The Lions of Little Rock Read Free Page A

talking with Nora. Unlike Sally’s strong cough syrup, Nora was a weak fruit punch. She had horn-rimmed glasses and was convinced they made her ugly, even though she had a long neck and the straightest, smoothest hair I’d ever seen.
    In the back was a new girl. She had short dark hair, just like Judy’s, tied back with a ribbon. She had neatly trimmed fingernails (which reminded me to stop chewing on my pinkie) and a lovely tan too, like she’d been at the pool all summer, though I hadn’t seen her there once.
    Sally got up and walked over to her desk. Nora went too. “Hi, new girl,” Sally said in her bright, clear voice. “What’s your name?”
    The new girl looked up and smiled. A wide, honest, open smile. I knew she thought Sally was being sincere, but I would’ve bet you all the money in my piggy bank that she wasn’t.
    â€œElizabeth,” said the new girl. “What’s yours?”
    â€œSally,” said Sally. “It’s nice to meet you, Bethie.”
    â€œOh, it’s not Bethie,” said the girl.
    â€œLizzie?” guessed Sally.
    â€œNo, Elizabeth,” said the girl. “Like the Queen.”
    Sally looked at her blankly.
    â€œThe Queen of England.”
    â€œDid you hear that, Nora? Her name is Elizabeth, like the Queen of England.” Sally burst out laughing.
    I couldn’t bring myself to look at the new girl. I was sure she felt awful. I started counting prime numbers again: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 . . . But the new girl started laughing too. “Yeah, like the Queen of England. But you can just call me ‘Your Highness.’”
    Nora tittered.
    â€œYour Highness?” repeated Sally.
    â€œThat’s right,” said Elizabeth. “Unless you prefer ‘O royal one.’”
    Nora had to gulp down a giggle. I couldn’t quite tell if she was amused or nervous. No one spoke this way to Sally.
    The new girl suddenly grinned and slapped Sally on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding, of course. Liz is fine.”
    Sally gave a little smile. Before she could say anything else, Miss Taylor, our homeroom teacher, walked in, and Sally and Nora sat down.
    Miss Taylor was one of those teachers you just can’t imagine anywhere but school. She’d been teaching forever and always pulled her blond hair back into a bun. As she handed out our schedules, I noticed her sweater had a couple of dropped stitches on the back, as if she’d made it herself. I had Miss Taylor again for history in the afternoon. She frowned a lot as she talked, and I couldn’t decide if she was plain old coffee or something worse, like the vinegar pooled at the bottom of a jar of pickles. Though I’m not sure why anyone would drink that.
    After homeroom came English, then science, and right before lunch I had math. Since math is my favorite subject, sometimes I talk in class, but only if the answer’s a number. Like 43. Or 3,458. Or 36.72. But if the answer is “eight apples,” all you’ll get out of me is “eight.” You’ll have to provide the apples yourself.
    My math teacher this year was Mr. Harding. It was his first year at West Side, and he was young, almost as young as my older brother. Mr. Harding got to work right away, writing problems on the chalkboard. By the end of the period, chalk dust had turned his hair (and his suit) prematurely gray. He called on everyone in the class at least once, even the girls. Even me. (I answered. It was 345.) My old math teacher had asked the boys to answer three times as often as the girls. I knew because once, last year, I had gotten really bored, and I’d kept track of who she’d called on for a whole week. I decided Mr. Harding was a chocolate malt shake, and I liked him a lot.
    Pretty soon it was lunchtime. Mother always packed me a lunch, because I didn’t like to tell the lunch ladies what I wanted. I sat down at an empty table