I heard a strange bumping sound behind me. I turned to find a girl in a pink dress, a bright orange raincoat, and a pair of oversized bright-red galoshes thumping along the sidewalk. "Hi!" she said, broadly.
"Is it supposed to rain?" I asked worriedly, terrified that moisture would destroy the hairstyle I'd worked on since 5:30 that morning.
"No, but I just got this raincoat and these boots, and I couldn't resist wearing them! I'm Martha, by the way. My family moved in a few blocks over." The girl's voice was loud and exuberant, and all the other kids looked at her, looked at us.
"Ayesha," I said, keeping my voice low.
"Love your skirt!" she said. Even though Martha put me on edge, it felt nice that someone noticed.
It turned out that Martha was in the sixth grade, too, and we had the same homeroom, art class, and music class. Every time she saw me, she waved both arms and shouted "Hi, Ayesha!" and I shrank in my seat. I couldn't believe she was acting that way on the first day of middle school -- I didn't want to be mean, but I also didn't want people associating me with someone so eccentric and unwilling to conform to social norms. Even my friends mentioned her at lunchtime.
"Do any of you know the girl in the raincoat?" Melinda asked.
"She's a little odd," Nina said, as I avoided eye contact, waiting for the gossip to turn to my name, "but I talked to her this morning and she is super nice."
It was true: Martha was very amiable, and after a few mornings at the bus stop, we became friends despite my misgivings. I got bold enough to say, "What are you wearing?" when she showed up in opera gloves or yard-long strings of colorful beads.
"Don't you love it?" she'd say, twirling to show me.
Our favorite class was music. Martha's voice was like her -- loud and commanding, while mine was a bit meek, and delicate.
"You have a great voice," Martha said as we stepped out of class. "You should sing more!" Without warning, she started belting the chorus of her favorite pop song, her voice bouncing off the lockers, and other kids stared.
"Stop!" I said, laughing but mortified. "Everyone's looking at us!"
"That's because I'm singing really loudly!" she shouted. Her voice was strong, and many of the people who listened were smiling, but still, I hung back.
In art class, Martha wanted to paint a big white dropcloth that filled a whole wall. She even used big house-painting brushes, splattering color everywhere.
"I'm not getting near that thing until I bring in some old clothes," I said.
"Come on, it's water-soluble, see?" Martha said, giving the sleeve of her blouse a bright-blue cuff. "It'll come right out, although that looks pretty cool."
"Not me," I said, planting myself on a bench and watching Martha paint. She sang the whole time, like she always did, and as she reached for the top of the big cloth, it looked like she was dancing. It seemed like I spent a lot of my time sitting on the sidelines, watching Martha do bizarre things.
One afternoon, our music teacher announced auditions for the annual school musical. On the bus ride home, Martha drummed excitedly on the seats. "I wonder how many singing parts there are -- we'll have to try out for different ones."
I said nothing. I told myself I'd look ridiculous getting onstage, putting on a costume, and singing out loud in front of people.
"I don't think I'm trying out," I admitted as we stepped off the bus. It was raining, and I dashed under the awning of a nearby salon, trying to cover my hair.
"You're not?" Martha protested, following me. "But you have such a pretty voice. You shouldn't be shy."
"I'm not shy," I said, "I'm just . . . I can't just go out and do things, like you."
"Well, have you tried?" Martha asked. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't as simple as just trying -- that I'd always envied people like her, who could do all the things I'd dreamed of doing, who didn't spend all their time imagining how they must look in other people's eyes and assuming the worst. Instead I just looked at her, afraid of even how my confession would sound to someone who didn't understand.
"I know it can be scary sometimes, so let's start small," Martha said sensing my hesitation and stepping out from under the awning with her hand held up to the sky. "Come walk in the rain with me -- it's one of my favorite things."
"My hair . . ."
"It'll dry, and you can do it again tomorrow," she said as she held her hand toward me. "If you try this, I promise to never make you try anything fun ever again," she teased.
I took a breath, gave my hair one last glance in the reflection of the salon window, and took Martha's hand. She pulled me out into the rain, bursting into song again.
The water was cool on my skin, and it felt strange to let it fall on my head while everyone else ducked under umbrellas and doorways. At first I cringed, but once I was irreparably wet, I felt my shoulders relax. I joined in Martha's song, a song I realized I'd been holding in for a long time, and our voices blended with the tapping rain, sounding light and free.
"A Fearless Spirit" property of Pearson.
Which sentence from “A Fearless Spirit” supports the idea that Ayesha, the narrator, is highly self-conscious?
“I heard a strange bumping sound behind me.”
“Even my friends mentioned her at lunchtime.”
“Even though Martha put me on edge, it felt nice that someone noticed.”
“For my first day of middle school, it was critical that nothing be out of place."
1 answer
The sentence that supports the idea that Ayesha, the narrator, is highly self-conscious is:
"For my first day of middle school, it was critical that nothing be out of place."
This sentence indicates her concern about her appearance and how she perceives others might judge her, showcasing her self-consciousness.
