8 Travis looked worried at breakfast. When I asked him if there was anything wrong, he whispered, “No, I’m fine.” But I knew him better than anyone, and I could tell he was not fine. If he’d told me his plan, there’s no doubt I would have talked—or maybe yelled—some sense into him. But I didn’t know about it until it was too late. I set off to school with Travis and two of my other brothers, Sul Ross and Lamar. Travis had his book satchel over his shoulder but, strangely, he was carrying his books under his arm. I was about to ask him about this when I heard someone calling my name. Up ahead, my friend Lula Gates waited for me, waving and calling. “Hi, Lula!” I waved. I ran ahead to meet her, and we chatted all the way to school. I didn’t give Travis another thought. At least, not right at that second. We made it to school just in time to line up while Miss Harbottle rang the handbell. We trooped in, the girls in one line and the boys in the other. Our school had only one classroom, so the little ones sat up front and practiced their ABCs; the older children sat in the middle and recited their times tables; the oldest children sat in the back and studied world geography with the atlas and the globe.
