Читать книгу Cherry Blossom Winter - Jennifer Maruno - Страница 7

NEW TEACHER

Michiko sat outside the drugstore on the wooden walkway, hugging her legs. She waited for the school security truck. Whenever Mr. Sagara drove it, Kiko got an early ride to school.

Before long, she saw it turn the bend and stop in front of the church. The little students got out. Kindergarten was in the church basement.

The truck drove down the street toward her and stopped. Kiko hopped out. She wore what most of the girls in the orchard wore to school. A light beige cardigan covered her pink-and-white-striped cotton blouse tucked into navy slacks. Michiko wore a green corduroy skirt to school today. Matching barrettes held her short, straight black hair behind her ears.

“I wonder what she looks like,” Kiko whispered as they walked beneath the tattered awning of the Hardware Store School. The building sounded as hollow as a drum as they made their way to their partitioned classroom.

Michiko put her notebook on her desk. In the excitement of their letter, she had forgotten all about getting a new teacher.

Kiko lifted the wooden top of her desk and placed a small furoshiki inside. Michiko didn’t have to bring a lunch to school. Her lunch waited for her across the street. On Fridays she brought Kiko home. Kiko eagerly looked forward to steaming miso soup and tamago yaki, made with Mrs. Morrison’s farm-fresh eggs.

“I hoped we would meet her before anyone else,” Kiko whispered.

Michiko looked at the blackboard. There was no date. The bottles of ink were still in a line along the window ledge. The stack of textbooks was missing from the teacher’s desk.

“Are you sure there is school today?” she asked. But before Kiko could reply the clanging of the big brass bell brought the rest of the children running and pushing into the room.

In the bedlam of voices shouting and talking, Michiko covered her ears and sat down.

“Good morning, class,” said a strong voice from behind them. A tall man with a big smile pushed aside the grey government blanket that acted as their classroom door. He strode to the front of the room and perched on top of the teacher’s desk, waiting for the bedlam to subside.

“It’s a man teacher,” Kiko hissed behind her hand.

Michiko rolled her eyes. She could see that as plainly as the others. She put her face on her fists to listen, as the class sized up the bronze-skinned man with short black hair and chocolate eyes. He wore a knitted blue vest over a long-sleeved blue plaid shirt. A soft brown shoe with a single lace dangled from beneath the cuff of grey trousers.

“My name is Kaz Katsumoto,” he said.

The boys in the room all began to talk at once.

“But you can call me,” he said as he looked directly at the boys, “Mr. Katsumoto.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of chalk. Then he turned and wrote his name on the board. Several of the boys continued to murmur in excitement.

“Good morning, class,” he said for a second time, when he finished writing.

“Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto,” came the murmured reply.

“Is that the best you can do?” Mr. Katsumoto said in mock surprise. “I heard more noise that that walking into the room.”

The boys at the back grinned. “Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto!” they yelled.

“Not bad,” he responded, “but not good enough to cheer on a baseball team. Try again.”

Michiko and Kiko looked at each other in surprise. This was the first teacher that asked them to be loud. Most expected them to be quiet.

“Good morning, class,” he said to them for a third time and cupped his ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto!” the entire class thundered.

“The first task of the day,” Mr. Katsumoto began, “will be to determine our timetable.” He opened the drawer of the desk and removed a small stack of paper. “But first I need to know your names.” He walked to the back of the room and handed some paper to each person at the end of the row. As they passed the paper forward, Mr. Katsumoto said, “Match the paper perfectly corner to corner and then fold. Write your name below the fold and place it in front of you.”

He waited as the children did as told. Then he walked up and down each of the rows reading each card out loud. He stopped at Kiko. She had not only folded the paper in half, she made a small fold on the front, creating a trough for her pencil “You like origami, Kiko?” Mr. Katsumoto asked.

Kiko blushed and nodded.

“Me too,” he said. Then he asked the entire class, “Is anyone missing from class today?”

A girl at the front put up her hand. “Tamiko is not here,” she informed the teacher. “Her mother had a baby last night and she won’t be in school for a few days.”

Mr. Katsumoto nodded in understanding. “Please make a card for her,” he directed Kiko, handing her a piece of paper. “Even though she is absent, she is still part of our class.”

Michiko liked the way this new teacher thought. When the tall, gawky girl named Tamiko returned, she would be pleased.

The new teacher stood in front of the blackboard, tossing the piece of chalk up and down in his hand. “Now,” he announced, “we will create our timetable.” He looked at them all and asked, “What do you want to learn?”

This question took everyone by surprise.

Kiko’s hand shot up. “Our subjects should be English, mathematics, and social studies,” she informed him with confidence.

He wrote the list on the blackboard then stood back and waited.

“I hope we can have art lessons,” Michiko volunteered.

The teacher added them to the list. “Is there anything else?”

No one else spoke.

“There is one thing missing,” Mr. Katsumoto remarked looking up and down the list. “We need the one subject necessary to one’s mental alertness that takes a lot of daily practice.”

The whole class groaned. What could this awful subject be?

He put the chalk to the board and paused. “I expect each and every one of my students to excel in this subject.” He wrote the letters B-A-S-E, then paused and wrote B-A-L-L.

A cheer went up from the class.

“This way,” Mr. Katsumoto informed them, pulling a familiar white ball from his pocket. “We will learn to be a team.” He tossed the ball from hand to hand. “And we will save all our noise, energy, and excitement for the field. Is that understood?”

It was as if the new teacher had waved an invisible wand. All the students sat straight up, folded their hands on top of their desks, and looked straight ahead.

“How many of you are bilingual?” Mr. Katsumoto asked.

Kiko put up her hand. “I speak both English and Japanese.”

Understanding what the strange word meant, several other children put up their hands. Michiko did not put hers up. She understood fragments of her grandfather’s language, but she couldn’t speak it with confidence.

“You know,” Mr. Katsumoto said with a frown, “Japanese is not to be used at school.”

“Mr. Katsumoto,” Michiko told everyone at dinner, “says baseball teaches teamwork.”

“Mr. Katsumoto?” her father said in surprise. “His first name couldn’t be Kaz?”

Michiko nodded, her mouth too full of rice to speak.

“Did you hear that, Geechan?” Sam exclaimed. “Kaz Katsumoto is here!”

Geechan put down his chopsticks. “Asahi Katsumoto?” He put his dry spotted hands together and extended his arms, he swung them back then forward, then he cupped his eyes with his hand and followed an imaginary home run.