1944

My finger traced the gold-lettered plaque in front of me:

PRINCIPAL MILLER, A CHAMPION OF CHILDREN.

"Please, Camila will be a good girl," my mama, Carmen Sanoguet said.

I followed her lip movements as she had taught me, and was able to understand the words. I didn't understand the anguish in her face, or her upright hands. She was pleading.

I was only six-years-old, but already she often told me how begging was beneath us. I didn't know exactly what we were doing at the school, but I knew it had to be important if she was doing what she said we never should.

The man in the dark suit with dark thoughts reclined in his swivel chair, his black hair slicked back. My gaze shifted to Mama. Most of her thoughts were blue, or yellow. If she was mad, then red. My sisters Alondra and Natalia usually ran a shade of orange or green. Nothing ever as dark blue and black as what I saw with Principal Miller.

Everyone emitted a different color, like a signature. At four-years-old, I figured out that I was the only one who could see the colors when I tugged on Mama's hand, pushing thoughts in her head about why the man in front of us was such an ugly shade of purple. In line at the store, she dismissed me to focus on the checkout. At home, she asked me what I meant. Through our special communicae, I described what I saw with everyone: a color outline rising from their skin. If they were particularly emotional or distressed, I knew what they were thinking, too. Not the exact words of their thoughts, but sometimes a flash of words, or an image. Mama called me special.

Even then, I understood that I was alone, more so than I had already been.

Principal Miller blared an understated shade of blue, shifting into black. I had seen that color-shift happen with a few people, and I found them to be onerous. I thought Miller looked Italian, and wondered why he was so mean. Then again, Papi had warned the family against trusting anyone who was not like us. Maybe this man, this Champion of Children, had been told the same.

"None of the teachers can handle someone like her. They can barely handle the other," Principal Miller paused and nodded at me, lip curling with distaste, "Puerto Rican children."

Though Mama's red thoughts flared in the air, outwardly she persisted with patience. "My daughter understands English. She's very bright, and can even read."

The man leaned forward on the enormous oak desk, assessing me with doubt. When his eyes locked with mine, his real name popped into my mind: Russo. Definitely Italian.

From beside me, a nudge, and a whisper echoed in my head: Principal Miller is hiding himself.

I reached out to calm Pedro. Mama didn't like when he interfered, but I had assured her he'd behave. Pedro had never really promised anything, and was a general nuisance.

Some families had pets, but our family had Pedro. He showed up about the time when I realized my color-specific powers. Mama had thought him an invisible friend, but the more I talked about him, the more she called him espiritu. My Titi Genea referred to him as diablo. How he laughed at that. I just knew him as my friend. A friend that never aged, and one no one else could see.

Do it, Pedro urged me with a grin. I didn't mind his black teeth, or his unnaturally green eyes. There were times, in the dark of my room, when they seemed to glow. He won't see it 'till later, but it'll really hit him where it hurts.

My hand worked languidly from the plaque to the polished desk surface. To the adults, I was merely running my finger over the wood. But Pedro's idea was more involved than that.

I smiled, enjoying Principal Miller's confused look. He lips formed many words addressed to my mother, watching me as though I were dangerous.

"Ma'am, these are hard times. I can't ask hard-working educators to take on a special case. Our school is not equipped. Your normal daughters are welcome to enroll, provided they really know English," he couldn't seem to help adding, "but not this one. And you should count yourself lucky that we're so open-minded here." He flicked his wrist, a brick wall erected in his mind.

Mama opened her mouth to press him again, but I informed her:

Won't work, Mama.

I conjured images of the brick wall, and Mama understood.

After a lengthy moment of silence, she sighed, forced a smile, and thanked the man for his time. He nodded as though he hadn't just hardened our lives.

As we walked from the office, I waited for a reaction, but none came. As it so happens, Principal Miller didn't notice the changes to his desk until two days later when a teacher pointed it out.

Pedro shared the result with me, beaming images in my head in what he called "home movies."

Miller would spend days working out who could have defaced his desk, finally settling on a troublesome, but quite innocent, student.

Again and again he would question the boy, "Why did you do this? Where did you get that name?" He gestured at the crudely carved words:

RUSSO THE LIAR.

"I don't know that name." Miller wrapped the boy's knuckles with a ruler. "I didn't do it," he wailed.

I giggled at the name, and at Miller's stupidity.

Others may have cursed such a man, but Mama never voiced bad things about people. At least, not aloud. My eyes widened at the string of vulgarities currently zipping through Mama's mind.

Cabron.

I rolled it around on my tongue, liking the way it felt, wishing I could say it out loud.

Outside of Cabron's office, my sisters Alondra and Natalia sat waiting in taffeta dresses, their church dresses, their only good dresses. Taffeta itched me something fierce, but I wore it to keep mama happy.

My small hand squeezed mama's hand as we strolled to the front office, my sisters following. We passed bright yellow walls with glass cases and child art displays. Crayon flourishes showed off flowers, dogs, while others depicted open battlefields. I lingered at a likeness of a woman with protruding teeth, her hair pulled in a bun.

Who's that supposed to be, Mama?

Mama answered me in less time than it took to speak:

The First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt. Not a great looking woman, but does that matter?

No. Why can't you be my teacher again, Mama?

At the second question, the click of my mother's heels ceased as she bent to look me in the eye.

Papi was swallowed by the War. I have to work. We've been over this.

My sisters waited, well-accustomed to the silent exchanges.

When we reached the front office, Mama sat us down while she filled out papers. Alondra and Natalia glanced around, chattering and giggling. I played with an errant string on my dress, tears splattering onto the sheer fabric as I tried in vain to drown out their excited thoughts, and their pity:

-She'll have to stay home with Titi Genea.

-Poor thing.

Mama returned the paperwork, and the secretary shook her head. "You'll need to fill out a third set, dear." She smiled at me.

"The principal said no."

The secretary frowned, her thoughts muddled. "Are you certain? That child's ready to start Kindergarten."

Though Mama turned away so I couldn't read her mouth, I heard the words in her head anyway:

"She's deaf-mute."

"Dear me. Alright." The woman assessed me with new eyes, before dismissing me completely. "You're all set, then. We'll see Alondra and Natalia on Monday."

~*~