Between Earth and Sky(5)

“All right, children, take your seats,” Miss Wells said. “Young men on this side; ladies over here.”

The children stared blankly. Unruffled, the teacher steered the first few students to desks and the others followed. Their steps were clumsy, slow, as if burdened by their shiny new boots.

Alma scooted toward the far edge of her double-wide desk and grinned up at the approaching girls. They avoided her gaze, just as they had yesterday at the picnic, last night in the dormitory, and this morning in the dining hall, squeezing in three to a desk to avoid sitting beside her.

After all thirty-seven children had settled, the bench still loomed empty beside her. Begrudgingly, she returned to her lesson book, the water in her eyes blurring the text.

From the front of the room, Miss Wells addressed the class. She wore the same air of pride, of purpose, as Alma’s father. But unlike his, her voice was flat. “Good morning, students. Welcome to Stover School for Indians, your home for the coming years. Thanks to the beneficence of the United States Government, you have the opportunity to fully immerse yourselves in civilized culture and to wash away the sins of your former existence.”

Alma peeked at the other children as Miss Wells spoke. They didn’t look sinful. Most hung their heads, stealing sideways glances around the room. The girl directly in front of Alma pulled at the collar of her dress. Across the aisle, another squirmed in her seat and swung her legs beneath the desk. Many of the boys tugged and fingered their newly cropped hair. None gave any indication that they understood the school-ma’am’s lecture. But the teacher continued undeterred.

“We shall begin today by choosing Christian names.” Her thin lips parted in what Alma supposed was a smile, baring white, cockeyed teeth. She gestured toward the blackboard with a ruler and then pointed the instrument at a girl in the front row. “You first. Come to the board and select a name.”

The girl shrank down in her seat until her nose was level with the desk. Miss Wells paid no mind. She grabbed the girl’s arm and led her to the blackboard.

Even from the back row, Alma could see the girl trembling. She gaped up at the blackboard, but made no motion toward the names. Several moments passed, each one adding weight to the silence. Finally, Miss Wells grasped the girl’s hand and uncoiled her index finger. Like a puppeteer, she guided the small finger toward the first name on the board.

“Mary. Good choice.”

The girl scurried back to her seat. Miss Wells followed, pulling a spool of thread and needle from her dress pocket. With a few quick stitches, she sewed the name Mary onto the back of the girl’s dress.

Alma frowned and cocked her head. Was this to help the other students learn the girl’s new name? But they couldn’t yet read. Papa had told her so. Maybe it was just for her, so she could learn her new friends’ names faster. Tomorrow she’d sew Alma on the back of her dress with her neatest stitching. That way, when the Indians did learn to read, they’d know her name right away.

After returning to her desk and jotting something in her ledger, Miss Wells pointed her ruler at the next pupil.

Alma watched the second girl rise. Her glossy hair lay coiled in a braid at the nape of her neck. The fabric at the front of her dress bunched in several places from misaligned buttons. She teetered to the blackboard, hands buried in the folds of her skirt. After a wide-eyed glance at Miss Wells, she pointed at the top name.

Alma bit down to stifle a giggle.

“Mary is already taken,” the teacher said. She smiled again, close-lipped this time, the rest of her face strangely void of expression. “Choose another.”

The girl dropped her hand and turned toward her desk. Before she could move, Miss Wells grabbed hold of her and spun her back to face the list of names. With trembling finger, the girl pointed again at the name Mary.

Without warning, Miss Wells raised her ruler and slapped the Indian’s hand. The sharp sound of wood against skin ricocheted from wall to wall, reaching Alma before her eyes could fully make sense of what had happened. The entire class arched back in their seats. Whispers flooded the room.

“Silence, class,” Miss Wells said, and turned back to the girl. “Now, my dear, select a different name.”

The girl cradled her hand, a long red welt appearing atop her skin. Her dark eyes darted about the room. Her mouth hung agape. She looked confused, afraid, as if never before struck.

Alma’s mouth went dry, the last of her giggles long dead in her throat. She scooted to the edge of her seat, watching the patience drain from Miss Wells’s face with each passing second.

“Pick a name or I shall be forced—”

“She doesn’t understand!” The words flew from Alma’s mouth before she realized she was speaking.

The teacher’s sharp gray eyes turned on her. “This does not concern you.”

“If you just show—”

“Your father told me I’d see no trouble from you. Have I been misinformed? He’d be so disappointed.”

Alma sank down in her seat. “No, ma’am.” She dropped her eyes back to her slate, but her heart continued to push against the walls of her chest.

At the front of the classroom, the Indian whimpered. Her boots shuffled back and forth atop the floorboards.

Again Miss Wells addressed the girl. Her voice, at once both sweet and menacing, made Alma’s skin prickle. “You have one more opportunity to select a—”