I am eleven years old, and I am invisible.I am sitting at my desk, in my classroom, on a perfect autumn afternoon - Friday, October 19, 1962. My desk is in the farthest row, next to the windows. I squint into the sunshine and watch a brilliant gold leaf fall from a spindly old tree by the sidewalk, and then I open Makers of America to page forty-seven because it's social studies time. I love social studies, love everything about it, and most of all I love to read aloud.Mrs. Rodriguez, my teacher, has skipped me twice this week - twice! - when we read out loud during social studies, going down each row, desk after desk. I am determined not to let that happen again.Mrs. Rodriguez wears square shoes with thick soles, and glasses on a beaded string around her neck. After conferences last week, I heard Mom describe her to Daddy as thick-waisted. Her fingers are the strong, blunt kind that put me in mind of my grandmother, Miss Mattie, who runs a store in Mississippi and is always hauling around boxes of boots or barrels of pickles. Miss Mattie's fingernails are cut straight across, but Mrs. Rodriguez has short, pointed nails that look like little triangles. \I thought she liked me. When we practiced duck-and-cover under our desks the first week of school, my headband popped off my head and I didn't even try to retrieve it - I just kept my head down and let my hair fall all over my face. Mrs. Rodriguez complimented me right in front of everyone and told me I was a perfect turtle. Excerpted from Countdown by Deborah Wiles All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
