Just Like That

by Gary D. Schmidt

  But that wasn’t all she was working on, because on Friday, Mrs. Connolly was holding the first meeting of the St. Elene’s Literary Society and Meryl Lee had to submit a Shakespearean sonnet to show her interest and commitment, and since Meryl Lee figured Mrs. Connolly did not like her very much, she worked like Shakespeare himself were going to read her Shakespearean sonnet.

  “Do you know how hard it is to write a Shakespearean sonnet?” she said Thursday night.

  “How many did Shakespeare write?” said Heidi.

  “I think he wrote a hundred and fifty or something like that,” said Meryl Lee.

  “Then how hard can it be?” said Heidi.

  “That’s it,” said Meryl Lee. “If I’m going, then you’re going too.”

  “I don’t write poetry,” said Heidi.

  “It looks like you will now,” said Jennifer.

  Heidi looked at Jennifer. “Then so will you.”

  “I’ve never written a poem,” said Jennifer.

  “Sticks down,” said Heidi.

  “Let’s go find Marian and Charlotte,” said Meryl Lee.

  On Friday morning, Meryl Lee finished her Shakespearean sonnet. So did Jennifer, Heidi, Charlotte, and Marian.

  Then on Friday afternoon, after classes, feeling as if this was going to be a disaster, going mostly because of Dr. MacKnockater because she sure did not want to go herself, Meryl Lee appeared in Putnam Library to join the St. Elene’s Literary Society, led by the sharp-ars—by the beloved Mrs. Connolly and open to anyone connected to St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls.

  There were only six girls there from the eighth grade: Meryl Lee, Jennifer, Heidi, Charlotte, Marian—and Ashley, who sat in the back, behind them all, rubbing the string of pearls against her chin. Four girls had come from the seventh grade, and two from the sixth—and they sat sort of fearfully in the front row.

  It did not help their cause that when Mrs. Connolly asked what had inspired them to come and participate in the new literary society, one whispered, “Mrs. Felch is giving extra credit.”

  When Mrs. Connolly stood straight and told the sixth graders that extra credit was poor motivation for joining a literary society, it seemed as if gravity had suddenly come upon them, and their bodies shrank and collapsed into their seats.

  Mrs. Connolly began the first meeting of the St. Elene’s Literary Society by reading one of Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud.

  Meryl Lee had no idea what the whole “if this be error and upon me proved” thing was about.

  “Now,” Mrs. Connolly said, “I will read the submitted sonnets written in the style of the master.” She gave a significant look at the sixth graders—which led to more collapsing. “We will begin with the eighth-grade girls.”

  She first read Jennifer’s sonnet about St. Elene’s Arm and its rings and then said to her, “I welcome you formally into the Literary Society of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls.” Everyone clapped politely.

  Then she read Marian’s sonnet about a garden scene on a remote island, and by the time she was done, Meryl Lee could smell the petunias in the salt air.

  Mrs. Connolly welcomed Marian formally into the Literary Society of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls.

  Then she read Heidi’s sonnet about scoring a soccer goal, and Charlotte’s about the ocean, and everyone clapped politely, and Mrs. Connolly welcomed them formally into the Literary Society of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, even if, she said, soccer might not be an altogether appropriate subject for a Shakespearean sonnet.

  Then she read Ashley’s sonnet about cats, and even though Meryl Lee thought a sonnet that had a whole lot of lines that ended with cat, mat, hat, sat, and rat might not be altogether appropriate for a Shakespearean sonnet, Mrs. Connolly said to Ashley, “I welcome you formally into the Literary Society of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls.” Everyone clapped politely again.

  Then Mrs. Connolly came to Meryl Lee’s sonnet. And after she finished reading it, she put it down on the desk beside her. “Miss Kowalski,” she said, “you have not fulfilled the assignment.”

  And Meryl Lee said, “I thought I did.”

  “The assignment was to write a Shakespearean sonnet. You have not written a Shakespearean sonnet.”

  And Meryl Lee said, “I think I did.”

  “Miss Kowalski, what must the final two lines do in a Shakespearean sonnet?”

  “Rhyme.”

  “Do your final two lines rhyme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Obviously they do not, since slain and again do not rhyme.”

  “Mrs. Connolly, I have been studying the sonnets of William Shakespeare, and he rhymed slain and again.”

  “Slain and again might have rhymed in the English language during the Renaissance, but they do not rhyme now. And you should have chosen a subject more suitable to the sonnet form than the Vietnam War.”

  Meryl Lee stood up.

  “Meryl Lee,” said Jennifer.

  “Maybe I should have picked something like cats,” said Meryl Lee.

  “Cats would have been more appropriate,” said Mrs. Connolly.

  “Obviously,” said Ashley.

  “I think poetry should deal with something more significant than cats,” said Meryl Lee.

  “And I think not every student at St. Elene’s is suited to this literary society,” said Mrs. Connolly. “You are accepted provisionally. Sit down, please.”

  By then, gravity had collapsed the four seventh graders into their chairs too.

  Meryl Lee sat for the rest of the literary society meeting:

  And hockey stick she wished she bravely held

  To scatter her foes, and Connolly fell.

  And she didn’t care that held and fell didn’t exactly rhyme.

  * * *

  Saturday night, midnight, raining hard. Meryl Lee was still awake, still trying to figure out how to compose a Kate Greenaway painting. The wind was coming up and the rain blasted against the windows—and suddenly a flash of lightning, then thunder that rattled the pencils on her desk.

  Jennifer did not wake up, but Meryl Lee almost jumped out of bed.

  Then, as if the lightning had gone off inside her, she understood why she couldn’t figure out how to do a Kate Greenaway painting. Kate Greenaway paintings made the whole world into a greeting card with pretty people and pretty places and everything pretty pretty pretty.

  But that wasn’t the world.

  Holling. Alethea’s brother. Jonathan. Her mother and father. Maybe Matt off to war someday.

  Then another flash of lightning and more thunder. More rattling pencils.

  She knew exactly what to do.

  * * *

  Monday afternoon, soon after Meryl Lee turned in her painting, Mrs. Saunders sent a note, asking her to come to her rooms in Sherbourne. Meryl Lee was a little nervous about this. She had never been to Mrs. Saunders’s rooms, and when she got there, the rooms weren’t exactly what she’d expected. There were books everywhere, on everything. Every bookcase was stuffed double-thick. Piles of books teetered in the corners. Rows of books ran along the windowsills. Books leaned against the couch and against the paisley chairs. It looked as if the round table in the middle of the room hadn’t been empty of books since, oh, the turn of the century.

  But Meryl Lee didn’t look at the books for very long, because her painting was leaning on the couch.

  Mrs. Saunders offered her a cup of tea. They sat down in the paisley chairs. Then Mrs. Saunders looked at Meryl Lee’s painting.

  “Not exactly Kate Greenaway,” Mrs. Saunders said.

  “No,” said Meryl Lee.

  “It is not what I expected,” Mrs. Saunders said.

  “No,” said Meryl Lee. “But isn’t that what art is supposed to be? Not what you expect?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “So tell me about this piece.”

  So Meryl Lee did. How the painting was in the style of Justin Browning—who she unders
tood was not a female artist, but he liked to draw really wicked storm clouds ready to throw themselves down to smother everything below them.

  “And this element here?” Mrs. Saunders pointed to a flower—sort of like a Kate Greenaway rose.

  “It’s a chrysanthemum,” said Meryl Lee. “It’s what’s not going to be smothered.”

  “Have you shown the painting to Alethea?” Mrs. Saunders asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “I think she might like to see it,” she said.

  When Meryl Lee left, she still didn’t know if Mrs. Saunders liked her painting or not.

  She thought she might.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, the Lasses of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls played the Rampant Dragons of St. Scholastica’s. Heidi could not wait for the first whistle. She ran up and down the field, pumping her legs, stretching her legs, pumping her legs, stretching her legs, shouting defiance, leaping into a string of jumping jacks, throwing down a couple dozen pushups, getting up and shouting defiance again.

  The goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses was not quite as eager, even though Matt Coffin stood beside the net to cheer her on.

  The goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses watched the Rampant Dragons warming up. “You know,” she said to Heidi, “we could forfeit if we wanted to.”

  Heidi looked at her.

  “It’s just a game,” said the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses.

  Heidi narrowed her eyes. “Tiddlywinks is just a game,” she said.

  Which may explain why Heidi was so unhappy that night at Evening Meal, since even though she had scored seven goals—and she would have scored eight except she was called offsides when she wasn’t and what she said to the ref when she got called offsides made Coach Rowlandson have her sit out the rest of the game—so even though they scored seven goals, the St. Elene’s Lasses had lost.

  Because the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses had let in ten goals. Eleven if you counted the penalty kick that came after Heidi said what she said, but no one was saying that that was Meryl Lee’s fault.

  Meryl Lee pointed out to Coach Rowlandson that four of those ten had been on St. Scholastica’s corner kicks, which the Lasses had never practiced and which Coach Rowlandson said they would start practicing a whole lot now. And three shots were way above her head so what was she supposed to do? And the other three were right at her face and she thought the St. Scholastica’s Rampant Dragons did that on purpose and remember how she wanted to keep her teeth through eighth grade? If Godzilla were on the team, he would be tall enough that . . .

  Godzilla was not on the team, Coach Rowlandson pointed out, but Meryl Lee was. “We work with what we have. And,” she said, “I’m pretty proud of what we have.”

  That made the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses a little bit happier—even if it didn’t do a thing for Heidi.

  And truth to tell, it also helped the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses when, on the way back to Netley, Matt Coffin leaned down to her just before he left and kissed her and told her she was a heck of a goalie.

  And maybe she really wasn’t unhappy at all at the end of Evening Meal, when Mrs. Mott stood to announce that the girls were all to pay very special attention to what had been hung on the north wall of Greater Hoxne lobby as they exited the dining hall that night.

  So they all did.

  Hanging on the wall was a painting in a large oval gold frame: a wicked dark sky, and lightning, and a chrysanthemum that looked a little bit like a Kate Greenaway rose. Mrs. Mott stood beside it, adjusting it to the level. The picture looked like it was painted by an Accomplished artist—mostly because of the frame, but still.

  Maybe, Meryl Lee thought, Mrs. Saunders liked it after all.

  Maybe Mrs. Mott did too.

  So all the girls gathered around—not Ashley, of course—and then Alethea and Bettye came out and saw the painting.

  Alethea looked at it, and she looked at it, and then she turned to Meryl Lee and she took her in her arms and she started to cry. And it wasn’t a bad cry. It was like . . . like relief. At least a little.

  * * *

  When Mrs. Saunders came out of the dining hall, Meryl Lee told her that what she did was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for her.

  “I doubt that very much, Miss Kowalski,” she said.

  “No, really.”

  “I think,” said Mrs. Saunders, “that you should consult Funk and Wagnalls for the word hyperbole.”

  “It isn’t a hyperbole,” said Meryl Lee.

  And Mrs. Saunders, flinty old Mrs. Saunders, reached out her hand and touched Meryl Lee’s cheek. “My dear, Dr. MacKnockater has been right about you all along,” she said.

  “Dr. MacKnockater?” said Meryl Lee. “Right about what?”

  * * *

  If April had been blue cotton, the beginning of May was yellow gingham, with Mr. Wheelock’s daffodils blowing and waving and the first dandelions bright-spotting the green lawns of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls. The air was warm, and the first yellow bees hummed because the clover was open for business.

  At the end of April, Meryl Lee and Charlotte and Matt had been waiting for Heidi and Jennifer and Marian when a white van pulled up beside Newell and the driver got out and called to them. “Do you know a Mrs. Bellamy?” he said. They did. “Do you mind? I’m way behind schedule,” he said, and he got out, opened the back doors, and handed them two plastic pails filled with frogs. Big frogs. Big croaking frogs. “These have to be delivered to Mrs. Bellamy,” he said.

  Between them, they had carried the two pails of croaking frogs to Lesser Hoxne, Meryl Lee and Charlotte taking one, Matt the other. Carrying them was not easy, since the pails were pretty heavy and they were holding them about as far away from their bodies as they could.

  When they got the pails to Mrs. Bellamy’s classroom, she had been delighted. “At last!” she said, and she took the pail from Matt and she looked down at the frogs and she said, “In a little while, you’ll all be pinned to lab tablets. You won’t be croaking so loudly then.”

  Meryl Lee thought Charlotte would faint right there.

  “I hope I have enough pins,” said Mrs. Bellamy.

  Charlotte had put their pail down and run.

  Matt had looked at the two pails sort of sadly.

  But May being what it was—yellow gingham—it brought about the exciting and mysterious Great Escape, when the frogs destined for dissection—something not a single eighth-grade student at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls wanted to be a part of—made their inexplicable getaway. After the girls—and Matt—had come to class and put on their lab coats, Mrs. Bellamy had emerged from her prep room, holding two empty pails, and she said she was terribly sorry, but all of the frogs were gone. She couldn’t understand it. Somehow the pails had fallen on their sides and the frogs had escaped out the windows—which she didn’t even remember leaving open and which she couldn’t even figure out how the frogs had gotten to.

  Charlotte was ready to stand on her lab stool and dance.

  Meryl Lee was pretty sure that Charlotte’s delight had something to do with how grateful she was that what Mrs. Bellamy drew on the blackboard for them to copy was not something they were seeing in real life, splayed out on lab tablets and held down by long pins.

  And Meryl Lee was also pretty sure that Matt’s delight—and he didn’t smile all that often—was also a sign of something.

  “So, what did you have to do with this?” she whispered while they were drawing.

  “With what?”

  “The Great Escape.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She looked at Matt. “You are a terrible liar.”

  “Actually,” said Matt, “I’m a very good liar—but I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, so try lying to me right now.”

  “You really want me to lie to you?”

  “Ye
s. Say whatever you want and I’ll tell you if you’re lying.”

  “Really?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. Here goes. Meryl Lee, I don’t want to kiss you right now.”

  Meryl Lee was more than a little surprised. “Um . . .”

  “I thought you said you’d be able to tell.”

  “I usually can.”

  “I told you I was good.”

  She looked at him.

  He leaned over and kissed her.

  Mrs. Bellamy cleared her throat loudly.

  “That wasn’t a lie,” whispered Matt.

  * * *

  That was the same day Coach Rowlandson told Meryl Lee that, as she was now the first-string goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses, her coach would be expecting her to exert strong leadership skills in the next match.

  “Leadership skills?”

  “St. Margaret’s School for Girls lost every game last spring and, so far, every game this season,” said Coach Rowlandson.

  “So have we,” said Meryl Lee.

  Coach Rowlandson shook her head. “A team that’s lost that many games in a row is hungry,” she said.

  “So we should be hungry too,” said Meryl Lee.

  “Yes we should. Sticks down, Kowalski.”

  “Sticks down, Coach Rowlandson.”

  Heidi helped Meryl Lee practice the whole week:

  “Midfielder back! Midfielder back!”

  “Forward! Move forward, dang it!”

  “I don’t care if you have hemorrhoids!”

  Meryl Lee practiced yelling stuff like that.

  But even though she was prepared to exert leadership skills, the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses was a sieve that day, and St. Margaret’s left the field having broken their long losing streak.

  The Lasses were pretty devastated.

  Heidi walked back to Netley alone, and Meryl Lee was very glad that she was not carrying her field hockey stick.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Wheelock’s daffodils bowed and waved, holding their yellow selves this way and that to show off, and trumpeting for attention to anyone who came in sight of Newell Chapel, announcing, “Spring! Spring! Spring!”—the way they do.