A Better Angel

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That November I’m nine and stealing: candy from the supermarket; toys from the dime store; books from the bookstore. And not Curious George and the Bad Touch or Tales of a Fourth Grade Fuck-Up, though I am in fourth grade, and fucked-up. I’m too smart for those books, too smart for the fourth grade, but Mama won’t let them skip me. I’m too smart for Miami Springs, and too smart for my own good.

In November of 1979 I’m four feet ten inches tall, and Papa has been dead for nine months. My little brother is crazy, and I want sometimes to take over the world. I am nine but not nine. I am ancient in blood and heart and bones. Sometimes I feel as wise as a pharaoh. I am in class, listening to Miss Ouida Montoya read to us.

Wild Nights! — Wild Nights!

Were I with thee

Wild Nights should be

Our luxury!

She goes on, finishing as passionately as she began. She’s panting when she stops. “Can anyone tell me who wrote that one?” she asks into the silence. She’s not our real teacher, just a substitute who came to us after Ms. Orton’s incident with the bus.

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