I know as soon as we come in from recess that something
is wrong. She’s all smiley and nice to the eighth graders, but
she looks across the room at us seventh graders like we’re dirt
under her feet, same as she always does, only today a little worse.
I put my lunchbox on the shelf, and I wish I could stay here in this
dark coat closet. It’s stuffy in here and smells like gym shoes
and egg salad, but at least I wouldn’t have to look at her.
I go back to my seat. There’s some books on the floor in my aisle,
but I don’t think much about it since we’ve got some real
messy boys in our grade. Catechism books and New Testaments are jumbled
up with Beatles cards and magazines. I pull my science book from beneath
my desk and wait for the one hundredth lecture on "Sloth, a deadly
sin," one of the six that she seems to think we twelve-year-olds
practice. She lays off of Lust, though. We don’t hear much about
that one here at St. Ignatius of the Cross.
We stand together and say a prayer after lunch. Then we pray for the
rest of the people on our prayer list on the front wall. This morning
we prayed for the poor, the sick, and for vocations to the priesthood.
We prayed for the pagan baby we paid to have baptized at Christmas.
We prayed for the Poor Souls in Purgatory. We prayed for Mrs. Kennedy
and her kids. This afternoon we pray for the soldiers in Vietnam and
the conversion of Communists. We pray for President Johnson. Nobody
really likes him, but he’s a Democrat and we pray for him anyway.
We finish our prayers with the Sign of the Cross and take our seats.
I expect, as usual, to have science next, while the eighth grade has
a study time. Then we’ll have study time. That’s how we
have to do it since our school is small and we share a teacher nearly
all day.
But she is just standing up there, staring. The after-lunch chatter
is slowly crushed under the weight of her stare. I don’t want
to look at her, so I pretend to study the grocery sack cover of my
book where my mother has neatly lettered Mary Pat Taylor, across the
top and 7th Grade Science below. I risk a glance at her before lowering
my eyes again. She’s drilling holes in us with those black eyes
of hers. She drops her words slowly, like rocks.
"Someone came into the classroom during lunchtime."
When we had to learn the Ten Commandments, I recited mine the first
day. For the life of me, I can’t remember "Thou shalt
not enter into the classroom during lunchtime" being one of
them. But the way she says it, you’d think it ranked right
up there with killing and missing Mass on Sunday.
"Someone tipped over three desks deliberately."
I know I’d better look at her. If I don’t, she’ll
think I did it. I’m one of those people who just looks guilty
whether they are or not. I slowly raise my eyes.
"You know who you are. I’m sure that several of you know
who did this. So until someone comes forward and admits to doing this
or tells who the guilty party is, you will all sit here and do nothing." Her
eyes narrow.
"Take those books off your desks," she snaps. Books slide
and slap as they are returned to their space beneath the desks.
"We will sit here all night if we have to until I learn who did
this."
She moves to the other side of the room, and the effect is like one
of those quick-change artists you see on shows like Ed Sullivan.
One minute she’s spitting at us in that nasty tone of hers,
and the next minute, when she’s with the eighth grade, she’s
so sweet it makes you want to puke. It all started a couple of months
ago when we took some type of intelligence test. It seems all the
eighth graders scored brilliantly and we seventh graders were strictly
average—in other words, not smart enough to make her look good.
Not being a genius is one thing, but to be told daily that you aren’t
too bright does something to a person after a while. It’s been
war ever since. "Skirmish" was one of our vocabulary words
last fall. That’s what this is, a skirmish in the war. I can
win this small battle today. Do nothing? It beats copying the dictionary.
Sure, I can do nothing.
I sit in the back of the room this year. In addition to being the
tallest kid in the class, I’m also the smartest. Until this
old battleaxe came along, my teachers have always liked me. They
say I’m a perfectionist. I get really upset if things aren’t
just right. I really do try hard to please them. But no matter what
I do for this old witch, it never seems to be enough. I answer questions
correctly. I’m always respectful. But when she looks at me,
it’s like she’s swallowed a piece of meat that won’t
go down.
I sit next to Charlie Parker--again. She stuck him in the back of
the room because he’s the worst kid in class and back here
he won’t bother anybody but me. This isn’t the first
time I’ve had to sit by him. He’s fidgety, and it’s
hard for some of the students to pay attention when they sit by him.
The teachers know I won’t let him bother me. It’s been
this way at St. Ignatius since about third grade. Whenever the teachers
seat us and they call "Charlie Parker," I always listen
sharp because I know my name is coming next. I’m either in
front of him, behind him, or beside him. This year, it’s beside.
Last week I had to give him a poke with my pencil during religion.
He was drawing swastikas on his notebook while we were supposed to
be reading about Easter Duty and Confession. He’s sitting over
there now, playing with his fingers, smoking an imaginary cigar.
I give him a hard look. He sticks his old nasty tongue out at me,
but he settles for the moment.
From my seat I have a good view. Steve Petruski’s trying to
avoid laying his head on his desk by resting his chin on his stacked
fists.
"Mr. Petruski! Up!"
I’m still hot from recess. My uniform shirt is sticking to
the varnish of the desk back. I can feel it peel away, like Scotch
tape, as I shift in my hard seat.
I study the calendar of saints on the wall. April 29, 1968-- The
feast of St. Catherine of Siena. I think she was a teacher. Or maybe
that was another Catherine. There are lots of them and I get them
confused sometimes. I wonder what St. Catherine would think of this
situation. I wonder if she would think counting the concrete blocks
in the front wall of the classroom is a good math lesson. I’ve
done it this afternoon—twice really, because you should always
check your work. I’ve also studied the set of cursive letters
across the top of the green chalkboard, which I helped wash just
yesterday. I’ve run out of things to think about and my butt
is sore from sitting.
Sister Mary Frances, our English teacher who stands four foot six
and is mean as hell, says an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.
I guess she knows what she’s talking about, because I’m
beginning to think up some real meanness right now.
 |
There she goes, prissing across the room in that yellow suit. The
first day of school she told us how important appearances are.
"One of the students at my former school told me, ‘Mrs. Boudreau,
I’ve never seen you wear the same thing twice!’ I try hard
not to wear the same thing twice. I don’t want you to get bored."
My uniform skirt is stiff and sticks to the backs of my legs. I’ve
got news for the old witch. She’s worn that yellow number before,
and it didn’t look any better then than it does now. I went home
and told my mother what she said, and my Mama laughed and said if she’d
never thrown any of her clothes away, she’d never have to wear
the same thing twice either.
Cathy Cason says her mother told her what Mrs. Boudreau’s problem
is.
"She has an inferiority complex. That’s why she acts the
way she does."
I don’t get that one. If she thinks she’s not as good
as everyone else, why is she always so nasty to us?
I can’t see his face, but I can tell Bart Tucker is crying.
I can tell by the way he’s holding his head down and slipping
his hand up to his face from time to time. He’s really nervous
and worries a lot. She picks on him and he cries. She ridicules him
because he can’t read and he’s failing seventh grade.
His daddy is a big farmer over at Hughes and he wanted Bart in a
good school. His mama drives twenty miles every morning to bring
him here and twenty miles back to take him home. That’s a long
way to come just to feel dumb. But he’s not the only one. We
have four people failing this class. Tracy Farmer overheard her mother
tell Father Arnold that Mrs. Boudreau wasn’t much of a teacher
if she’s only got fourteen students and four are failing. I
tried to help explain things to Bart a few times when he didn’t
seem to understand, but she bit my head off, so I quit. It may be
cowardly, but it’s easier to let someone else be her target.
I see Mrs. Jackson, the fourth grade teacher, has come to the door.
She never taught me, but several times she’s told me how much
she wishes she had. She’s always so nice and asks about my
family regularly. Maybe she’s come to get someone to help with
reading or to grade spelling tests. Several of us have done that
before. Mrs. Boudreau knows I didn’t have anything to do with
these stupid desks. There’s no reason to keep me here. Maybe
Mrs. Jackson has been sent, like one of those angels of God in the
Old Testament. I sit up a little straighter and wait for my rescue.
Mrs. Jackson scans the class. I hold my breath. This is it. I’m
gone.
"Mrs. Boudreau, I feel so sorry for you having to put up with
these terrible children. It serves them right to have to sit there."
I clamp my lips tight to keep the air from coming out in one big whoosh.
I feel betrayed. I haven’t done a damned thing wrong. My eyes
narrow and my jaw clenches as I look at Mrs. Jackson. She’s on
my list now. Do your own damned teaching and paper grading from now
on.
****
My peanut butter and jelly sandwich is sitting hard on my stomach.
I wonder what Miss Priss Boudreau ate at lunch? Rat poison, I hope.
And I hope we’re all here to see when it kicks in. I had a dog
die from rat poison. She’ll shake and wheeze and gasp. And there’ll
be nothing anyone can do.
Or maybe she ate olives. She got on this kick earlier in the year
when she was going to teach us manners and etiquette. Like we were
hicks or something. Marianna, Arkansas, may not be much, but we do
have sense enough to use napkins and not to pass gas or belch in
front of someone, at least not adults.
"When you are at a formal dinner party and are eating olives,
remove the pit from your mouth with the thumb and middle finger and
place it on your dinner plate."
I hope she chokes on a damned olive pit.
****
Now Sister Mary Frances is at the door. In English class she makes
us write definitions ten times each and underline every stupid word
in every stupid sentence and then complains if the lines aren’t
straight. I guess she’s come to throw her two cents’ worth
into this thing and tell us what miserable losers we are. I straighten
my back and get ready for her to take her best shot.
"Mrs. Boudreau, may I take the students next door for their English
lesson? It seems a shame to have them waste all this time when they
could be doing something productive."
God does answer prayer. English never sounded so good. I’d
diagram sentences all night to get out of here. I’m ready.
Mrs. Smarty-Pants-Yellow-Suit lay teacher won’t dare say, “No” to
a Dominican nun in full habit.
"No, Sister. I’m going to make them sit here." I wait
for a bolt of lightning to hit her. Sister scans the class. “Perhaps
an essay on the importance of confession and contrition would be appropriate.” Essay.
Sure. I can do that too. Anything to get me out of here.
Mrs. Boudreau puts her hand on her hip. Her red-tipped fingers look
like splatters of blood.
“No, Sister. They’re just going to sit.” She tosses
that head and looks at us as if she has successfully swatted a fly
dead.
Sister does not look pleased at this. She looks at us and her expression
changes. Her face seems to relax a bit, and her eyes look—sad.
She turns and leaves, the big black rosary beads that hang from her
belt clicking at her side. I slump and continue to wait.
****
This doing nothing is not what it’s cracked up to be. I want
to go home.
I risk a glance over my shoulder at the clock––2:45.
God, I hate her. Will this afternoon ever end? I imagine all the
things I’d like to do to her. I’d like to yank that dyed
black hair right out of her head, but it probably has so much hair
spray on it, I’d end up like Brer Rabbit and Tar Baby. I’d
like to take that tube of ugly red lipstick she uses and draw all
over her smart face. I want to scream, to cry, to throw something,
to--
The bell rings.
She turns to us and looks down her nose. "Don’t even think
about moving."
The darling little eighth graders load their book satchels and pick
up their lunch boxes. We sit. The minute hand creeps.
She turns and gives us a long, cold stare. "Your parents will
just have to wait. I’m not releasing you until I get a confession.
Is there anything any of you would like to tell me?"
Yeah. One thing. Go to hell.
Charlie is giving her the finger with his right hand, hiding it
behind his left.
The eighth graders are lining up to leave. As they march out the
door, two-by-two, I want to run screaming after them. Don’t
leave me here! Take me, too! I know my mother is outside, wondering
where I am, where we all are.
Charlie is drawing inside his ear with a ballpoint pen. Bart is
sobbing openly, his breath coming in shaky gasps.
I want to go home. I never want to see this place again. Next year
I’m going to public school where they don’t care what
you do—at least that’s what they tell us here. I’m
ready for people to leave me alone. I don’t want to be my brother’s
keeper any longer. Jesus told the disciples that if a village rejected
them to shake the dust from their sandals and leave.
I’m getting out of here.
Move. Move. Move your feet. That’s it. Don’t think about
it. Just do it. Ignore that voice.
"Miss Taylor! What do you think you’re doing?"
Don’t look at her. Put your purse over your shoulder. Walk
across the back of the room and cut toward the door.
"Miss Taylor! Return to your seat now!" The silence of the
room behind me is heavy now. I feel thirteen sets of eyes pushing against
my back. Go! Go! Go! Do it! Go!
She’s standing between me and the door.
"I’m going home," my voice croaks, but it’s
there. She can hear me.
"You are returning to your seat now!"
My knees knock together like two rubber balls. I’ve never seen
her hit anyone, but my insides are trembling and shivery.
Over her shoulder I see the door. I’m close.
"I’m going home," I repeat, this time a little louder.
She stares at me. There’s something in her eyes. Dislike, and something
else. I’ve never stood toe to toe with her before. I’m so close
I can see that her face has tiny, hard lines around her mouth where her makeup
is cracked, and her lipstick is wider than her lips. When she pulls back her
lips to snarl, "Sit down," I notice a speck of red on one of her
front teeth. Her mouth is twisted and puckered and evil looking.
She stares at me. I stare right back, never flinching, never letting her see
that my stomach is coming up into my throat.
"Excuse me." I can’t believe it’s my voice. It’s
like it’s someone else’s, and I’m watching from far off. Something
flickers in her eyes, something ugly. Her nostrils are flared and twitching.
Then, looking at me as if I am some cruddy thing she is afraid to touch, she
moves aside.
As I step into the cool dark of the hallway, I hear the door slam behind me.
I begin to tremble and try to catch my shaky breath. Just as I think I am about
to cry, I realize that I am not alone. In the shadow of the Blessed Mother’s
statue near the front door, Sister Mary Frances watches me.
Slowly, I move toward the door, watching but not watching from the corner of
my eye. All I have to do is reach the door. As I move toward her silently,
seven years of habit win out over fear.
"Good afternoon, Sister Mary Frances." My voice begins as a choked
croak and ends on a squeak.
My hand is on the door bar. In the corner of my eye, bleary from unshed tears,
I can see Mother Mary’s bare foot as she crushes the head of the serpent.
In the second before I push through the door, a hand rests lightly on the top
of my head.
"Good afternoon, Mary Pat."
The tears finally begin to roll as I shove the bar and step out into the warm
sunlight.
