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The two of us walked south on Fifth street one morning to the corner of Q street and turned Right.
It was a new building, painted yellow, with a shingled roof that was not like the red tile of the school in mazatlan.
Apparently the School
Miss Hopley was at a roll-top desk to one side sitting in a swivel chair that moved on wheels.
She was, to skinny, somewhat runty me, of a withering height when she patrolled the class.
I received private lessons from Miss Ryan in the closet, a narrow hall off the classroom with a door at each end.
On the playground we were sure to be marched up to the principal's office for calling someone a wop, a chink, a dago or a greaser.
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