don’t you just love the classics?
    I read the book. Every page, even when I wanted to skim. I already have zero-period math. I don’t need to rise at an ungodly hour for zero-period English next semester.
    I look around. Unlike everyone else’s book, mine is brand-new, no cracks, no creases down the spine. Each page corner as sharp as when I bought it. Nota highlighter or pen mark to be found between the covers. You can’t get your money back from the store if it looks used. It’s not easy to read a book you don’t crack open all the way but I’ve mastered the art of keeping the book brand-new. Black Boy , The Stranger , and A Separate Peace are all crisp and clean. Ready to be returned along with the receipt.
    Can’t say that about Bea’s books. Both Push and Caged Bird been through the war with Bea. Their spines broken, their covers like arms forced back in surrender. “Ease up, Bea. Don’t hurt a book,” I’d say, trying to grab her attention. It didn’t do any good. I lost Bea for two weeks during her Push , Caged Bird phase. She read both books twice. First time was for class; the second, she said, was for her. And that was all she wanted to talk about. Marguerite this, Precious that. I would have read her novels too if I could have gotten credit for it. Instead I had my hands full with Black Boy , The Stranger , and A Separate Peace . The sophomore classics.
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    â€œAnd what do you suppose ‘Maginot Lines’ refers to at the end of the novel?”
    I can’t be mad at Mr. Walsh. He can’t help himself. He loves English. Look at how he throws out questions,like a pitcher eager to throw the first pitch of the season. He’s like Bea, all filled up with a book and can’t wait to talk about it. If Bea read her books twice, Mr. Walsh read his twenty times. Come on, now. Only paste is whiter than Mr. Walsh’s face. You know that’s what he does all day. Stays indoors and reads his classics. And now