Mrs. Karen Needham Character Analysis

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

[…]

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

“Deza, I have been teaching longer than you could imagine, and I’ve always had the dream any teacher worth her salt has. I had thought, prior to this year, that I would have to be satisfied in coming close to the dream once, before, alas, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley….’

“The dream is the gift of having one student, just one, who is capable of making a real contribution. One child who’d have no choice but to make a difference for our people.

“Out of the thousands of students I’ve had in the thousands of years I’ve been teaching, I’ve suspected for quite a while who the child I’ve been waiting for is.”

All I could think was, I love her like a sister, but, please, just don’t say Clarice!

“Miss Malone, you are that child.”

As I smoothed my fingers over the dress I started having worries. Maybe I should show her only my shoes … no, maybe only my dress. …

My other brain said, “He’s right, you know, kiddo…”

And just like that, I did know. If the bad brain was agreeing with him then Jimmie was wrong.

I gave myself a good soapy wash and smoothed my hair back with a little Vaseline. I put baking soda in my palm and brushed my teeth. I rubbed some more of the Vaseline into my legs and arms till they were nice and shiny. I put on the new slip, the socks and shoes. Then, being extra careful not to get any Vaseline on it, I slid the most beautiful piece of blue gingham clothes ever made over my head.

Mrs. Needham and Mother had both told me, “Deza, you have to pull yourself together.”

And as I sat on the couch wrapped in Mother’s arms, I felt big hunks falling off of me and thumping to the ground. This must be how a tree feels in autumn when it watches the leaves that have been covering it all summer start to be blown away.

It must feel this hopeless and lonely.

I knew I really had to reach out and pick up the fallen pieces and put them back.

I knew how Father felt.

I hadn’t had teeth knocked out of my head and hadn’t floated around scared to death on a terrible lake, but every morning, after I made breakfast for Mother and Jimmie, I would sneak into my parents’ bed and didn’t want to move or think or anything. I wouldn’t even read a book.

At first I tried to remember that poem Father used to say about how “Hope has wings…” but I couldn’t.

I just wanted to have my face covered with the pillow that Father used to sleep on.

The opening of the hut that caught my eye was closest to the fire. There was a cloth pulled to one side that you could drop down to cover where the front door was supposed to be. Even in the dark I could tell the cloth was gingham. It was too dark to be sure if it was blue.

I walked over to touch the material. It was a little dirty and a lot stiffer than Mrs. Needham’s dress, but it was still beautiful. And it was blue.

Mother smiled. “Deza, which one?”

I said, “It’s got to be some kind of a sign!”

Stew said, “Good choice.”

He’d written, “Good for you!” and put a giant C+ with three exclamation points.

I turned the paper back over. Maybe I saw it wrong.

I looked again but it was the same.

One sign that I had toughened up was that instead of crying I thought of a little joke that Jimmie said he did whenever he didn’t like his grade.

“I turn the paper over, then, the same way people bang on a machine when it ain’t acting right, I smack my hand on the paper. Maybe if I bang it hard enough my grade will jump up a mark!”

It was nonsense, but I slapped my hand on Mr. Smith’s essay.

I turned the paper back over and smiled.

I’d have to tell Jimmie that it still wasn’t working.

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

[…]

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

“Deza, I have been teaching longer than you could imagine, and I’ve always had the dream any teacher worth her salt has. I had thought, prior to this year, that I would have to be satisfied in coming close to the dream once, before, alas, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley….’

“The dream is the gift of having one student, just one, who is capable of making a real contribution. One child who’d have no choice but to make a difference for our people.

“Out of the thousands of students I’ve had in the thousands of years I’ve been teaching, I’ve suspected for quite a while who the child I’ve been waiting for is.”

All I could think was, I love her like a sister, but, please, just don’t say Clarice!

“Miss Malone, you are that child.”

As I smoothed my fingers over the dress I started having worries. Maybe I should show her only my shoes … no, maybe only my dress. …

My other brain said, “He’s right, you know, kiddo…”

And just like that, I did know. If the bad brain was agreeing with him then Jimmie was wrong.

I gave myself a good soapy wash and smoothed my hair back with a little Vaseline. I put baking soda in my palm and brushed my teeth. I rubbed some more of the Vaseline into my legs and arms till they were nice and shiny. I put on the new slip, the socks and shoes. Then, being extra careful not to get any Vaseline on it, I slid the most beautiful piece of blue gingham clothes ever made over my head.

Mrs. Needham and Mother had both told me, “Deza, you have to pull yourself together.”

And as I sat on the couch wrapped in Mother’s arms, I felt big hunks falling off of me and thumping to the ground. This must be how a tree feels in autumn when it watches the leaves that have been covering it all summer start to be blown away.

It must feel this hopeless and lonely.

I knew I really had to reach out and pick up the fallen pieces and put them back.

I knew how Father felt.

I hadn’t had teeth knocked out of my head and hadn’t floated around scared to death on a terrible lake, but every morning, after I made breakfast for Mother and Jimmie, I would sneak into my parents’ bed and didn’t want to move or think or anything. I wouldn’t even read a book.

At first I tried to remember that poem Father used to say about how “Hope has wings…” but I couldn’t.

I just wanted to have my face covered with the pillow that Father used to sleep on.

The opening of the hut that caught my eye was closest to the fire. There was a cloth pulled to one side that you could drop down to cover where the front door was supposed to be. Even in the dark I could tell the cloth was gingham. It was too dark to be sure if it was blue.

I walked over to touch the material. It was a little dirty and a lot stiffer than Mrs. Needham’s dress, but it was still beautiful. And it was blue.

Mother smiled. “Deza, which one?”

I said, “It’s got to be some kind of a sign!”

Stew said, “Good choice.”

He’d written, “Good for you!” and put a giant C+ with three exclamation points.

I turned the paper back over. Maybe I saw it wrong.

I looked again but it was the same.

One sign that I had toughened up was that instead of crying I thought of a little joke that Jimmie said he did whenever he didn’t like his grade.

“I turn the paper over, then, the same way people bang on a machine when it ain’t acting right, I smack my hand on the paper. Maybe if I bang it hard enough my grade will jump up a mark!”

It was nonsense, but I slapped my hand on Mr. Smith’s essay.

I turned the paper back over and smiled.

I’d have to tell Jimmie that it still wasn’t working.