by Jim Murphy
“Nella bocca del lupo,” Philip said, shaking his head mournfully from side to side. In a soft, doomed voice he repeated, “Nella bocca del lupo.”
23
And Everything in Between
“INTO THE MOUTH of the wolf” is what Philip had said, and he wasn’t kidding. Philip and Vero had been ordered to fetch me and go directly to Sister Rose Mary’s office. And no dawdling. When we got there, Mayor, Iggy, and Tom-Tom were standing in the middle of the room, looking nervous. Squints was nowhere to be seen, but no one blamed him for lying low.
When I tripped the exploding flour ball and hop-waddled off, it was clear that I was guilty. Sister Rose Mary had swooped into the aisle where the guys were sitting and poked her pirate hand into Mayor’s chest. “Did you know about this, Master Mayor?” And Mayor, cornered, said yes immediately. Iggy was next to Mayor, and when poked, he also said he knew. Tom-Tom didn’t even have to answer. When he lowered his head, he more than admitted to being a part of the plot. Philip and Vero confessed next and were sent to get me. The rest were sent to Sister Rose Mary’s office and told to wait. As Mayor said with a certain degree of admiration, “She was quick and efficient and got the job done.” Like a good insurance man, I figured.
We had to stand there and wait while the other grades did their performances. Mrs. Branfurs tried to unzip me from my banana costume, but she couldn’t budge the zipper an inch. I was trapped in more ways than one.
After the first few minutes we were all pretty quiet, which let my brain bounce around from thought to thought until it stopped at Kathy Gathers. She was going to be a nun, and that meant she would be out of my life. Forever. I already felt my KG tattoo fading away.
Finally, Sister Rose Mary and Sister Angelica came in and confronted us.
“Why in heaven’s name are you still wearing that ridiculous outfit?” Sister Rose Mary demanded. Fortunately, Mrs. Branfurs came to my defense by explaining that the zipper was stuck, but she wondered if maybe Bernie could get it open with a pair of pliers.
Then Sister Rose Mary got to the point. “Master Murphy,” she said, “why did you pull this . . . this . . . stunt?”
I have to admit I was a little hurt by her calling the costume ridiculous. It was, but I wasn’t sure she should have made fun of Mr. Danes’s hard work like that.
“We . . . I thought it would be fun, Sister.”
“Fun! Someone might have gotten hurt. You do understand that?”
Here’s the thing. I was trapped inside my costume, but also in a weird way protected by it. Like having a shield. So I actually said, “Well, now I do, Sister. I thought it would be something . . . I don’t know. Unusual.”
“Unusual!” And, like Erin (Margaret) O’Connor, Sister Rose Mary was off to the races—lecturing us about responsibility, putting innocent people in danger, creating a mess, and much, much more. Only when she said, “And you did all this as a practical joke!” did I realize that she didn’t know it had been intended to murderlate-embarrass Sister Angelica. None of us corrected her. I once heard Uncle Arthur say, “A witness should only answer the question asked and should never volunteer additional information.” Which sounded like good legal advice right now.
Sister Angelica added some words of her own—about how it didn’t reflect well on her or Sister Mary Brian or the school—but she seemed more sad than angry. This entire episode was certainly going to make for interesting reading in my red MURPHY folder.
In the end, we were all ordered to march to the auditorium to help Bernie clean up the flour onstage and straighten up the place. We also had to help him with various other school things every day after class for two weeks, and we were told that a note would be sent home to our parents. All of which seemed like a pretty light sentence, considering.
And that was it. We did our Bernie time, which was a lot less painful than clock-watch time. The note sent home just said I would be helping Bernie organize the auditorium and other parts of the school. Sister Rose Mary didn’t include any details about why we were helping, and I figured she didn’t want to advertise the prank. My mom said, “Doing volunteer work will build your character.”
I asked my dad about the eraser incident, and he told me about using egg whites to glue every blackboard eraser in his classroom to another one, eraser to eraser, so they stuck together. It didn’t exactly sound like a prank to remember decades later, but maybe you had to be there.
Ellen McDonald kept after me about homework every single day for the rest of the school year. And over the following months my grades did improve. As I said once before, miracles do happen. I started to get between 75s and 80s. Not Roger Sutternhopf grade level, but not horrible, either.
One day in the spring we took a math test and scored each other’s papers. I thought I’d done okay—Ellen had really drilled me on this section of the textbook—but I was still nervous when the scores were read aloud. At last Ruth Wisnewski stood and announced, “James Murphy,” then said, “one hundred!”
I was stunned. A 30 was bad, but 100 percent incorrect was mind-bogglingly awful. Then it dawned on me what she really meant. The next second, the entire class started cheering, and I have to admit, it felt really good to be perfect for once. Sister Angelica might even have cracked a smile. A little one, but I’d take what I could get. Okay, not everyone was cheering. Roger had turned in his seat and was glowering at me. He only got a 90.
Naturally, my brain did its best to help me add to my red folder. A few weeks after the math test, Sister Angelica told us to write a brief essay on any subject in the science book, and we could consult the book while writing it. She wanted us to learn to be “concise and to the point,” and she said that the shortest essay would earn an additional ten points.
I wanted those ten points, so I really thought about it, and without even consulting the text I wrote:
What a Nose Is Good For
A nose is good for smelling the roses and the garbage. A nose is good for breathing in air so you don’t die. A nose is good for storing snot while you look for a Kleenex.
The End.
I thought adding “The End” made the whole thing seem pretty classy. Sister Angelica didn’t, it seemed. I passed, but only because I had the shortest essay.
The bowling league was organized as planned, with five teams of six girls from a number of grades. Sister Angelica promised that next year there would also be a boys’ team. When the bowling season ended in February, Sister Angelica announced the basketball league, which only fifteen girls signed up for. The guys did help out and had fun making believe they were NBA coaches and showing off for the girls.
And that’s pretty much how the rest of the year went. No big mistakes (on my part), just working along day to day and trying not to get into trouble (not always successfully).
On the very last day of the school year, with summer vacation just seven minutes away, Sister Angelica said she wanted to make an announcement. The usual groans followed, of course, but she ignored them. “I think it’s honest to say that we all had a very, very interesting year,” she said. She may have glanced in my direction. “I know I have. And I think you’ve all learned a great deal, and you’re ready for seventh grade. Now go home and have some fun.” This resulted in an unorganized scramble for the door (the first of the year). Sister Angelica called out, “No running, please.” And because it was impossible to escape without additional comment, she added, “And don’t forget to read the books on the summer reading list.”
As we approached the front door of the building, the entire herd of kids slowed. Sister Rose Vincent was standing there, her arms folded across her chest, looking sour and magically keeping everyone from rushing. I wondered if some cherry Jell-O might brighten her day.
A moment later I burst out of the school and into the warm sunshine. Free, I thought. For the next couple of months I’m completely, totally . . .
“Jimmy,” a voice called. “Wait up, Jimmy.” Ellen was right behind me
. “I’m glad I caught up with you so we can talk about next week.”
“Next week?”
“Yes. I’ll call you on Monday night at seven. We can arrange to meet to go the library on Tuesday. Okay?”
“Well, no, now that you ask.”
“Jimmy, you need to read the books on the list to be ready for seventh grade. You do have your list, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” We’d been given the usual wad of multicolored papers to bring home, and I assumed it might be in there somewhere.
“You guess? See, you need help to be sure you get it done. Otherwise you’ll spend the entire summer playing baseball.”
What was wrong with that, I wondered. “I think I can do it myself, Ellen. But thanks.”
“Jimmy, I didn’t work with you all year just to watch you fall behind again. I’ll call you on Monday and we’ll go to the library on Tuesday. You’ll be done by noon, and then you can play your precious baseball.” She looked me square in the eyes and smiled.
Back in September I would have given anything to have Kathy Gathers smile at me. But now Ellen was smiling, and nothing else really mattered.
Ellen didn’t wait to see if I had an answer. She had turned and headed home, but I managed to call after her, “Okay, Monday.” And it kind of felt good to have that on my schedule.
The guys had already split up and disappeared, so I bought some salty potato sticks and began striding home, munching as I went. On the way I passed the three high school girls, and as they glided past, Mr. MacGullion’s daughter said, “Hey, Jim Murphy Jr. We’ll see you next year, right?”
“Absolutely.” I was oddly cheerful, I realized. Being out of school for the summer was one reason, but not even that would make me this strangely happy.
“You have a good summer, Jim Murphy Jr.”
“I will,” I answered. I took a step, then did a fast spin that was more graceful than my Green Banana spin onstage. “You, too.” The quick wave of her hand told me she’d heard me.
Then I was hurrying along again. I had to talk to someone, to empty my brain of everything that was bouncing around in it now. When I pushed open the door to our house, I felt a cool calmness take hold of me. Even the new bright blue tiles in the kitchen made me happy. I checked from the kitchen and saw that Philip’s light was on. I grabbed two bottles of Pepsi from the refrigerator and went out back to Philip’s window.
Philip was reading a book of French phrases when I asked if he wanted a Pepsi. His screen slid up, and he took the bottle.
Here’s the thing: I came to sixth grade hoping that I could change. And I did. But I realized that hoping and changing didn’t just happen in an instant. It was everything between September and now that made the real difference. And I started reciting out loud what had happened to me that year.
“There was that first day with my red folder being waved in my face and Sister Angelica making you talk in English and me being embarrassed in front of Kathy Gathers. Then Sister Regina and that wormy chicken cutlet and Rose Vincent and Sister Rose Mary and clock-watch time. Getting a thirty percent on a quiz and having to call Ellen every night, hitting the door with my head and knocking Sister Ursula on her butt, getting sent to the Enforcer and becoming the Green Banana and having to write that thank-you letter over and over, and you having to stand up and read extra-credit words in English, me hiding behind Joey Spano and the cherry Jell-O incident. And the Plan . . . coming up with the Plan and how you guys volunteered to help Bernie to get it set up. And finding Sister Angelica shooting baskets and ending up helping her with the basketball team and imagining her wearing a short plaid skirt and tight sweater”—this was the only time Philip interrupted me with a “Huh?” so I explained quickly and went on—“then trying to stop the whole thing only to have Rose Vincent stop me, and singing and dancing in front of the entire school and Kathy Gathers becoming a nun and the flour ball exploding and me running and then meeting Sister Immaculata, Ellen and . . . and . . . and . . . everything else that happened.”
When I stopped, I felt lightheaded and wondered how Erin (Margaret) could do this over and over again without fainting. All I could add was, “It was one weird year, Philip. One very weird year.”
Philip stretched his Pepsi bottle out the window so he could clink the bottom with mine. Then he said clearly and confidently in what sounded like a completely new language for him, “Well, Murph, all’s well that ends well.”
What Philip Really Said
MY EDITOR WANTED ME to translate everything Philip said right in the text, but I said no. Philip hardly ever translated for us, and I figure that all of you are capable of looking back here at the translations if you feel like it. By the way, when I wrote to my editor to say no in-text translations, I ended my short message with something Philip once said: “Quando si sottovalutano i vostri figli, voi sottovalutate voi stessi.” Something to think about, don’t you agree?
CAVEAT EMPTOR: Let the buyer beware. (Latin)
ERIN GO BRAGH: Ireland forever
HOSTIS HUMANI GENERIS: Enemy of the human race (Latin)
MI NOMBRE ES . . . : My name is . . . (Spanish)
OBIT ANUS, ABIT ONUS: The old woman dies, the burden is lifted. (Latin)
IL TIRANNO SARA ROVESCIATE DA MANI DI MOLTE PERSONE BUONE: The tyrant can be toppled by the hands of many good people. (Italian)
ALEA IACTA EST: The die is cast. (Latin)
NON C’È NULLA DA TEMERE QUANDO GLI AMICI SONO VICINO: There is nothing to fear when friends are near. (Italian)
RINGRAZIO, IL MIO BUON AMICO. TI RINGRAZIO: Thank you, my good friend. Thank you. (Italian)
J’ACCUSE: I accuse. (French)
NELLA BOCCA DEL LUPO: Into the mouth of the wolf (Italian)
QUANDO SI SOTTOVALUTATE I VOSTRI FIGLI, VOI SOTTOVALUTATE VOI STESSI: When you underestimate your children, you underestimate yourself. (Italian)
SEMPRE LA VERITÀ FA MALE IL COLPEVOLE: The truth always hurts the guilty. (Italian)
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About the Author
Photo by Joy Yagid
JIM MURPHY breaks new ground with Revenge of the Green Banana, his first standalone novel. His nonfiction books, most recently Breakthrough!, have garnered consistent praise and almost every available award. Jim lives in Maplewood, New Jersey, with his family. He admits that Revenge of the Green Banana is semiautobiographical.
Footnotes
* Okay, I have to make a confession. The truth is that just about every name in this book is real, but not every every one is, if you get my drift. But, after all, this is a novel, which means it’s fiction, which means that some stuff is made up. In a way, everyone who writes a novel is a liar in big and small ways (but that’s a subject you should take up with your language arts teacher if you really want to know the truth).
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