Educated

A mile down the road, a man named Randy ran a business out of his home,
selling cashews, almonds and macadamias. He stopped by the post office one
afternoon and chatted with Myrna about how tired he was of packing the
boxes himself, how he wished he could hire some kids but they were all tied
up with football and band.
“There’s at least one kid in this town who isn’t,” Myrna said. “And I think
she’d be real eager.” She pointed to my card, and soon I was babysitting from
eight until noon Monday to Friday, then going to Randy’s to pack cashews
until supper. I wasn’t paid much, but as I’d never been paid anything before,
it felt like a lot.
People at church said Mary could play the piano beautifully. They used the
word “professional.” I didn’t know what that meant until one Sunday when
Mary played a piano solo for the congregation. The music stopped my breath.
I’d heard the piano played countless times before, to accompany hymns, but
when Mary played it, the sound was nothing like that formless clunking. It
was liquid, it was air. It was rock one moment and wind the next.
The next day, when Mary returned from the school, I asked her if instead
of money she would give me lessons. We perched on the piano bench and she
showed me a few finger exercises. Then she asked what else I was learning
besides the piano. Dad had told me what to say when people asked about my
schooling. “I do school every day,” I said.
“Do you meet other kids?” she asked. “Do you have friends?”
“Sure,” I said. Mary returned to the lesson. When we’d finished and I was
ready to go, she said, “My sister Caroline teaches dance every Wednesday in
the back of Papa Jay’s. There are lots of girls your age. You could join.”
That Wednesday, I left Randy’s early and pedaled to the gas station. I wore
jeans, a large gray T-shirt, and steel-toed boots; the other girls wore black
leotards and sheer, shimmering skirts, white tights and tiny ballet shoes the
color of taffy. Caroline was younger than Mary. Her makeup was flawless
and gold hoops flashed through chestnut curls.
She arranged us in rows, then showed us a short routine. A song played
from a boom box in the corner. I’d never heard it before but the other girls
knew it. I looked in the mirror at our reflection, at the twelve girls, sleek and
shiny, pirouetting blurs of black, white and pink. Then at myself, large and
gray.
When the lesson finished, Caroline told me to buy a leotard and dance
shoes.