Chapter One - Heritage Report

I hate being a Gypsy.

     "Sunita?"

     Whoops. Got caught daydreaming.

     "Sunita Şeaţa?"

     It's SHYAH-tsah, not SEE-tuh. And thanks, Miss Windom, for pronouncing my last name wrong for the six-millionth time this school year.

     "You failed to come to school the last two days, Sunita … the two days we presented our oral social studies heritage reports."

     That's because of two things, Miss Windom. I'm trying to hide my Gypsy heritage, and my father is so easy to fool.

     "Because of you, Suni, we will have to postpone our class celebration. So, please come forward and tell us all about your ancestral Romania."

     Several students groaned and glared at me as I gulped and swallowed a ping-ping ball-that's what it felt like anyway.

     It's the last period of the last day of the sixth grade-and you're making me give my report?

     I looked at my best friend, Nina Luchnik. She twirled her finger while thrusting it toward the front of the room.

     That's easy for you to say, Nina. You're not me … the only girl in Florida whose grandfather was a Gypsy.

     I shook my head and stared at my teacher.

     Miss Windom nodded. "The longer you take, Suni, the longer the class must wait for their end-of-the-year party." Most of the students groaned as Miss Windom grinned. "Come on up. I'm anxious to learn more about Romania."

     I looked back at Nina. She scrunched her lips together, wrinkled her brow, and jerked her thumb toward Miss Windom several times.

     I'm the freak, Nina. Every naturally tan girl in school is Hispanic … except me! You think I want everyone to find out I'm Gypsy?

     "Sunita Şeaţa." I turned to see Miss Windom exchange her grin for a frown and squinting eyes. She spoke each word slow and deliberate. "Come … up … here … right … now."

     There she goes again butchering my name. Miss Windom, if you'd take the time to look up the Romanian language you'd discover that the funny, little comma-shaped thingies underneath the 'Ş' and the 'ţ' have special sounds. And you call yourself a teacher?

     She popped on another smile and pointed at me, palm up, wagging a finger toward herself several times.

     "Miss Windom," I said. "Can I take an 'F' for this assignment? My grade can stand it."

     Her u-shaped smile flipped into an arch-shaped frown. "And the answer is, 'yes you may', but you won't be able to participate in a vacation this summer."

     I closed one eye and tilted my head. "Why not? How can you stop me?"

     "Your father can … and will. He made an agreement with me at the last parent-teacher conference night. If you fail any assignment … no vacation. So, you better rethink your offer to skip your heritage presentation."

     How could my own father do this to me? I could have taken that "F", still passed, and not have risked anyone finding out about my heritage. Wait. Let me try-

     "Miss Windom. I would love to do it, but my dog tore it up."

     She squinted and shook her head.

     "My … cat?" I said.

     She shook her head again.

     She knows I don't have any animals? Great! My father must have told her everything about me.

     I pulled the report from my notebook, rose, and dragged myself to the front of the class. Turning toward the glaring students, my mind emptied like the liquid from a popped water balloon.

     Look at them all gawking at me as if I were some kind of freak in a geek show.

     I stared at my report. "Romania has 22 million people. Bucharest is the capital and largest city with over two million people. All Romanians speak the Romanian language."

     "What about the Romanian Gypsies?" Bruce called out from the back. "I hear they have their own freaky language."

     There he goes again. I knew he'd be the first to interrupt. What's with him? He's been picking on me ever since spring break.

     Miss Windom tapped her desk. "Don't interrupt. If you want to know about Gypsies, I'm sure Sunita will tell you soon enough there are about 1.7 million of them in Romania, more than in any other country in Europe." My face muscles tightened as I watched Miss Windom's mouth draw back into a smile. "I'm afraid I cheated, Sunita. I looked up a few facts. Gypsies fascinate me. Continue, please."

     Too bad you didn't look up how to pronounce my name in Romanian. Now, you'll probably expect to hear all about Gypsies. Sorry, Miss Windom, they're not even mentioned in my report.

     "Suni's a Gypsy," Bruce said.

     I whipped down the paper in front of my skirt. "That's a lie." I pointed at him. "Your mother's a Gypsy."

     That's a total lie, but it's better to get the class's attention on him. Most of them hate him anyway because he's such a bully.

     Bruce jumped up. "My mother is not a Gypsy. Who's lying now?"

     We glared at each other. My tongue popped out without asking permission. He squinted and scrunched his lips together.

     Go ahead, Bruce. Get angry. See if I care. Any kid in school will believe me over you any day.

     Miss Windom smacked her hands together and stood up. "Bruce. Sunita. You know I don't tolerate that kind of behavior." She threw her hands on her hips and stared at Bruce. "I've noticed this last semester that you've taken a special belligerent interest in Sunita. Why?"

     Bruce folded his arms. "During spring break I went to the Ukraine with my parents. Everywhere we went Gypsies begged us for money. They're nothing but beggars … and they steal things, too."

     "Did you see them steal anything?"

     "No, ma'am, but I heard they did. I heard lots of awful things about Gypsies." He pointed at me. "And look at her. She's dark skinned and not Hispanic. She's got to be a Gypsy."

     I looked around at the other kids' faces.

     They don't believe him. My secret's safe.

     "When you say Gypsies steal things," Miss Windom said, "you're dealing in stereotypes. Do you remember our social studies unit on that? Stereotypes are unproven, oversimplified images people believe about one another. Don't believe everything you hear, Bruce. Find things out for yourself."

     "Well," Bruce said, "I saw them beg."

     I glanced at Miss Windom and discovered her smiling at me.

     What's she smiling about? She doesn't believe I'm Gypsy, does she?

     "But Bruce is wrong, Miss Windom. I'm not a Gypsy."

      "Sunita, your father told me all about it. Your Grandfather was a Gypsy who married an American woman and immigrated to this country. You shouldn't shy away from it. Embrace your heritage."

     My God! She knows. And worse … she's blurted it out to the entire class.

     I glanced around at the students' faces. Some turned to another and whispered, others giggled, and a few shook their heads.

     I am toast!

     A fire burned inside as I released the report and watched it sail to the floor flipping over twice before landing face up. The giant title word "Romania" stared up at me and seemed to spring to life. In my mind, I watched it leap off the paper, fly in my face, and stretch itself into a wide grin. Then the word parted like a pair of lips, and I heard laughter-not the friendly kind, but the mean kind. My heritage mocked me, right in front of my classmates.

     I burst into tears and darted for the hall door.

     I hate being a Gypsy.