It wasn’t fair that people thought she should be kept out of school because she was half-Chinese. If she stopped going, folks like Mr. Baxter would think she had given in.

Her face must have shown what she couldn’t say, for Papa sighed in irritation, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Might as well finish out the week, now that we’ve put Harris to all that trouble.”

At school that morning, more than half a dozen seats were empty. Hanna did not know exactly who was missing, but she knew that her presence was the reason for their absence. Dolly took advantage of the absences by moving to a different seat. She did so with just enough fuss and flounce to confirm what Hanna already knew: Dolly felt that having to share a desk with Hanna was beneath her.

Miss Walters made no mention of the absent students, and the morning lessons proceeded smoothly. After arithmetic and history, Hanna used pen and ink to write a verse from a poem for the penmanship lesson. She chose “Mama’s poem,” which she knew by heart:

“To My Mother,” by E. K. Hervey

I know thou art gone to the land of thy rest;

Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou art gone where the weary are blest,

And the mourner looks up and is glad . . .

Hanna loved practicing her penmanship. She cherished a memory from when she was a small girl in Los Angeles, of being given a brush and a little pot of ink to experiment with while Mama and a group of friends practiced Chinese brush writing. In their hands, the brushes had seemed almost alive, their movements fluid and airy and solid all at the same time. Their lettering was a song of ink that flowed from the bristles.

Hanna could not yet read, but she copied some of the shapes that the adults were making. One of Mama’s friends praised her efforts. “Already, she has a good eye.” Mama replied with obligatory modesty. “She’s so young. Who knows if it will grow with her?” But she gave Hanna a little sideways smile that made her so proud.

Mama had gotten sick before she could teach Hanna much more about calligraphy. Writing with a pen was nothing like lettering with a brush; the pen seemed labored and scratchy by comparison. Still, perfecting her handwriting was another way that Hanna sought to keep Mama close and clear—to stop her from slipping into a hazy memory.

Hanna thought penmanship was a bit like sewing, where her hands and her mind had to be connected to each other. It was different from, say, reading, which took mostly her mind, or chores like laundry, which her hands could do almost without thought. For penmanship, she first had to think about the correct way to write a word, and then get her hand to do what her brain was thinking.