“Why are they all staring at me?” Heidi asked herself. She checked her clothes. Shoes, socks, dress—nothing was undone. She put on her very best outfit for the first day of her new school. Momma made sure her long sleeved blouse was starched, her knife pleated jumper neatly pressed, and her oxford shoes polished. Two thick braids bounced behind her ears. Momma tied the ends of each braid into a large bow using wide bubble gum pink satin ribbon. Heidi was impressed with the image in the mirror as she passed her dresser and closed the bedroom door.
Momma walked her to the classroom and left her in the hands of Miss Lehrer, who eyed Heidi above rhinestone studded cats-eye glasses precariously perched on the edge of her nose. Miss Lehrer pointed to a desk and chair, and motioned for her to sit down. Faces were staring at Heidi, sending signals that ranged from curiosity to disdain. Heidi slid into the seat and kept her eyes focused forward to avoid making eye contact with the menacing faces that scrutinized her.
It didn’t take long for Heidi to figure out that her carefully groomed first day outfit was a fashion faux pas. Not one of the girls wore her hair in braids with large pink ribbons. None of them wore a jumper or shiny oxford shoes. After all, it was 1955. Several girls wore full circle skirts, some decorated with poodles, that floated on layers of stiff crinolines and topped by Peter Pan collared blouses. Rolled bobby socks, saddle shoes, and little scarves tied around their ponytails complete the “American Bandstand” look, while boys sported chinos with rolled cuffs, plaid shirts, and penny loafers, pennies inserted. Heidi’s mind raced thinking about how she would tactfully tell Momma that she was way off the fashion trend grid.
The familiar screech of chalk scraping along the blackboard caught everyone’s attention away from the new arrival sending shivers and muffled squeals through the rows of sixth graders. Miss Lehrer wrote notes on the chalkboard and the class dutifully copied them on to three-holed lined paper. Multiple clicks were heard as they snapped their work into their binders at the end of the lesson. Heidi quickly deciphered some basic words like yes and no, quite similar to ya and nein in her own language. “Very good,” “Billy, turn around!” and “Linda, stop talking!” were easy to comprehend as the morning droned along.
Lunchtime broke the morning routine as the students made their way to the closet in the back of the room to retrieve their lunches. Each one carried a small metal box with a colorful picture on it—cowboys, princesses, cartoons, and superheroes—as they marched silently in single file to the cafeteria. Heidi’s curiosity about the boxes was soon satisfied as she watched the girls at her table flick open the lids to reveal sandwiches, cookies, and thermos bottles. Hiding her lunch on her lap, she removed her waxed paper wrapped liverwurst on rye sandwich and apple from the brown paper bag thinking no one would notice that she did not have a super-status-popularity-guaranteed lunch box.
Sitting across from Heidi was Lucy—Loud Lucy, as she was called by most of the class. “Ewwww, what’s that?” she shrieked, pointing at Heidi’s liverwurst sandwich. Loud Lucy scrunched her face and shook her head rapidly from side to side. She followed her rude outburst with earsplitting screeches of laughter. The remains of Loud Lucy’s peanut butter sandwich that were smeared on the corners of her lips ended up on her wrist when she made a gagging gesture. The other girls at the table made unconvincing attempts to hide their giggles. Heidi bit her lip hard to keep from crying. She wrapped the uneaten halves of her lunch sandwich and stuffed them back into the bag. She could not tell Lucy just what she thought of her that day, but she stored the memory for a day when she would.
Cindy dashed over to the table when she recognized Heidi’s mortified look, and became irate at Loud Lucy for behaving so ghastly. She shot Lucy a look that said, “Wait ‘til I see you outside.” Smiling at Heidi, Cindy plopped herself on a chair next to Heidi, pointed at her own sandwich, and said, “Peanut butter and jelly.” Heidi understood and was grateful for the kindness. Heidi unwrapped and pointed to her sandwich and said, “Leberwurst,” (German for liverwurst). Cindy exchanged the uneaten half of her sandwich with half of Heidi’s. The two wolfed down their newly discovered school lunch cuisine in between glances that affirmed the beginning of a friendship.
Like the morning, the afternoon’s lessons were conducted with expected order. While the class worked quietly, Miss Lehrer called Heidi to a table in the back of the room. Miss Lehrer pointed to pictures and named the objects slowly. Heidi repeated the words as Miss Lehrer smiled and nodded every time she correctly identified the object in the picture. By the end of the day, Heidi had a vocabulary of several words that were no longer a mystery. Peanut butter and liverwurst were not on the list, but Heidi did not need a reminder of them.
When the school bell rang ending the day, half the class bolted out into the schoolyard while others dawdled, slowly and reluctantly packing their belongings needed for homework. Heidi shoved her books into her schoolbag and made her way to the front exit. Momma was standing at the curb in front of the school. “How was your first day at school?”
“I learned about peanut butter and jelly,” Heidi answered as she walked home with Momma, swinging her schoolbag.
Copyright 2015 by Eva Benevento. All rights reserved.