Which words BEST describe Mr. McCurdy’s attitude toward Deirdre?

A. stern and strict
B. polite and direct
C. hesitant and uncertain
D. quiet and thoughtful

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"Look awake, will you please? This is Miss Deirdre Willis. She’s just moved here from Maryland. I know you’ll all welcome her.” I stood at the front of my first-period class with Mr. McCurdy, the seventh-grade English teacher...

I noticed that the kids in my class were checking me out like nobody’s business. At first, I thought they were only gawking at my camera, but their eyes moved from my hair to my sweater, down to my shoes, then back and forth at each other.

I shrugged and swallowed and didn’t look at any of them, my heart still pounding like bongos in a band.

“Miss Willis, there’s your seat, over there. Take it, won’t you please.” Mr. McCurdy pointed to an empty desk toward the front of the room. I sat down, cradling my camera in my lap. I carefully looked right, then left.

Mr. McCurdy rubbed his hands together. “Now listen up. Today we’re starting our unit on great American poets. Who can name some?”

The other kids were slow to answer, so I raised my hand. When Mr. McCurdy called on me, I cleared my throat. That lump was still resting there from before. “Langston Hughes,” I said softly.

“Hughes. L-a-n-g-s-t-o-n H-u-g-h-e-s.” Mr. McCurdy wrote the poet’s name on the blackboard.

“Langston who?” asked a red-haired girl sitting next to me.

I thought everybody knew who Langston Hughes was. I sucked my teeth silently and folded my arms. Then I glanced around to get a better look at the red-haired girl.

“Hughes. A fine poet. One of our best,” Mr. McCurdy was saying. “Miss Willis, stand up, please, and expand on Langston Hughes.” I pushed my glasses up on my nose and stood up.

“Well, sure,” I said, watching the red-haired girl out of the corner of my eye. “Langston Hughes was an African-American poet who got popular in the 1920s and 1930s. He wrote plays and essays too.” I spoke slowly and carefully. My fidgety heart started to beat regularly again.

“And Langston Hughes helped shape what is known as the Harlem Renaissance,” Mr. McCurdy explained.

“He spent a year in Mexico with his father after he was done with high school,” I added.

“Born in Joplin, Missouri,” Mr. McCurdy said.

“His poem ‘The Weary Blues’ won him a prize.” Mr. McCurdy and I, we were on a roll.

“The Weary Blues turned out to be the title of Hughes’s first book of poems, published in 1926,” he said.

I’d never had a teacher go on with me like that. Mr. McCurdy knew a lot about Langston Hughes. He looked pleased that I knew almost as much as he did. In his broken-hinge voice, he said, “That’ll be all for now. Your seat, Miss Willis. You may take it.”

Everybody got quiet; I guess they were waiting for me to sit down. But I didn’t want to take my seat; I didn’t want to take any seat. I was just getting started. Those kids were still staring, still checking me out. I wanted to tell them more about Langston Hughes, and about the other African-American poets who are my favorites—like Gwendolyn Brooks and Nikki Giovanni.

The red-haired girl was paying attention, listening to me and Mr. McCurdy talk about Langston Hughes. I don’t think she knew what to make of me. When I caught her staring, her eyes turned away.

When the bell rang, I let out a breath and gathered my books. The other students huddled together in groups of twos and threes, leaving me alone in the classroom with Mr. McCurdy.

“You’ve got a fire for good poets, I can see that,” he said, clasping my hand with a two-handed handshake. I gently pulled my hand free and adjusted my knapsack.

Mr. McCurdy gestured toward my camera. “Maybe someday you’ll show us all how you use that thing,” he said.

As he left, the door brushed closed quietly behind him. I looked back at the empty classroom.