The Red Umbrella

I stared at the crumpled pages that filled my bedroom wastebasket. Who knew that a simple five-hundred-word report on a book of my choice was going to be so difficult? I’d thought by picking something that I’d studied in Cuba, the whole thing would be easy to do, but it was hard to express myself in English when all my thoughts were in Spanish. It had taken me most of the evening to finish, but at last I was done. Now all I had left to do was my Algebra II homework.

“¿Qué haces?” Frankie asked from the doorway to my room.

“Tarea.” I pointed to my books.

“You want to play something instead of doing homework? My bedtime isn’t for another ten minutes.”

“Can’t. I’m busy.”

“You’re busy every night.” He peered over my shoulder to look at what I was doing. “Why does it take you so long? You used to be so smart.”

“I’m still smart. It just takes me longer because it’s all in English,” I answered.

“Isn’t that math?” He pointed to my algebra book. “Aren’t numbers the same everywhere?”

“Frankie, just go.” I gave him a shove toward the door.

“Do you want me to help you with your homework? I finished mine super fast and I had to write my spelling words … twice.”

“Frankie, please! Go!”

“Fine. I didn’t really want to play with you, anyway,” he muttered as he left the room.

Suddenly I felt angry. I hated having to struggle to do everything in English. I just wanted to give up. Maybe the teachers would give me a break and feel sorry for me. They would just let me go to classes, but not expect much else. I could pretend to be really dumb.

“Brought you something.” Mrs. Baxter interrupted my pity party.

“Oh, thank you.” I moved over some books so that she could put down the small bowl of strawberries she was holding.

“I walked by and saw you studying so hard that I thought you might want a snack.”

I faked a small smile.

Mrs. Baxter took a strawberry and sat on my bed. “So, how goes it? Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed by the schoolwork?”

“No. Why? Did Frankie say something?”

“Oh, goodness no. I just know that starting high school can be a difficult transition for any young girl. I can only imagine how much harder it is under your circumstances.” She took a bite of the berry, waiting for me to respond.

Math would have to wait for a few minutes. I put down my pencil. “I guess school is a little hard.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded.

I shrugged. “Trying to keep up with everything that the teachers say in English and take notes at the same time, it makes my brain hurt sometimes.”

Mrs. Baxter chuckled. “Oh, we all have days like that. I remember when I started secretarial school, how much pressure I put on myself. I was the first in my family to go past high school, and, well, I would’ve loved to have gone to college and been a teacher, but I wasn’t smart enough for that. So, I had to do well in secretarial school.”

“And did you?” I asked, reaching for one of the strawberries.

“Of course. But those first few weeks were real doozies. Late nights studying and worrying. Then I found a sort of rhythm and began to enjoy myself. You will, too.” She patted my knee. “You’ll see.”

“I hope so. I just want to get good grades, because Papá always said that what’s in here”—I tapped my head—“no one can take from you.”

“Your father is a very wise man.”

“Yes, he is.” My shoulders relaxed and seemed to drop a couple of inches. It felt good to talk things over with Mrs. Baxter.

“I’ll let you get back to your studying, but I have one thing to add to what your father said. I think they can’t take what’s here”—she touched her forehead—“or here.” She placed a hand over her heart.

I smiled. Next to my parents, Mrs. Baxter was the smartest person I knew.