I am eleven years old, in grade five. The boy behind me has been whispering out of the corner of his mouth all afternoon. I have tried to ignore it, but he has been getting louder and louder. Other kids in the class are starting to stare at both him and me. I dare not turn around and confront him. It's hot: sticky hot, which is adding to my aggravation.
I stand up from my seat and make the way to the teacher's desk at the front of the classroom. She has her head down, marking our school journal entries for the morning. It is supposed to be quiet reading time. She looks up, exasperated. I like Mrs Howard. I had her in third grade also, and quietly cheered at the start of the year when I found out she was going to be my teacher again. Mrs Howard puts down her pen. What is it?, she asks. The whole class is watching while pretending not to, books hiding interested faces. Umm, it's Matthew, I gesture nervously, he keeps calling me Blackie. And I don't like it.
Mrs Howard looks at me with an enormous frown on her face So what? she says, you are, aren't you?
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