CHAPTER 1
Making History
Ms. O'Reilly faced her seventh-grade social studies class, arms crossed and a quizzical smile on her face. She had written a question in big capital letters on the blackboard and was looking expectantly at her students.
"Can anyone answer this?" she asked, gesturing with a piece of chalk at the board.
Maeve, her laptop open on her desk, typed out the question. It helped her to organize her notes this way, but Ms. O'Reilly's question looked just as puzzling blinking out at her on her laptop screen. Maeve pushed back her long red curls, reading it one more time.
"WHAT IS HISTORY?"
Dillon Johnson's hand shot up. "I can answer that," he said. Leave it to Dillon to be the first to respond. Filled with self-confidence, he was one of the most popular guys in seventh grade at Abigail Adams Junior High. Blond, handsome Dillon was often the first with his hand up. Maeve snapped to attention -- she'd had a secret crush on Dillon for awhile now.
Maeve popped open a new window on her laptop. Thank the stars for spell check, she thought. Maeve's dyslexia was a continuing source of frustration, and computers gave her the extra support she needed. Of course, Anna and Joline, alias Queens of Mean, rolled their eyes every time she opened it up. But for the most part, the laptop was just part of everyday life, and Maeve had almost forgotten that there was anything special about it.
Note to Self:
I don't know much about Dillon and history...but I'd sure like to be part of his future. Love the blue eyes.
She had a brief, sudden vision: Future History. Sitting with Dillon...at the Academy Awards. Maeve in a daring pink evening dress, the sort of color redheads NEVER wear, unless they were superconfident fashion pioneers like Maeve. She pictured Dillon sitting beside her in a tuxedo, looking incredible, just a little older and more sophisticated. And the award for this year's best actress goes to...Maeve Kaplan-Taylor!
Why not? A girl can dream, can't she?
OK -- maybe not in the middle of social studies. Maeve dragged her attention back to the blackboard. And to Dillon.
"History," Dillon said, clearing his throat and not sounding so certain he knew the answer anymore, "is -- uh, well -- you know -- stuff that happened before. You know -- in the past."
Pete Wexler, one of Dillon's best friends and the quarterback on the J.V. football team, gave him a high-five. A couple of kids laughed.
Betsy Fitzgerald raised her hand, sneaking a glance at Dillon. Betsy always had the right answer. Perfect grades, perfect papers, perfect scores on every test -- but unfortunately, a lot of attitude about always being right, too. Whenever Betsy got anything less than 100 percent, she begged and pleaded to get her grade changed. Dillon joked that she was a Type A+.
"History is the study of important events in the past," she said, with a kind of "Aha!" sound in her voice that made Dillon glare at her. Maeve thought Betsy sounded like a newscaster -- or like she was repeating something that she'd read in a book.
"That's what I said," Dillon muttered.
Ms. O'Reilly lifted up her chalk. "Okay. Tell me this," she said, her voice suggesting that a challenge was coming. "Everyone watch. Dillon -- catch!" She tossed the chalk to Dillon, who caught it in one smooth motion.
Pete Wexler whistled approvingly. "Nice catch," he exclaimed.
Anna and Joline tipped their heads closer together to whisper something to each other. The rest of the class erupted in laughter and conversation, but Maeve was still busy admiring Dillon. Wow! When did he get those muscles? Nice catch was right! She smiled at Pete's unintended pun.
Note to Self:
D.J. is definitely the HOTTEST guy in the whole grade.
She inspected her sentence and added a little smiley icon to finish it off. Perfect.
"Now," Ms. O'Reilly continued, pacing back and forth in front of the classroom. "Did that count as history? Throwing that piece of chalk?"
"Of course not," Betsy said, smoothing back her dark hair. "It wasn't important enough. History is about important events -- like wars. And presidential elections."
Ms. O'Reilly's eyes sparkled. Young and dynamic, with a stylish crop of auburn curls and a round, enthusiastic face, she was one of the most challenging and well-liked teachers in the seventh grade. She really made her students think, and she never let a discussion shut down with an easy or expected answer. "Is it?" she demanded, her green eyes moving from one student to the next. "Is history only the record of the big events, or is it also the story of individual lives and experiences?"
Isabel Martinez raised her hand, looking slightly tentative. Maeve leaned forward to listen. Isabel, who had moved to Boston last month, had already become one of her closest friends. Along with Avery, Katani, and Charlotte, they were the Beacon Street Girls -- the name they'd given themselves -- a name that had stuck. The five of them had already been through more challenges, adventures, and good times than Maeve could count.
"I'm not sure," Isabel began slowly, "but I think history is also what happens to regular people. My grandfather loves telling my sister and me about what Mexico was like when he was little. And that seems kind of like history to me, too."
Ms. O'Reilly's eyes lit up. "Thank you, Isabel," she said warmly. "I think you're absolutely right. History is NOT just about presidents and wars, but also about individuals. About their experiences, their challenges and struggles, and their stories. For the next three weeks, our class is going to be learning about history from a special perspective. By way of introducing our unit on immigration in the twentieth century, we're going to be creating a classroom museum based upon our collective experiences. We'll call it the Heritage Museum, and it will remain on display for the rest of the grading period."
Ms. O'Reilly proceeded to tell the class a little about her own family's history. "My family came to America from Ireland in the 1890s and settled in South Boston," she explained. Maeve tried to imagine Ms. O'Reilly with a family. She pictured a smaller version of her teacher, every bit as round-faced and smiley as she was today, holding her mother's hand. She had to keep herself from laughing out loud.
Note to Self:
Teachers as kids...very strange thought.
She ran down the list of her teachers in her mind. Mr. Sherman taught pre-algebra. It was impossible to picture him one minute younger. Mr. Maxwell, the computer teacher...well, he was only in his twenties. Maeve could easily see him younger. Geeky, to be exact. Madame Dupin, her French teacher...well, she was not so sure about that. Madame Dupin was nice enough, but a little too grandmotherly with her gray hair and comfortable shoes to imagine her much younger. Of course, there was the infamous day Henry Yurt, mispronouncing Madame, called her, Madummy Dupin instead of Madame Dupin, and the class went totally crazy with laughter. On that day, Madame Dupin's pale blue eyes did look kind of mischievous. OK, so maybe she was kind of fun when she was a girl. But Mr. McCarthy, the P.E. teacher -- no way could Maeve picture him any age other than forty-three. Not to mention a cranky forty-three. Maeve didn't like him. He played favorites -- he really only liked the jocks -- and Maeve definitely wasn't a jock.
But what was she doing? There was no time now to keep imagining younger versions of her teachers. Maeve turned her attention back to Ms. O'Reilly, who was walking over to her desk and opening up a big cardboard box.
She took out a heavy glass, ornately carved. "My great-grandfather was a glassmaker. This is one of the glasses that he made when he worked in a factory in Ireland." Then she held up a framed map. "This is a map of Waterford county in Ireland where my family came from. Waterford crystal is some of the most famous crystal in the world. And this..." She paused as she held up a small piece of paper. "This is a ticket from a ship leaving Ireland and going to Boston in 1849. It belonged to someone in my mother's family -- we are not sure whose ticket it was. But we do know, because of the date, that he or she must have left Ireland at the height of the Irish Famine."
"What kind of famine?" asked Katani in a concerned voice.
"It was caused by a blight that damaged most of the potato crop in Ireland for years, and British land policies that forced Irish farmers who couldn't pay their rent off their farms. Close to a million Irish died from hunger and disease. And many more immigrated to America. They came here sick and tired but determined to have better lives."
The class was silent for a moment -- many of them imagining what it must have been like for these brave people to come to America so long ago.
"Now, what I'm going to ask you to do over the next few weeks is to create your own display in our class's collective Heritage Museum. To begin, each one of you is going to do some research into your own family's history. Have you always lived in the same place? Where did your parents come from, or your grandparents, or great-grandparents? How did they make their way to America?"
Maeve grinned at Charlotte, who was sitting two desks away. Charlotte, who was new to Brookline and to Abigail Adams this year, had lived all over the world with her father, who was a travel writer. It was all so exotic. Last year they'd lived on a houseboat on the Seine in Paris. The year before that, it was Port Douglas, Australia -- and before that, the Serengeti desert in Africa. But Maeve suddenly realized that she really didn't know much about Charlotte's mother and where she came from. Finally, an assignment that was actually going to be fun! Who knows? Maybe Charlotte's mother was a princess or something and maybe somebody, somebody like herself, had an actress somewhere deep in their background. T...
