by Jim Murphy
Now I was trapped, and it was all Sister Angelica’s fault. I knew I had to do better in school to win over Kathy Gathers, but this wasn’t how I wanted to do it.
Dinner dragged along with the usual sort of chatter. “How was your day?” “Okay.” “Did anything interesting happen?” “No.”
The highlight of dinner came when there was a pause in this scintillating conversation and Jerry said, “Jimmy was telling me all about this amazing Ken Gables superstar guy, right?” He looked at me and gave me an evil smile. I could tell he wasn’t going to let me off the hook anytime soon. “Maybe he can tell us more about K.G.”
7
Where Is Your Brain, Jimmy?
THE NEXT MORNING, I tried to slip into the big playground unnoticed and mingle in the crowd of screaming, running kids, hoping to avoid Ellen until the bell rang. No such luck. There she was, standing next to the metal playground gate, clutching her books to her chest, waiting, watching. I wondered if Sister Rose Vincent had given her guard duty instructions.
“You’re late,” she announced.
“My mom made bacon this morning,” I said. I didn’t know why that had anything to do with being late. I think talking with Ellen made me a little nervous.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Jimmy. Let me see your math homework.”
“I did all the problems,” I announced proudly. I waved the paper in the air so she could see that I’d actually done an entire page of math and didn’t really need her help to check it. But she snatched the paper out of my hand and started studying it as if she were searching for fingerprints at a crime scene. Every so often she shook her head a little, grimaced, then circled something with her pencil, using her books as a desk.
She handed the paper back to me. “You made some addition and subtraction mistakes on five of them. The ones I circled. The three multiple-choice questions are wrong, so you need to think those over.”
I tried to weasel her into giving me the right answers, but she just said, “I’m supposed to help you find the answers, not give them to you.” When I didn’t say anything, she added in a nicer voice, “Just do your work carefully and you’ll be okay. Did you do the spelling words?”
Again, I pulled out my homework, proud that I’d actually done it and secretly hoping this would convince her to leave me alone. She took the paper, looked at it, seemed startled. “There are supposed to be ten sentences.”
“The assignment said ‘put the words in a sentence.’ See, I even copied the instructions down word for word from the board. And I put them all in a sentence and underlined them. It didn’t say anything about ten sentences.”
“The implication of the assignment was that each word gets its own sentence. Where is your brain, Jimmy?” She explained “implication” in several different ways that even a squirrel would understand. Then she took a deep breath and read my sentence out loud. “The agony of the western states in the nineteenth century was that the Indian chiefs didn’t want to labor for peace or even consider living in cottages”—she gave me a look, then went on—“because they wanted to exist happily in nature with raccoons”—she stopped reading again and muttered something under her breath—“raccoons and other mammals.”
Listening to her read my work had me beaming with pride. It was a very nice-sounding sentence, one I could be proud of. It had every word on the list in it, they were neatly underlined, and I know I spelled them all correctly.
“But . . . but . . . but . . .” She jabbed her finger at my sentence. “Cottages! What do Indians have to do with cottages? And raccoons! This is the silliest thing I’ve ever read.”
I was really, really irked. My sentence did everything the assignment asked for, so why was Ellen so upset? And for some reason I was upset and flustered because she was wearing a blue sailor dress that seemed a little nicer than an everyday going-to-school dress had to be. Plus she was standing so close I could smell the Ivory soap she used to wash her face.
“The instructions said ‘a sentence,’ and they didn’t say it had to be serious! Or even accurate! Or that it couldn’t be silly! And why can’t Indians not want to live in cottages?” I snatched the paper back so quickly it tore a little in the middle. “Now see what you did!”
Ellen wasn’t happy either, but she had a job to do, so she poked a finger at my paper. “The spelling words are all spelled correctly, but these other words aren’t. Sister Angelica will take points off for any misspellings in the sentence, not just the assigned words. And you need a comma here and here.”
She was about to leave when she thought of something. “And why did you date all the papers April first? Sister Angelica might take off for that, too.”
“I do it because this school is one gigantic April Fool’s joke.”
She sighed, the way very frustrated actors do in movies. “Change them,” she said. “To be safe.” She turned and stalked into the playground, leaving me standing there like yesterday’s bad milk.
Maybe she was fed up enough with me to refuse to help me with my homework anymore. As Sister Regina said, I was the sort of kid who could try the patience of a saint. I didn’t actually know why, but the thought of Ellen giving up on me didn’t make me feel quite as happy as I might have expected.
The bell rang the moment I stepped into the playground, so I didn’t have time to talk with my friends. But Mayor managed to tell me, “We have a plan. The beginning of one, but it could work.”
In class, while I was leaning left, then right to avoid detection, Vero was able to fill me in. A little at a time. Every so often, when Angelica was facing away and writing on the blackboard and I was leaning in his direction, he would whisper a phrase or two. “Al the Second Grader” was the first. “Horror comic The Pit and the Pendulum” came a minute later. Then, “But instead of a sharp scythe blade we . . .” It felt like forever before he could finish with “have a heavy ball with punji sticks in it. We probably don’t need the punji sticks, but you know Al.” Angelica turned back to face the class, and all whispered communications ended.
That left me with a picture in my mind. Not much, but something is better than nothing. Just as a little hope for change on day three was better than no hope at all.
A while later, Sister Angelica had us all line up to go to the library. It wasn’t a real library, with shelves of books and a librarian. It was an unused classroom, also in the old building down on the first floor, and it had a few dozen dusty old books stacked near the windows. Most of the books had been donated to the school by people cleaning out their basements, and they smelled funny—an aromatic stew of mold, dampness, and rotting glue. Every so often we had to go there to see if we wanted to read any of them.
Out into the dark hall we marched, sixty-two of us in a nice, neat line, according to height, of course. And it was on this journey that I got to dance with a door.
8
Dancing with the Door
I WANT TO SAY right away that I did not start it. I did get blamed for it all, but I swear I was innocent. Sort of.
With Sister Angelica in the lead, we headed downstairs to the first floor, marched up the hall, turned right, and proceeded (an extra-credit spelling word that I wasn’t able to work into my sentence) down a very long hallway lined with classrooms. The only real light in this hallway came from way at the far end, where there was an intersecting hallway with a bank of windows. I kind of liked the gloomy dark where we were, because it made me feel out of view and safe.
From out of nowhere, Gerald FitzGerald jumped high into the air, did a full twisting circle, landed, and kept on walking as if absolutely nothing unusual had happened. He was taking Irish step-dancing lessons, and he must have felt as invisible as I did.
There were some giggles from kids near Gerry. Sister Angelica must have sensed something with her back-of-the-head vision and supernatural hearing, and she stopped the march to check out what was going on. Since we were all still in a perfect line, she resumed the parade a few second
s later. Which was when Squints jumped, turned in the air, landed, and walked on. He wasn’t as graceful as Gerry, but then who is?
Next went Erin (Margaret) O’Connor and a kid named Michael Duffy, both leaping at the same time. It was as if a line of jack-in-the-boxes were blasting from their hiding places and instantly retreating.
When Sister Angelica was almost to the window-lighted hallway where the “library room” was, I jumped as high as I could and tossed my body into an exuberant (another extra-credit word) spin. I don’t know why; it seemed like the right thing to do. Only instead of landing and walking on innocently, I made only a three-quarter turn, landed awkwardly, and bumped into Iggy, who, with his tall hair, was right behind me. I stumbled backwards out of the line and across the hall, my arms windmilling wildly.
Our Little League coach once said that hitting a baseball was all about timing. Getting blamed for stuff is also about timing.
As I was staggering backwards, Sister Ursula was opening the door to her fourth-grade classroom. You guessed it. I hit the side of that door with the back of my head so hard that the noise echoed like a bat hitting a ball.
Ordinarily, a student’s hitting his (my) head on a two-inch-thick, two-hundred-pound door would result in a nun telling him (me) to be more careful in the future. If you were in enough real pain, sometimes they would forgo additional punishment on top of the blood.
Unfortunately, I whammed that door with so much force that it flew back and smashed Sister Ursula square in the face. She gave out a pathetic, muffled groan, did a back step or two, then toppled to the floor on her rear end. There she was, leaning against the wall, her wire-rimmed glasses hanging from her nose and a clear dent in her forehead and her starched white coif.
You can usually tell how much trouble you are in by the noise level. There was not a sound, not a peep or gasp or anything coming from anyone on line or from Sister Ursula’s students. Who were draped over their desks to see what had happened. It was as quiet as a graveyard at midnight, which meant I was doomed.
“What’s going on back there?” Sister Angelica shouted, turning and hurrying back down the hallway to where the impact had taken place. Because of the strong backlight from the far end of the hall, she was nothing but a menacing black silhouette getting bigger and bigger, the fabric of her robes and veil flapping madly. She looked like a giant crow coming to peck my eyes out.
Doors along the hall popped open, and three or four nuns stuck their heads out. They looked like curious penguins trying to see who was being attacked by the killer whale.
Sister Angelica looked at Sister Ursula, who was struggling to push herself up. “I’m okay,” Sister Ursula mumbled in a faltering voice. “No harm done. No harm. Just a little stunned. Nothing more. Everything will be okay.”
She was talking, which meant she was still alive. That was a good sign. But any positive feeling I might have had disappeared when Sister Angelica faced me. I was the only student out of line and undoubtedly the one with the guiltiest look on his face.
She took hold of Sister Ursula’s arm, then turned to the line. “Don’t just stand there!” she shouted. “Help me get Sister Ursula to her feet. And be careful.” I went to help, but Sister Angelica added in a menacing voice, “Not you. You’ve already done enough.” She was breathing very hard, and the look on her face reminded me of Sister Anita’s expression just before she stabbed me with her yellow pen.
Sister Ursula was hauled to her feet. She was a little wobbly, but I was glad to see her put her glasses back in place and dust herself off, and I was even happier to hear her say, “Really, it was an accident. I’m fine.”
That reassurance made me feel better, but it clearly did not calm Sister Angelica. She was still furious, still taking in deep gulps of air. Both her hands were balled into tight fists and were shaking.
After what felt like an hour, she opened her hands and wiggled her fingers. Then, through clenched teeth, she said in a low growl, “Master Murphy. Go directly to Sister Mary Brian’s room and tell her what just happened here.” I didn’t move immediately, and she spat out, “Now!”
9
I Am the Green Banana
MY MOM TOLD ME that dead people see a bright white light as they head up to heaven. I’m not sure how she knew this, since I don’t think she traveled to heaven regularly, but I was willing to believe her. As I walked slowly toward the hallway where the blinding light streamed in, I wondered if there was also light to guide you in the other direction. You know, down there. If I ever made it home, I vowed, I’d ask Mom.
When I set off down the hall, I expected Philip to send me off with a farewell message in some language. But he and everyone else were stone-cold quiet. It was that bad. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Roger smirking triumphantly as I passed; then a little ways beyond him I heard a feeble, whispered “Oh, Jimmy.” It was Ellen McDonald, and she sounded very disappointed. A few feet later I noticed that Kathy Gathers had turned to watch me march past. Not only was I doomed, but my love for Kathy was probably doomed too.
I felt some relief when I reached the windowed hall, turned right, and was out of sight of the class. I felt the back of my head and found a good-size lump. Not the biggest I’d ever had, but it hurt when I touched it, and when I looked at my fingers, they were covered with blood.
Up this hall I went and through a short transition hall between the old and new parts of the school. Very slowly. No need to rush to my own execution.
Sister Rose Mary’s office was just ahead on the left. If I’d been sent there, I’d know what my fate would be: clock-watch time, standing straight for fifteen to thirty minutes, and a lecture. And maybe a poke with her pirate hand. Going to Sister Mary Brian was like entering a pitch-dark cave. If there weren’t millions of bats in that cave waiting to get me, there had to be vipers. Or deadly spiders.
Sister Mary Brian’s nickname around school was the Enforcer. I never had class with her, so I never saw her in action, but she was rumored to have a spanking machine in her supply closet, as well as a large paddle for mobile punishment. Kids said she could do a lightning-quick grab ’n twist of an ear. When I asked Jerry about her, he looked downright upset and said, “You don’t ever want to mess with that one.” He hadn’t elaborated, but what he told me was enough to make me steer clear of Sister Mary Brian.
I went past the principal’s office and the statue of Saint Stephen, crossing myself twice for extra luck. When I reached the door to Sister Mary Brian’s second-grade classroom, I knocked extra lightly. If she didn’t hear, she might not respond, and then I could wander back to—
“Yes?” I heard her say from inside. “Come in.” I wondered if all nuns had to have extremely good hearing as well as back-of-the-head vision before they were admitted to the sisterhood club.
I opened the door and took a step inside. I stared at her, petrified, and didn’t say a word. She stared back, her eyebrows narrowing in a questioning way.
“Can I help you, James?” Her knowing who I was and using my first name wasn’t necessarily a good thing. It might have been a trap to make me relax and confess everything.
I took a few more steps into the room. All her second graders were quiet and, of course, watching me. I saw a hand make a small waving motion from the middle of the room, and I realized it belonged to Al the Second Grader. Great. An eyewitness to my latest humiliation.
Lying is a sin. You can’t miss it because it’s right there in black and white in the section of the catechism on mortal and venial sins. But I knew from hearing Uncle Arthur talk about the law that in court there was a lot of gray area between black and white. So I told Sister Mary Brian that Sister Angelica had sent me, and when she asked why, I very carefully said as little as possible. “By accident, I bumped into Sister Ursula’s door while she was opening it, and the door hit Sister Ursula.”
I left out the part about doing a goofy jump-twist dance that sent me stumbling into the door, and the part about Sister Ursula getting sma
shed in the face and ending up on her butt. Legally, this might have been labeled a sin of omission. But it was an accident, so technically, I was okay. For the most part.
A flash of inspiration struck. I touched the back of my head and held up my hand for everyone to see. I was happy I hadn’t wiped the blood off—every finger was so impressively coated red that several kids gasped. “Sister Ursula is okay,” I added. “She said so.”
Sister Mary Brian looked confused. I figured she was trying to sort out how much of my story to believe and how she should deal with me. “Come here, James,” she said.
Now, approaching a nun in a situation like this can be tricky. I was clearly guilty of something bad, since I’d been sent there. Even the oldest, most feeble nuns usually still had one lunging pounce left in them—something Sister Anita proved the day she stabbed me. But not going up to Sister Mary Brian might convince her I was lying about everything. So I walked to the front of the classroom. Very cautiously.
Here’s the weird thing. I’d always thought Sister Mary Brian was tall. Not Sister Rose Vincent freaky gigantic, but still pretty tall. As I approached her now, I realized she wasn’t much taller than I was. I guess I’d spent the last few years avoiding her, so I never noticed she was shrinking.
“Let me see that bump,” she ordered when I stopped in front of her. I turned around, and she parted my hair so she could get a good look. “Does this hurt?” she asked, touching the bump.
I cried “Ouch!!!” loud enough, but not too loud, and pulled away a few inches. Too much drama made the nuns suspicious that it was an act, so it was always better to play it down.
“The cut doesn’t look very bad,” she said calmly. “And you say Sister Ursula is okay?”
“Yes, Sister. She said she was, a few times, and she didn’t even seem mad.” I paused, thinking I had to admit that I had done something stupid but everyone had survived. “But Sister Angelica was still mad, so she sent me here.”