It’s going to be awful
She spends the morning with the mementos of her father, giving a full listen to both sides of Tim Buckley’s Happy Sad. With plenty of time to spare, she heads out of the apartment and onto the quiet street. In her wanderings, she has found four routes into the downtown and all of them involve crossing bridges. She comes to an intersection and runs through her options: the one by the railroad tracks,
Van
the tall footbridge nearby, the busy one with the flowers along the sides, or the little wooden one furthest away. Based on the view it affords, she settles on the tall one.
She heads downhill, past the brick houses, navigating the twisting tree-lined streets until she reaches the bridge. The structure is huge, a concrete curve that arches high above the river. Its length is supported by gigantic pillars, their bases embedded in the shallow brown water of the river. Resting her hand on the wide concrete railing, she begins walking up the long, gentle incline.
She reaches the top of the bridge and takes a moment to survey her surroundings. She leans her elbows on the ledge, hunching her shoulders and scanning the view. The trees haven’t changed yet, although a few have taken on a golden tinge.
Beautiful
Peaks of houses peek out of the rolling forests that surround her. The buildings of downtown are off to her left, visible now as a mix of old limestone and church steeples. She looks down to the smooth surface of the river, wondering if the fall is high enough to kill. If not, would you end up paralyzed, or worse?
The thought of being confined to a bed, unable to walk or even use the bathroom, surrounded at all times by probing doctors, is so repugnant to her that she can’t suppress a shiver. She pulls her coat around her and descends the far side of the bridge.
As she enters her mother’s store, a tiny electronic doorbell buzzes unpleasantly. Looking toward the counter, she sees her mother in conversation with another woman. Both look up at the sound.
“There she is!” Mary’s mother calls out, her face lighting up.
“Hi Mom,” Mary replies and moves sheepishly into the store.
“Well, this must be the young lady your mother has spoken so much about!” The other woman approaches her. “Rhonda,” her name tag says. She is a tall woman with hair dyed a startling orange. Her rather bulky frame is crammed into a too-small pant suit. “You’re right, Barbie, she’s a real beauty.”
Even more than the nametag that reads “Barbara,” Mary is surprised that anyone would call her mother Barbie. In the past, she was always just Barb.
“Come over here. Let’s get a look at you.” Mary shambles in Rhonda’s direction and cringes as the woman sticks both hands into Mary’s hair, quickly rearranging it. “Now, your mother says that you’re thinking of changing your hair and I have to agree that you definitely need a makeover. This center part isn’t doing anything for your pretty face.”
Leave me alone
“No makeup?” she asks, turning to Mary’s mother.
No, and if you touch me again, I’m going to turn and run
“Don’t think I haven’t tried,” Mary’s mother replies. “She’s just too stubborn.”
“We have to get your hair away from those big brown eyes. And these black clothes really don’t work with your dark hair. Trust me, honey, I’ve been working in fashion my whole life. I know style.”
Don’t say it
“See, Sweetie?” her mother says. “It’s not just me! Everyone thinks you need a makeover. And she has such a nice figure,” her mother says, turning to Rhonda. “You should see her in her bra and panties. She’s a knockout. Not that she’d be caught dead in a bikini.
Kill me now
“She refuses to wear anything but these depressing, shapeless clothes. The women who come in here would die to have her measurements!”
Get away, away, away
“Mom…”
“What? Oh, don’t be so gloomy! Let’s look around the store a bit.”
“I’m really hungry.”
“Well … I was hoping we could do a little clothes shopping for you before we left, but we can do it after lunch, I guess. Rhonda, are you okay here if I take early lunch?”
“Oh, I think I can handle it. You two have fun.”
As they leave the store, Mary’s mother scolds her. “You know, you didn’t have to be so rude. She was only trying to help.”
“I don’t want her help.”
“Mary! What is wrong with you? It’s like you’re on another planet these days. Everyone needs help sometimes.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be. Now, where would you like to go for lunch? Your choice!”
Mary leads her mother to the glass front of a small diner, its interior lined with dark vinyl booths.
“Are you sure this is where you want to go? Why don’t we pick someplace nicer? Just because we’ve had to start over doesn’t mean we can’t treat ourselves.”
Mary likes the looks of the place; it seems so unadorned.
“I’m sure.”
They enter the restaurant and select a booth. The menus – old and slightly greasy – are stored in a little wire tray along with the condiments. Mary and her mother each take one. Some of the prices have been scratched out with a pen and new ones written above.
“What do you think, Sweetie? I’m going to go for the grilled chicken Caesar salad and an iced tea. This whole place smells like grease so I’m not getting anything fried. My clothes will already stink when we leave. No one wants to buy a dress from someone who smells like old bacon grease.”
Mary ignores her, or tries to, focusing instead on her menu. She has never been particularly good at making choices, and ordering in restaurants is no exception.
At last, she says, “I’ll get a grilled cheese, I guess.”
“Just a grilled cheese? Why not try something a little fancier? I didn’t even see a grilled cheese on the menu.” Her mother turns the menu over in her hand, looking for the missing sandwich. “Mary, the grilled cheese is on the children’s menu! I’m not even sure they’ll let you order it. Do you want to pick something else?”
“No,” Mary answers quietly.
“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to ask. Here’s our waitress.” A tall, strongly built woman wearing a brown dress and white apron approaches their table.
“What can I get you beautiful ladies?” she asks sweetly in a lilting accent.
“I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar salad and a large iced tea. My daughter … she wants to order from the children’s menu … is that all right?”
“No problem,” the waitress replies. Turning to Mary, she asks, “What would you like, my dear?”
“A grilled cheese, please.”
“Wonderful. All kids’ menu items come with curly fries or vegetable sticks and a glass of white or chocolate milk.”
“Um …” Mary says, unsure what to pick.
Her mother leans forward. “Pick soon, Sweetie, the waitress doesn’t have all day.”
“I guess … fries and a chocolate milk.”
“Excellent. It shouldn’t be long,” the waitress says with a smile. She heads to the kitchen. Mary alternates between feeling proud of holding fast, of going against her mother’s wishes, and feeling childish for the very same reason.
“Have you heard the saying,” her mother asks, “‘When I was a child, I behaved like a child, but now I’m grown up and I have to start acting like it?’ I don’t want you to miss out on anything that life has to offer. You shouldn’t be afraid to try new things.”
Easy for you to say
Mary remains silent, staring at the chipped veneer of the table top.
“So,” her mother asks, changing the topic, “how is your new school? Pretty different, I’ll bet!”
“It’s all right.”
It’s horrible
Mostly
“Just all right? What about your classes? Tell me about your schedule.”
Mary look
s at the silver condiment caddy as she tries to recall her timetable. “I have English, Biology, Psychology, and then French last period.”
“Psychology? In high school? Since when does that happen?” Mary shrugs. “Well, it sounds like a real tough semester. How are your teachers?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Mary, I’m just trying to have a conversation, but it’s like pulling teeth with you. Just talk to me like a normal
Normal
human being for once. Just pick a teacher and tell me about him!” her mother says, exasperated.
Just do it, it will make her happy
“Well, I have one teacher, Mr. Woods, for English.”
“What’s he like?”
“Um … not very nice, I guess. He acts like he’s really smart and he likes to make students feel stupid.”
“That’s awful! He hasn’t done anything like that to you, has he?” her mother asks with true concern.
He singled me out
He made me look stupid
He made fun of my name, my real name
“No,
YES
but he has these four rules you have to follow and, if you don’t do it, then you can’t ask him for any help or anything.”
“Sounds like a real hardass, pardon my French.”
“Yeah.”
The waitress appears by the side of their table. “Here are your drinks, ladies,” she says, setting down a tall glass of iced tea and a very small chocolate milk in a translucent pink plastic cup. “The kids’ milk is very small. Would you like me to order you a larger one?”
“No,” Mary says, embarrassed by the tiny glass in front of her.
“Thank you,” her mother says. “You can have some of mine if you want, Sweetie.” She takes a drink of her iced tea and winces. “Ugh! It tastes tinny, like it came from an old can. I can’t see myself coming back here any time soon.”
Fine
“So, do you want me to come and talk to this Mr. Woods?
NO NO NO
I won’t have anyone pushing my daughter around.”
“It’s okay.”
“Well, what about your other teachers? Any cute ones you want to set me up with?”
“Mom!” Mary says, embarrassed but smiling a little.
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be such a fuddy duddy.”
“No one like that. I don’t think so, anyway. I have, uh … Mr. Marten for psychology, but he’s kind of old. He’s nice, though.”
“How old can he be if he’s still teaching?”
Mary thinks about the question. She’s never really paid attention to people’s ages.
“Sixty, maybe?”
“If he’s sixty, he’s probably ready for retirement. Teacher perks.”
“My other teachers are both girls.”
“Women, Sweetie. Grown-up girls are called women.”
“Sorry.”
And what am I?
“I have Ms. Calens for biology. She’s okay; kind of serious. I haven’t really talked to her.”
“What’s your last class again?”
“French. I have Mademoiselle Mesrine for that. She’s quiet. The class is kind of hard.”
“Here you go, ladies!” the waitress says, appearing beside them with two plates.
“Enjoy!”
“Well, that was fast. And it looks good,” Mary’s mother says, surprised.
“Mm hmm,” Mary replies, reaching for the ketchup.
Her mother takes a bite and rocks her head back in forth in a gesture of indecision. “It’s all right. Nothing to write home about. How’s yours?”
Mary uses the side of her fork to cut a bite from her soft, stringy sandwich and then dips the morsel into her ketchup, covering it completely. After taking a bite, she nods to her mother, gesturing approval.
“You know, Sweetie, you can get away with eating all of that starchy, fatty food now, but someday your metabolism will slow down and it will go straight to your hips.”
Why should I care?
“So,” her mother says between bites and with a twinkle in her eye, “any good-looking boys?”
Nate
She shrugs.
Her mother wipes her lips with a napkin and sets it on the table in mild frustration. “I know I’m your mother and you think I’m as old as the hills, but I was your age once. A beautiful girl like you, starting in a new school, the boys must be falling all over themselves to talk to you!”
“Not really. I’ve talked to a few people.”
“Any good friend material, at least?” her mother asks and, once again, Mary offers her a disinterested gesture, following it with another bite of ketchup-coated grilled cheese. “I know you feel like I’m nagging you, but I just don’t want you to be lonely.”
“I’m okay, Mom. I just don’t want to talk about school.”
“All right, Sweetie, but you have a really great opportunity here with this new school, so, please, take advantage of it.”
You mean, don’t end up alone, again
Her thoughts go back to her old school: the girls, the uniforms, the wide brick hallways. It is a big change, this new school. Like following an unknown path, it offers both dangers and exhilarations. At her old school, she had always tried to maintain her invisibility, to not stand out, to remain separate from everyone else. Surprisingly, perhaps even miraculously, it usually worked. Her classmates left her alone. Her teachers invariably and erroneously perceived her to be one of those silent, studious girls who keep to themselves, do their homework, and cry when they get anything less than perfect. This perception faded as Mary consistently produced C-grade work. She was intelligent, there was no doubt about it, but she didn’t participate in class, didn’t seem to care. She was distracted.
Occasionally, a girl would try to take Mary under her wing as a sort of pet project. But as Mary continually rejected their invitations to stay overnight, go to parties, or to be social in any way, their “My Fair Lady” fantasies would wither. They would lose interest and Mary would feel relieved to be left alone once more.
Her conflicts with other students, inevitable in so small a space, were few. One day, as Mary was shuffling down the hall, clutching her notebook to her chest, she rounded a corner, only to collide with another girl coming from the opposite direction. Mary dropped her notebook, her papers scattering.
“Shit, sorry about that,” the other girl said.
“S’okay,” Mary replied, hastily gathering her schoolwork.
“You all right? Nothing broken?”
Mary didn’t reply, but stood up to continue on her way. She had no idea how to carry on a conversation, especially with a confident girl like this.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” the girl had said to Mary. “God, stuck-up much?”
The girl kept up a half-hearted hate campaign against Mary for a few weeks, silently mouthing the word “BITCH” at her whenever she passed. It was absolute hell but, in a short time, the girl grew tired of Mary’s passivity and simply moved on.
Mary’s mother slips twenty dollars into the black folder that holds their bill. “Oh, shoot! I was going to get a coffee to go. Do you want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“You can try my coffee, if you like.”
“I don’t like coffee.”
“How can you know you don’t like it if you haven’t even tried it?!”
“I just don’t like it.” Mary can feel herself growing irritated.
“This is just what I meant when I was talking about growing up.”
Mary is silent for a moment. “I’ll have a hot chocolate, I guess.”
“Are you sure? You had chocolate milk with lunch.”
What do you want from me?
“I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t get something just for the sake of getting it.”
“Okay, I’ll try a coffee. Can I put cream and sugar in it?”
“Of course!” Mary’s mother leans over and waves
to their waitress. “Can I have two coffees to go?” She leans back in her chair. “So, what are you going to do with the rest of your day?”
Something you can’t know
“Homework, I guess.”
“Well, don’t work too hard. It’s a nice day. You should get out and enjoy it. You’re lucky you’re not stuck inside all day like me.”
The waitress returns with two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a small silver bowl of creamers.
“Thank you,” Mary’s mother says to the waitress, taking the coffees in hand.
“No problem. Do you need any change?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“Okay. You two enjoy your day.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Mary’s mother slides a coffee cup across the table. Mary peels off the cup’s thin plastic lid and sniffs at the dark brew inside. She begins emptying creamers into it, turning the coffee a light bronze. She reaches for a glass dispenser and begins pouring sugar into her cup.
“Dear Lord, Sweetie! How much sugar are you putting in?”
Mary shrugs, then sets the dispenser down on the table. She stirs her coffee with a spoon, then takes a cautious sip. The addition of copious amounts of sugar and cream have made the coffee rich and sweet.
“What do you think?” her mother asks.
Not bad
“It’s okay.”
CHAPTER
Nine
Face turned to the floor, her eyes glancing slightly upwards, Mary can see Nate jogging to the door of the English room, his face flushed with effort. When he reaches the door, he stops and peers in the room, checking to see if class has begun. He leans back against the door frame and exhales with great relief. Mary stops walking, unsure whether she wants to pass him as she enters. She watches him as he pinches the front of his red polo shirt, drawing it away from himself and waving it in an attempt to slow the sweat that’s blooming on his chest and under his arms. She steels her nerves and walks toward him. He smiles when he sees her approach.
“Hi, Mary,” he says as she reaches the doorway. “Whew. I gotta get back in training. Ready for another awesome day with Woodrow?”
Looking at the floor, she fails to stifle a smile. “I guess so,” she replies. Her stomach burns at the thought of even entering Mr. Woods’s classroom, let alone being subjected to another hour and a half of his pompous condescension. It’s more than just the nervous nausea she has experienced her whole life. It’s something else, something fierce and new.
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