The Skin I'm In

When Miss Saunders asks, "What's my face say?" don't nobody say nothing.

"Don't get all closed-mouth, now," she says. "I hear you whispering in the hall. Laughing at me." She walks the aisles again. She stops by me and sits on my desk. "Faces say more than you think. Even mine. Don't be shy, say what's on your mind."

My hand goes up. I figure she's embarrassed me twice since she's been here this week. Now it's her turn. "Not to hurt your feelings . . . but . . . I think your face says you're a freak."

Miss Saunders puts her hands to her chin like she's praying. She gets up and walks the room, pacing. We don't say nothing. We just listen to the clock tick. Shuffle our papers. Watch for some reaction from Miss Saunders.