Schooling

by Heather McGowan

  Cyclops looks pleased, she has shown panic, a coming unglued. He presses his lips together to convey—what? There are questions, yes there are questions. Silently he nods her toward the door.

  A moment outside, listening to the creaks of Cyclops swiveling. A talent for science. Then she bolts down the red stairs out the grand entrance shouldering open the heavy door asked for her specifically front lawn parking lot between the cars of secretaries and cleaners the ones who go home at night to gas fires and attentive pets running across to the patch of trees breaking through them breathing hard through them blurred coming up against the wall to outside.

  Can’t they take a joke. Rough hand troubling the bricks, like finding like. Face against the cool red. Don’t they know how it goes in boarding school stories. Isabelle would not have been discovered. Isabelle. She turns around. Isabelle’s face against the cold window. Through the trees, the school’s drive encircles a composed lawn. A grid of tidy cars. Give me a desert because it is clean. Isabelle had never taken the cold seat, Isabelle was a girl she once saw opening a door. A voice cried out Isabelle that was all the Isabelle she had or knew. Check the tale. Sinking down against the wall. The boys had come for her. Headmaster, leaning back on his swivel chair, coughing into a handkerchief like some victim of tuberculosis, swiping under his eyepatch and reflecting on Nature. Bursar crosses the lawn to her car. Boys will be boys, or bad apples. And Gilbert, hips against lab bench, leaning over, a sidelong appraisal Your Teeth Your Hair You’re Disgusting. Bursar shakes a key from its clutch, a breeze picks up, shivering her hem. Bursar shouts You are yourself a bad apple You are yourself wanting knees and forehead sweat mingling hair tangled hands all over. Bursar pulls in her feet and slams the car door shut. Holding his innocent triangle Father will hurry to the phone. Eight two oh three four one? The toast will grow cold as will his fingers where they grip the receiver. Father will say I don’t understand, I have just bought a new house and arranged for the piano to sit in the drawing room. No one plays it, no one ever did or maybe the mother did, I can’t recall at this moment as you’ve caught me eating toast on the way out the door, but I will tell you that I wanted the girl to unpack our paintings and roll out the rugs. And you suggesting she’s a delinquent of some kind takes me by surprise. Bursar’s car disappears through the gate. Father sighs Well, Stokesy, I don’t know what to tell you, we only ever had still lifes at our house.

  18

  Sophie’s pulling her down the Avenue after school to show her letters she’s been writing to a Dane. As they get to School House, a mattress sails out of a fifth-floor window on the girls’ side. Landing in the courtyard, a blue ticking lump.

  19

  Who can say exactly when Owen Wharton replaces their Thursday-night Preptaker the girl who takes ill or goes missing but there’s a fine penmanship out of keeping with his leather jacket. Imagine him as a shadow in the louvered doors to a saloon. Only the saloon is Follyfield number four and it’s a cold Thursday night and outside the set, instead of a dusty mainstreet, there’s wet green bushes, an iron gate and a distressing lack of tumbleweed.

  Owen Wharton, he says setting down a perfect stack of books and that undefinable accent. Welsh? Half a jigger of Scotch? A splash of the States? No questions until half past and I mean none. Therefore no one politely inquires, You a Mick?

  When the clock approaches eight Owen puts down his book and blows on his wrist . . . I’m stage-managing the Aristophanes for Percival. Percy’s alright outside Latin, when he’s not pressing for ablatives, so let’s have some volunteers . . . the boy stands, ambles over to the wooden lockers. He wears motorcycle buskins, begins a monologue . . . A play entitled The Birds.

  It’s black out, the glass reflects an indistinct face.

  After all, there seem to be more than a few theatrical types in this classroom . . . Owen raps on the lockers . . . Actors among you.

  She turns from the window.

  Pay attention. Wouldn’t you all like to wear wings? As close to angels as you’ll ever get. It’s a play where men become birds. A search for a utopia. Doesn’t that sound compelling. Mortals, gods, yes it’s Greek don’t interrupt. About the disaffected, those left out. The birds win you see. If I were Patrick Betts I could point out the resonances I could point out how this is relevant to you brats in your lines of little desks filling your ink pens on the hour tripping to the toilet as many times as possible to avoid learning your history. On the other hand I could leave it for you to learn I could let you actually have a thought on your own which would be novel enough and not unnoble of me. Yes, an escapist play if by escapist we mean the futile attempt by men to escape the anguish of existence. O suffering mankind your lives of twilight, pale generations, you wingless! The fading! Unhappy mortals, shadows in time, flickering dreams but not to worry for there’s a wedding at the end, happily ever after and all that.

  Shyly, Duncan Peaks raises his hand.

  Right, there’s one.

  Simon Puck stands on his chair, croaks.

  There’s two, now sit down before you break your skull. Who else will volunteer?

  Silence.

  Owen leans down to Brickie, plants hands on his desktop . . . You? Wouldn’t you like to be a god?

  Brickie tips back in his chair . . . Am already.

  Legend in your own mind, perhaps . . . a comedian, this Owen . . . But I can provide an audience.

  20

  A Maggot enters the washroom. The audience consists of a girl at the basin consulting her program for last-minute substitutions.

  MAGGONE

  So this is what they teach in America, is it? Photographs of boys?

  Rudely, the Maggot doesn’t wait for a response, but stops downstage for a brief soliloquy before she goes.

  MAGGONE

  I have longed for a certain warmth since my days in Italy when I took to a boy named Marco. If I had the time now and did not have to rush back down to stalk the row of baths checking that girls scrub behind their ears but nowhere else well I would tell you of this boy named Marco his Vespa skittering chickens in the Piazza Nettuna as we raced for the hills.

  Enter the Widow, aknit.

  MAGGONE

  Do you have Vespas in France, Genevieve?

  ARAIGNY

  I do not know what they drive now, les gosses, for I have not been back in such a time. Twenty years ago Paris made boys like your Marco with difficult lips and questions, hands at their eyebrows and through their hair, I remember a Jean-Pierre, I recall Sebastian, a Luc, Hubert. Heaven knows what has become of them now but I hitched up skirts to reveal showy garters, danced on tables, ran all night.

  MAGGONE

  (sniffing)

  How very Weimar.

  DEVON (entering)

  Genevieve, if I had the time now and did not have to rush away to illustrate the finer points of the color wheel, well I would tell you of a boy called Pablo. In the city of Madrid we painted together, he took me under a sheet when it rained well I don’t want to tell you at the risk of boasting but he fell for me in broken sentences.

  A large hook yanks the art teacher o fstage.

  ARAIGNY

  In Paris I drank alcohol disguised as licorice, cursed hegemony, the status quo, belittled foreign governments for preferring intrusion to insight. I cried Revolution, if you please, let’s overthrow the state. I had some youth, some youth was mine.

  MAGGONE

  Oh those days. Dear Marco I penned in the best Italian I had, Dear Marco you must know that until my time in Rome, I had felt the loss of some forgotten beauty.

  ARAIGNY

  That sounds poetic, you must read Molière.

  MAGGONE

  Yes, I was nineteen. Please don’t interrupt. The loss of some forgotten beauty Marco bedazzler sphinx I think on you in my Sussex bedsit where I eat lentils under a cobweb I can’t bring down you are a monument wonder my constant heart you delighted me.

  21

  At night the boys arrive. Hopping, b
owed legs caught by their trousers. Shadows in time. Tripping on the moonlit field, falling but never landing. In his life of twilight, Paul hops too, Y-fronts bright against the dusk. They know she is American, they angle for better light. They are naked, they are nude. She tries to capture their pale generations. Paint a wolf, watch it bite. Betts and Araigny entangled on the hockey pitch, beast with two backs. Real boys in greek surroundings. Mother, an odalisque. Fading. The guide suggests, Use more blue. Have a sense of proportion. Then alarm. Pillow trembling. Difficult to know a dream without the alarm. Stealing through the sleeping dorms. Across the deserted morning to his chemistry lab to lean against the door.

  You the brat? . . . shaken awake. A tall girl stands before her, red hair, jagged, lifted by the breeze.

  Yes.

  Aurora . . . the girl shakes out a ring of keys, shoving Catrine aside with her hip . . . Budge . . . pushing the door open . . . Sometimes I take a quick kip here myself . . . the girl chops on the lights . . . But don’t let them catch you.

  Cold. Bunsen burners patient under his windows, floor swept clean. Up front, Gilbert’s lab bench, cycloned with cleaning powder.

  Aurora stops, assesses her. Men’s shoes, overtheknee socks, tuck key strung on a chain around the neck, hair. Gently, the girl pulls out the V of Catrine’s sweater and drops the key down it.

  Better. Nothing pretty about an old key . . . Aurora stops at a dial on the wall, lamenting softly to herself, then she disappears through a doorway in the back of the lab calling out . . . Don’t ever expect it to be anything but fucking freezing in here.

  What does he think, sitting up here facing them all. Is a question. Second row, third seat across. There she is, directly in his eyeline, unkempt, odd, brunt of his jokes, object—

  You American? . . . Aurora reappears cinching a lab coat. Aust—

  I’ve got nothing to say about them one way or another . . . the lab coat swamps Aurora. Not a student coat, fraying, shrunk with use.

  Gilbert’s?

  Got the flu . . . Aurora shakes out a student coat from a pile, crumples it into a ball and hurls it across the room into Catrine’s lap.

  I hate the green ones.

  Don’t wear it then.

  Walking over to the sinks, she threads the sash through a slit in one side of the ugly coat.

  I used to watch an American show on television . . . Aurora hands her a pair of rubber gloves . . . Did you ever see it? Out in the West. About a cowboy and his friend Kid put those on . . . leaning . . . Pass me that sponge no that one. Kid, the cowboy always said, this is your cleaning sponge, the famous line. Kid, we’ve got miles to clear before daybreak. You never saw it? The cowboy always fell off his horse. That was the big joke. Everyone was terrified of him but the man couldn’t ride to save his life. Do you ride?

  I galloped across Arabia on an apple tree I led rebelli—

  I do. Or did. He and the Kid could never saddle up in front of anyone. Or they would know he was a crap cowboy . . . Aurora bends to a shelf beneath the lab counter. Out comes a plastic tub crammed with test tubes and beakers . . . Always wear gloves. Dishes’ve all been rinsed but God knows what chemical’s been left on. And we don’t want our fingers to wither up and drop off. So, we’ve got our gloves, we’ve got our favorite pink sponge . . . Aurora holds it up . . . And if you’re wondering where the dishes belong, I’ll tell you as we go.

  Maybe it was an Australian show.

  I know the difference between American and Australian. Kid could ride anything. Once even a buffalo. That’s why they were partners, you see. Made up for each other’s lapses. That’s how it works on television.

  I remember now, Miles to clear before daybreak, that was the line.

  Don’t lie to me, Kid. I can spot it a mile away . . . Aurora pulls back her hair with a damp yellow glove . . . So. Let’s have the story. Photographs . . . Aurora waits, holding up her gloved hands in a presurgery position . . . How did you get them to do it?

  Well . . . checking the bottom of a petri dish for a prompt stamped in the ceramic . . . My father gave me a camera for Christmas.

  Don’t look so worried, Kid, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.

  They came upon me . . . that wasn’t right . . . I saw them, I thought I could take a picture . . . was that it then, she thought she was Rembrandt.

  Then you asked, s’il vous plaît, might they strip?

  Yes. Or I didn’t say anything and they just did it. I thought, well. Well, why not.

  Why not indeed . . . Aurora strips off her rubber gloves, throws them on the counter . . . That’s enough work for one day.

  The girl disappears into the storeroom. A moment later she returns holding a brown bottle. Watch me be a scientist, Aurora says rolling her eyes to indicate lunacy. Uncapping the bottle, she slops the chemical onto Gilbert’s lab bench.

  Isn’t that dangerous?

  Risk makes it an experiment, Doodle. Aurora snatches the spatula from her astonished hand, What do you think they keep back there? Arsenic? A certain tension creeps in. Please stop, that could hurt him. Aurora uncoils the tube to a bunsen burner and fixes it to the gas line Don’t you pay attention? reaching for the lighter. Nothing happens unless you apply heat.

  This girl is one loose cannon, running back for safety goggles, a real Isabelle this one, dragging a stool to stand on, this one could have you with tires down hills and into cars men flying all over the place disfigured, scarred or incapacitated unless the rolling had been her idea after all in the beginning, etc. which has not been established one way or the other but the association in terms of girls, men dead or non and out of control experiments, is simply not a good one for anyone. As Aurora continues to click the lighter, oblivious to Catrine pulling out the chopstick holding up her hair, the tumbling red meets the burst of flame in a nasty smelt, eliciting the yell What Are You Doing Kid I’m On Fire but she keeps forcing the safety goggles on over Aurora’s head even as Aurora flaps and beats her off I’ve Caught Alight, Kid Find the Extinguisher Smother Me Smother Me. Hitting Aurora on the head to squelch her hair but Aurora is laughing and falling can’t see past her hair then the bunsen tube catches and drags the fire is falling falling on both of them as they go down down it’s all girls and fires fires and girls flying hair obscuring who is who so she is Aurora and Aurora is she slipping on soapy runoff from the dropped sponge slipping and now it’s on her the flame and she kicks at it desperately because for some reason they are both snorting with laughter, incapable of stopping any sort of fire Aurora clutching her chest I’m Suffering Smoke Inhalation and the bunsen rolling rolling I’ve Got Black Lung rolling laughing rolling down a hill crawling after it over a sponge leaving its wet rectangle on her skirt down down. I’m Dying I’m Dying. The bunsen knuckles against Gilbert’s desk, flickering to a rest. Leaps of light cast shadows against the pale wood. Stretching, she twists off the flame. The air changes, the lab cold again. Throat sore from laughing or smoke. Pressing the tuck key against her skin. Slowly she stands.

  Aurora remains on the floor in a cross . . . I died in fire, Kid.

  I’ll Resurrect You she thinks to say later because now there isn’t time there’s a sharp rapping at the window causing them to jump up in a flurry of caught-in-the-act.

  Flash.

  They look at each other.

  Another flash.

  A camera is being held to the window. Another flash. They run over. Brickie. Next to him, Simon Puck, a beak strapped to his nose. Brickie smiles and. Is that a wink.

  Who’s that boy with the bird?

  Brickie saunters back toward School House, swinging a camera, followed closely by Simon.

  I don’t know. Some bastard.

  Is that supposed to be funny? I should teach him who my friends are. Remind him . . . Aurora presses the lighter against her arm, clicks it.

  Don’t, Aurora.

  It only lights gas . . . Aurora considers the lighter . . . I was on fire.

  22

  Along Schoo
l House corridor after the Physics she will fail for not understanding angles of light Sophie gushing But Catrine think of the ineffability of particles the sheer ungettability of chaos how disturbing that we are after all nothing more than dust. They continue on, speaking of what lies between milk and milk of magnesia. And what of nothingness? Well says Sophie If you want to speak about death, let’s talk about your moth—

  Girls!

  Too late, a fall of footsteps indicates Betts hot on their heels hallooing their name to reverberate hills.

  Girls, may I interrupt your flattery of guitar idols for a moment to touch on matters of substance?

  Sophie vaults into the washroom leaving her alone with Betts.

  He gauges her . . . I understand that Mr. Gilbert has put you to some use in his chemistry lab.

  Yes sir.

  Wasn’t that thoughtful of him? Even dragged himself to the committee meeting with a horrid case of influenza.

  She waits for what Betts has come to say.

  Not many would go to such trouble for a disobedient pupil but . . . Betts steps aside to let Puck pass . . . I know that Mr. Gilbert has more patience than most.

  She moves to go.

  Of course—

  What.

  Some have it that patience is actually despair dressed as a virtue . . . Betts smiles . . . In the case of Mr. Gilbert, I mean it as a compliment. A true prince. Had he been a witness to the farce, he might feel differently.

  A passel of 4Y emerges from a classroom sweeping her up in a lunch-bound frenzy, bearing her down the corridor. What rich comedy you’ve found for yourself, Betts shouts after her. She finally frees herself by the dining hall. Down the hall, Betts is leaning against the washroom window, ploughing a pen in his blue notebook.