Between Earth and Sky(69)
“Remarkable. And not a single demerit, you say?” Her father stroked his beard, his eyes bright. “The Lord does produce miracles. You’ve done good work here, Amelia.”
Color bloomed in the teacher’s cheeks. “I, well, thank you. I’m sure I can squeeze more progress out of him before the term is out.”
“It’s settled, then. We’ll graduate him with the others.”
His words hit Alma like frigid water. The oxygen bled from the air. Surely she misheard him. She leaned in closer, her eyes reaching sidelong, her ear all but pressed to the door.
Miss Wells’s fingers tightened around her cup. “He has a long way to go yet.”
“We haven’t a choice,” her father said. “That was the deal the Indian agent brokered with the boy’s uncle—two years here, until the boy reached eighteen. Our time is up. It would reflect poorly on our numbers if he doesn’t graduate.”
“The others are far more advanced—Harry, Frederick, Catherine—even that silly girl Alice reads better.”
“But he can read.” Her father’s tone was matter-of-fact, his back straight and hands laced atop his desk.
“Yes.”
“And write, and spell, and manage simple arithmetic?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s all he’ll need.”
Miss Wells sat up and brushed the wisp of hair back from her face. “After graduation, he’ll go straight back to the blanket.”
“You think? Return to his reservation?” Her father sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Hmm . . . you’re probably right. At least we’ve reformed him from the troublemaker he once was. The agency will be grateful.”
“Another year and he could be—”
“My hands are tied.”
Alma sagged against the wall. graduate? How could that be? She felt a throbbing and looked down to see the thread unspooled and twisted about her index finger, leaving the tip fat and purple. Slowly, she unwound the thread. The pain flared with the sudden release of blood.
“A modest victory, I suppose.” Miss Wells’s petticoat rustled as she rose from the chair.
“But a victory nonetheless,” her father said. “We cannot erase in one generation centuries of Godlessness.”
Alma hastened from the door at the sound of approaching footsteps. She stumbled into the dining hall and sank onto a bench. Graduation was in June, only two months away. What would happen after? Would return home, back to the blanket, as they’d said? This was his home now, here with her.
She laid the mess of thread upon the table and nipped at her cuticles, ignoring the bitter taste of soap that spread across her tongue. They sat here every evening during study hour, she and , feigning tutelage. When Miss Wells strode within earshot, they recited times tables or parts of speech. When she moved on, ruler in hand, to scrutinize someone else, they whispered about matters of the heart, their hands clasped beneath the table. His improvement in class had been part of the show, lest Miss Wells doubt the benefit of Alma’s instruction. So in a way they’d brought the misfortune of graduation upon themselves.
“Keep that up much longer and your mother’s bound to notice.”
Alma looked up and saw Asku seated at the other end of the hall. She hadn’t even noticed him when she came in. “Hmm? Oh.” She dropped her hand from her mouth.
He closed his book and came to sit across from her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . don’t you think Tshikw’set should stay on another year? Father wants to graduate him.” She set about untangling the thread, pulling it so taut the fibers burned across her skin. “I think it’s a dreadful idea. His penmanship is awful, his spelling atrocious, his—”
“I say good riddance. It’s not like he wants to be here anyway.”
“Of course he does.”
Asku raised a brow and she knew he’d heard the doubt in her voice.
A faint tap drew her eyes to the far window. smiled at her through the filmy glass and nodded toward the woods.
She stood and hurried to the door. “I . . . er . . . I think I hear Mother calling.”
“You forgot your thread.” Asku tossed it to her, then followed her eyes to the window. Outside, loped across the yard toward the shade of the trees.
Asku’s gaze flickered back. He cocked his head and frowned. “He’s going to leave, Alma.”
She toyed with the end of the thread until it frayed. Was he right? She lobbed it back to him. “Give this to Mrs. Simms for me?”
*
waited for her several yards into the forest, standing in a shaft of spring sunlight. Stover’s rigid schedule and strict routine made it easy for them to slip out together. They knew at any given moment where the adults ought to be, knew when roll was counted, knew when their absence would go unnoticed.
He removed his wool jacket and slung it over the crook of his arm. The same breeze that ruffled the budding leaves in the branches above tousled his sable hair. While most of the boys at Stover had taken to using Macassar oil to part and smooth their cropped locks, refused. No part of him, not even his hair, would submit to the white man’s strictures. How he passed morning inspection, Alma had no idea.
“Took you plenty long.” He wrapped an arm around her back and tried to kiss her, but she pulled away.