Excerpted from the novel, Finding Francis
Twenty years ago I was six years old. I cared nothing about being six. I enjoyed my childhood and I was happy but all I truly wanted in life was to be seven.
For me, seven was grand. Seven was special. Seven was my lucky number. On the number puzzle I got for my sixth birthday, the seven was pink with bunnies. Six had bugs all over it. Seven was going to be my First Holy Communion, learning script and having Mrs. Carlos as a teacher.
Mrs. Carlos was wonderful before I ever stepped foot in her classroom. She had a warm smile, was very pretty and often wore pink. Best of all, her students were always happy. They all seemed special to her. She was the kind of woman who would talk to you and make you feel like you were the only girl in the world. She was the kind of teacher who would take you to McDonald’s™ if you forgot your lunch or spend an afternoon leading the class in their favorite songs.
Yes, seven was the pinnacle. Everything before it was just passing time. At six, it would take something significant to grab my attention from seven. It would take something unusual for me to stop and take notice.
Enter Francis.
Francis sat behind me in the only first grade class at All Saints School. Our teacher was Mrs. Sinow and, let me tell you, she was no Mrs. Carlos. She was very stern and serious, not mean or cruel, but a teacher who never sparked smiles from her students. Almost everything about Mrs. Sinow was boring and uninteresting. Everything except one thing: rumor had it that she wore a wig.
To adults, a wig may have been nothing, but to a group of six-year-olds this was like finding out she was a robot. Her every move was scrutinized and noted for evidence of wig-wearing: how she confiscated the rubber bands that the boys flung across the room; how she always put the rubber bands on her wrists; how she was seen several times a day tucking her fingers beneath her bowl-cut hair. What was she tucking? Was she straightening her hairpiece? Were her fingers securing the rubber bands that she had stolen from the little boys? She smelled of hairspray. It must’ve been a wig - or so it seemed to our outrageous and overactive imaginations.
It was our imaginations, our small conspiracies that drew us closer together at such a young age. But, although clusters of friends were beginning to develop, most social activity was still dictated by school functions and parental supervised play dates. Most parents wanted their children to have many friends, or at least appear to, so most birthday parties had guest lists of the entire class, sometimes cousins and neighbors. Francis Laboure’s family was no exception.
As far as I can remember, it was the end of school, probably June. I was invited to Francis’ birthday party, which was to be held on a Saturday afternoon. The exact date is fuzzy in my mind because the only information I was actually given was that I was a guest at this celebration. My mom wrote down the date, bought the gift, picked out my attire and arranged my transportation.
Francis was an average boy. In retrospect, he was cute, but in first grade I had not noticed. All the boys were small and cute, except Michael who used to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and, with gooey mouth and hands, try to kiss me during recess. Francis was blond and blue-eyed, quiet and shy. When we did phonics exercises I could hear a slight lisp. It was uncertain whether it was permanent or there due to his recently missing front baby teeth.
Francis was the opposite of the loud and rambunctious boys of the class. He was calm with a hushed voice, probably stemming from embarrassment about his lisp. My memories of him are minimal, perhaps because he faded somewhat into the backdrop. I had no particularly strong feelings for him one way or the other. But apparently some others did.
It was a completely normal Saturday afternoon as I was driven to Queens Village for Francis’ party. By normal I mean I don’t recall any earthquakes or tornadoes pending in the area, no flashflood warnings were in effect for the Tri-State area and I believe our car was in working condition.
Francis and his mom happily greeted me at the door. As I stepped into the living room, the huge cake on display in the dining room table was visible. So was the large, white, elaborate candle apparently given at his baptism and which was to be burned every year on his birthday. There were balloons and some streamers, bowls of candy and chips. I was thrilled.
Apparently, I was uncharacteristically early since I was the only guest there when I arrived. The Laboures were definitely prepared for a big crowd with stacks of board games in the living room and a virtual obstacle course set up in the backyard with classic games like pin-the-tail-on-the donkey. At first I was very excited for the activities and, of course, the cake, but as time went by it soon became evident that I was the only person to take part. No one else ever came to Francis’ party.
I vaguely remember the different family members trying to distract us with games so we wouldn’t realize that no one else was coming. I overheard Francis’ mother on the phone, perhaps with a friend, explaining that there were a lot of graduations this time of year. I did not understand the connection to a graduation and no one coming to the party when they said they would.
Later, I recall Francis crying and not wanting to play with me. His older sister gave me a tour of her room so he could be alone. I walked into a medium-sized bedroom with colorful butterflies dancing on the wallpaper behind posters of teen idols. I remember Scott Baio in tight jeans. I remember how cool I thought she was.
Then came the unbelieving look on my mom’s face when she came to get me and saw I was still the only guest there; the banter of excuses as to why people hadn’t come; and, the piles of candy I was allowed to leave with since there was no one else there to take it. I remember returning to school Monday and beginning the countdown to the end of the year: a time filled with tests, parties, and good-byes. I don’t remember talking about the party with anyone. I don’t remember seeing Francis again after his party. The school year ended.
We often traveled during the summer or spent a lot of time at the beach so I rarely saw most of my school friends in between grades. When I returned to All Saints in September to start second grade, Francis Laboure was no longer enrolled. I don’t recall asking why or talking about it with anyone else. By then I was in the glory of second grade. I was in Mrs. Carlos’ class every single day of the week. We had creative writing contests and arts and crafts. I played hopscotch every day. I was about to turn seven. There was too much to look forward to and little reason to turn back.
Eventually, six was shattered into tiny pieces in my memory: broken fragments whose individual recollections were sharp but which overall dulled within months, faded in years. Francis was part of those memories. As time quickly went by, eventually seven was gone too. It vanished, like Mrs. Carlos who left to have a baby.
Then eight was gone. Then nine. Slowly my age became other ages added together. It wasn’t until I passed twenty that I stopped to catch my breath. By then, all the tiny fragments of long ago had been buried deep in the rubble. But they were not gone, only waiting to be sifted, waiting to be found.
