by Jim Murphy
Sister Mary Brian ordered us to stand up tall, keep our heads up, and face forward. She had several Yellow Bananas take a step to the right or the left to straighten the line. Then she called out, “And one . . . and two . . . and three!”
The piano thumped into action, and so did I. What happened next is hard to describe because it began and ended so quickly. I step-hopped forward with my left foot, swung my right foot to touch my left foot, kicked myself in the knee instead, and started spinning like a top on the toes of my left foot. I waved my arms this way and that to stay balanced, but after three spins I fell over backwards onto the stage floor. And continued to rotate. Like one of those arcade games where the guy gives the wheel a spin and shouts, “Around and around she goes, where she stops nobody knows.” Only I wasn’t a “she” Green Banana.
From behind I heard small voices squeak, “Sister, Sister, the Green Banana fell down!” Sister Mary Brian was focused on playing the piano (with gusto) and hadn’t noticed that I’d gone over. When she finally did, I heard the loudest-ever, frustrated, discordant bang of ten notes on the keyboard.
I was still going round and round, but slowing down, when I heard the thud of her sensible shoes hurrying up onto the stage. Finally I came to a stop, my head pointing toward the front of the stage.
“What’s going on here?”
I was staring straight up and feeling very helpless and a little nauseated. A turtle on its back probably feels the same way. Then Sister Mary Brian’s face came into view, but because she was standing at the top of the costume, her white-coifed face was upside down.
“I didn’t fall on purpose,” I managed to gasp. I was becoming aware that there wasn’t much air inside the costume, and it was hot as well. I guess the thick green paint had made my banana airtight.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, Sister,” I answered. Of course I would have said that even if I’d broken my leg.
“Okay, everyone. We need to spin James around so he’s facing forward and help him to his feet.” Which happened a second later, but I swear Al asked if they could spin me around a few more times because it looked like fun. I was happy that Sister Mary Brian said no.
We rehearsed for almost an hour straight. I couldn’t get my sneakers to touch the way they were supposed to. Sister Mary Brian told me to just slide my feet as close as possible to the correct position and keep moving. To stay balanced and upright, I had to wave my arms around a little. Instead of a nicely executed box step, I was doing a wild sort of feet-flying, arms-waving jig. Sister Mary Brian seemed happy enough and even told the Yellow Bananas that they could imitate me. As long as they kept to the beat.
When I was finally released and stepped out of my Green Banana costume, I was drenched in sweat, tired, and about as happy as a rattlesnake that’s been stepped on. I even thought about offering more cash so Iggy could figure out how to get Al the Second Grader’s punji sticks to work. It was war, and—as the saying goes—all’s fair in love and war.
I knew the punji sticks wouldn’t happen, but thinking about them made me feel a little better. I wanted to push the Plan forward in any way possible, no matter how much of my tile-removal money it would cost.
I was about to leave when Sister Mary Brian made an announcement. “The show for your parents and relatives will be on the Monday before Thanksgiving,” she told us. “We’ll do a full rehearsal program for the entire school the week before, to work out any kinks.”
What? I had figured a show for these kids’ parents and relatives wouldn’t be so bad, because I would be in my costume and no one would know who I was. But a show for the entire school . . . It wouldn’t take long for everybody to realize I was the one doing the Fat Duck Hop-Waddle Jig. And that included Kathy Gathers.
18
SHE HAS TO BE STOPPED!!!!
IF THIS WERE a movie, loud, insistent music with a throbbing bass beat would start playing now. On the screen would be speeded-up action scenes of things getting done in a flash to let viewers know that time was marching along quickly, but they shouldn’t worry, the bad guys would be taken care of soon.
Unfortunately, the story you are reading is true. Nothing hurried along. And the only music I heard in my head was banana related.
The guys had helped Bernie clear more stuff from the stage (it’s amazing how much can accumulate over two or three decades). Iggy had been able to study the setup and work out some details of the device, which, naturally, would cost more than I had anticipated. To run the scenery cord over the alley, he needed two large eyebolts to screw into a wooden beam. That might cost a few dollars, but since he hadn’t figured out the tripwire mechanism, he said there would probably be more expenses. Even so, he decided that we should test the bags to see how they worked. We did this one Saturday in Vero’s garage, which was pretty big and had a tall roof.
Iggy wanted to check the arc of the swing to make sure the bag would hit someone Sister Angelica’s height square in the chest. Squints climbed up into the rafters, and on Iggy’s signal he swung the bag filled with flour . . . and the ten-pound test line broke. So we (I) had to buy twenty-pound test line. Vero volunteered to take the first actual hit to see how the bag exploded. But it didn’t explode at all. It whomped Vero in the chest so hard that he flew out of the garage and ended up on his back in the driveway.
“Back to the drawing board,” Mayor said matter-of-factly.
“I’m not paying for a drawing board,” I blurted out. Which earned me a look from Mayor that suggested I should study the chapter titled “Common English Phrases and Their Origins and Meanings” in the red Language Arts book.
Iggy went home and thought about how to get the bag to explode in a shower of flour; Vero went hunting for the mannequin his grandmother used when sewing dresses. The bruise on his chest had convinced him that a nonhuman test target was the safest way to go. A week later, Iggy said he’d figured out the exploding bag, which required a helium-filled balloon inside each bag and five test explosions to prove it worked, plus five more five-pound sacks of flour. Can we guess who paid for this?
Then Bernie gave us our deadline. Seems that one afternoon while the guys were helping Bernie, he happened to mention that Sister Angelica was going to announce the formation of a girls’ bowling team at the rehearsal performance of the show. She’d told him she was hoping to throw a couple of balls to demonstrate the redone lanes. Every kid in the school would be there, so this would be a good way to ensure that a lot of girls heard about the bowling team.
This development was good for another reason. I knew I was going to be embarrassed publicly during the rehearsal, when my classmates and everyone in school would see me as the Green Banana, but now—if the details could be worked out—Sister Angelica would be embarrassed too. Bigtime.
October and Halloween came and went, the leaves started to change colors and drop, November began, and the days got colder. During all this time, progress was being made on rigging the exploding flour ball. While Bernie was scouting for additional places upstairs to store things, Iggy was able to put in the black-painted eye hooks and measure how long the fishing line would have to be. Iggy wanted the line cut and painted black in advance to save time when he installed it. It took some doing, but he even got the big eyebolt in before Bernie got back. He also had three balloons inflated and the flour balls assembled and ready to be deployed. He hadn’t figured out how to trigger the device, but he said he was thinking over a solution, so we shouldn’t worry. Oh, and we wouldn’t be able to test a balloon, as Vero’s grandfather was pressing grapes in the garage to make wine. It was all beginning to feel like a scene from one of Al the Second Grader’s comic books, where a lot is happening but the outcome is still in doubt.
As all of this was moving forward, my anger began to cool, and I was on that slow clack-clack-clack climb back up the roller coaster. I wanted the “job” done, but I wasn’t frothing at the mouth anymore, if you know what I mean. In fact, I spent more
time adding up what I’d spent on revenge than actually anticipating it. I’d finished taking up all the tiles and bagging them, and Dad told me he’d show me how to prepare the wood floor and lay the new tiles down—and he would pay me for that, too! Which was great and also annoying, since as fast as my money came in, it went out for “tactical expenses,” as Mayor explained in his executive voice. Then Sister Angelica managed to reignite my anger.
One afternoon she suddenly stood up and said, “Everyone take out your Language Arts book. We’re on page forty-three.” This was mostly a spelling book, but for some reason whoever wrote it thought their title sounded better. More official or impressive or something. Usually Sister Angelica would read out the week’s spelling words, so we’d know how to say them, and then explain what they meant. Today she looked to the back row and added, “Philip, would you please say the extra-credit spelling words for the class?”
Philip looked startled and trapped, but he stood up with his red Language Arts book and thumbed to page 43. I could see that he was worried, not to mention dazed and confused, and his face was already beginning to redden. He hemmed and hawed a few times, then coughed to clear his throat.
The regular spelling words were hard enough to say, but the extra-credit words were especially tongue twisting. Philip studied the list for a second, then paused and looked at Angelica. Everyone in class glanced at the list of extra-credit words, so we all knew the first one was “epiphany.” Angelica nodded for him to begin.
“E . . . e . . . e . . . p . . . p . . . piss . . .”
So right away there was a good deal of laughing. I might have smiled myself. I mean, come on, it was funny. Then I noticed that Philip’s cheeks and the tips of his ears had turned neon red.
Sister Angelica shushed the class and then said to Philip, “It’s eh-pif-ah-nee. Let’s say it together.”
The together idea really didn’t work, since she barreled ahead and said, “Eh-pif-ah-nee,” but Philip only said, “Eh . . . eh . . . eh . . .” And not much more before some kids began giggling. I’m sure I heard Roger’s whiny little voice in there. I didn’t mind him bullying me, but mocking Philip was way too much.
Angelica drifted down the aisle toward us. Not that I was doing anything. I wanted to say something to defend Philip, to stop Angelica, but I also didn’t want to make things worse for him. Or me. She stopped a few feet from me and told Philip they would try it again. “Eh,” she said, and Philip echoed with a feeble “eh.” “Pif” came next, and Philip said, “P . . . p . . . pif.”
Some kids repeated Philip’s “p . . . p . . . pif,” but Angelica quieted the room with a menacing look. I wanted Uncle Arthur there to shout I object!— that’s how angry I was getting. Clack, clack, clack. But all I did was raise my hand a little and mumble, “Ah, Sister . . .”
I wanted to say, as nicely as I could, that putting Philip on exhibition like this wasn’t right. I figured that she got angry at me for pointing out that Sister Jane was missing a finger, so why shouldn’t she be embarrassed for embarrassing Philip? Right?
She was a few feet away from the desk, and I know she heard what I said. Without even looking at me, she put her hand up like a traffic cop to keep me quiet.
Angelica lowered her hand slowly. She and Philip tried to say the word again, and failed. And even though fewer kids laughed, my brain started to sizzle, and I knew I was on the verge of something, though exactly what wasn’t clear, and that scared me a little.
She turned back to Philip and smiled. “We should try it again, Philip. Practice makes perfect.”
She said the word; then Philip said, “Eh . . . pif. . . pif. . . a . . .” He stopped, took a breath.
At which point Vero said to him, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Non c’è nulla da temere quando gli amici sono vicino.” Vero’s grandparents lived with his parents and pretty much spoke nothing but Italian, and they and his parents often had long conversations in that language. Vero told me he started to learn Italian so they couldn’t talk about him behind his back.
Philip looked at him, gave a quick smile. I knew that Philip studied all sorts of language books, but I was a little surprised when he answered Vero with, “Ringrazio, il mio buon amico. Ti ringrazio.”
Angelica had stopped cold in the aisle and glared at both Vero and Philip with a terrible, dark look on her face. Vero had crossed his arms over his chest, completely ignoring her wrath. He was feeling the same as I was, and he wasn’t going to back down or even tell Angelica what he’d said. Philip turned back to Angelica. His cheeks and ears seemed a little less red.
Sister Angelica took a menacing step toward them. She was about to say something when I opened my mouth and blurted out very loudly, “J’accuse you!”
Both Vero and Philip wheeled around to give me a questioning look. My outburst made no sense whatsoever. It wasn’t Italian, for one thing; it was French. A bit of dialogue I remembered from a Three Musketeers movie that meant “I accuse.” I didn’t know how to say “I accuse you” all in French, so I tacked on the English “you.” But it had exactly the effect I’d hoped for.
Angelica turned on me and said very sharply, “You, Master Murphy, will keep perfectly quiet, and you will see me after class. Do you understand?”
I said “Sure” in a deliberately sulky and defiant voice and faced forward. My eyes bored into Joey Spano’s ample back as I fought to avoid a panic attack.
I steeled myself for the worst, but nothing happened. I heard Sister Angelica take in several gulps of air. Then she addressed Philip in a fake-calm voice. “Let’s try this again, shall we, Philip? I’ll say the word and you repeat it.”
Philip didn’t have much choice, but he seemed okay with moving forward and getting it all over with.
And so it went, Angelica saying the word syllable by syllable and Philip repeating it. Then they went on to the second word, which happened to be “serendipity.” If you thought “epiphany” was a struggle for Philip, you should have heard “serendipity” being pronounced. And there were three more extra-credit words!
Eventually and thankfully, it ended, and Philip—looking tired and absolutely drained—was allowed to sit down and disappear while Angelica went to the front of the class. She had completely ignored Vero, and I was glad about that. I had learned over the years that bullies like to pick on one person at a time, usually the weakest, and I guess it was my time. I was still fuming, and all I could think to do was scribble a note to Iggy that said “SHE HAS TO BE STOPPED!!!!”
19
On the Seesaw
HERE’S A SHORTENED VERSION of how my after-school meeting went. I appeared at Sister Angelica’s desk as ordered, and she gave me a hard, tough look. I just stared back and made believe I was completely innocent.
“How dare you challenge me in my classroom?”
“You were embarrassing my friend,” I said as quietly and in as assured a way as I could. But I was shaking a little, too, since I’d never spoken to an adult like this before, let alone a nun. “He stammers when he talks English.”
“I know. I’m trying to help him,” she replied.
“By making him stammer?” Now, this was absolutely the best (and only) decent one-liner I had ever delivered in school, and no other kid was there to hear it.
She was obviously frustrated and annoyed. Clearly she was talking to an idiot (me), and I would never understand why she did what she did, no matter how carefully she explained it. Instead, she told me to sit down and write “I will not interrupt in class” one hundred times. Which I did quickly. The sentence fit easily onto one line of the paper, so I numbered every line and wrote “I” all the way to the bottom, then went back and did the same with “will” and all the other words—the Henry Ford mass-production assembly-line approach to punishment sentences.
Three pages of this, and I was done. She did take a parting shot, of course. Not a slap-in-the-head kind of shot, the nun kind. “And if you ever, ever”—she paused here, then
added in a deliberately controlled voice—“do anything of that sort again . . .”
There was more, but I felt myself getting unpleasantly and dangerously lightheaded—dangerous because I didn’t know how bad the lightheadedness would get or what I might do. I decided to tune her out before I said something that would get me additional punishment. I was alert enough to realize when I should say “Yes, Sister,” at which point she dismissed me with a wave of her hand.
I had a bad night, mostly wondering what Angelica would do to me the next day. I had, after all, brought all the attention to myself and managed to do my hundred sentences pretty easily, too easily, so why wouldn’t she be plotting some sort of evil revenge? The good news was that Al the Second Grader had saved the day. He heard that Iggy had everything pretty much figured out—the placement of the eye hooks, hooking up the fishing line, the helium-balloon-filled sacks of flour—but wasn’t sure how it would all be triggered. Al the Second Grader, like an ever-resourceful Cub Scout, dug back through his comic book collection and appeared with a possible answer.
He brought in a comic called The World at War in the Pacific. About fighting on tropical islands during World War II. I didn’t know anything else about it, since I saw only one page, which had several panels of drawings that showed how a clever GI rigged up a booby trap to “neutralize” enemy soldiers. One had a clear drawing of how the device was triggered.
Iggy looked at the comic, grabbed it more dramatically than he’d ever done anything else, and said, “I can work with that!” His eyes narrowed as he studied every little detail of the drawing.
“Can we put the punji sticks back in?” Al the Second Grader asked eagerly.
“Not possible,” Iggy muttered, still eyeballing the drawing in the comic book.
“Can’t we use Super Glue or something like that?” You had to hand it to Al. He was deranged, helpful, and persistent. You never know—if he ever developed a sense of humor, he might become president of the United States someday.