Just Like That

by Gary D. Schmidt

  When Meryl Lee saw them, a loss to St. Margaret’s School for Girls didn’t seem all that big a deal.

  And maybe it didn’t seem like all that big a deal to Heidi, either, since at Evening Meal that night, she came over to Meryl Lee’s table as Alethea was laying out the dessert, hugged Meryl Lee from the back, and told her that the goalie for the St. Elene’s Lasses had done as well as she could, and that was a lot. “Besides, how can I be mad at you when I know you have to spend your nights writing poetry for the St. Elene’s Literary Society—which is sort of like having the Wicked Witch of the West do root canal work on your back molars.”

  “It’s not so bad,” said Meryl Lee. “But you have to write too.”

  Heidi shook her head. “All done,” she said. “You want to hear it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Heidi straightened up.

  “Ball toward goalie—

  She curls, leaps, knocks it away.

  Grass stain on her shirt.”

  “Not terrible,” said Meryl Lee.

  “What do you mean, ‘not terrible’?”

  “Poetry?” said Alethea. “Bettye writes poetry.”

  Thirty-Five

  On the second Friday of May, the St. Elene’s Literary Society was to meet again. They were all to write a haiku—or a villanelle if they were particularly ambitious.

  On that day, Meryl Lee decided that Mrs. Connolly was evil.

  Mrs. Connolly was really really really evil.

  Bettye came to the meeting. She sat between Meryl Lee and Charlotte. Two of the seventh graders and one of the sixth graders had fled the literary society, but Mrs. Connolly welcomed the rest of the members—provisional or otherwise—and repeated that she and she alone would be in charge of the society. Then she read aloud all the haiku and all the villanelles that had been sent to her—except Bettye’s.

  Every single one except Bettye’s.

  “Now that I have read the submissions aloud,” said Mrs. Connolly, “let’s begin by discussing—”

  But Meryl Lee raised her hand and asked if Mrs. Connolly had forgotten to read Bettye Buckminster’s villanelle.

  And Ashley said, “Is Bettye Buckminster a member of the literary society?”

  And Mrs. Connolly said, “Bettye Buckminster is neither a student nor a teacher at St. Elene’s. She is a kitchen worker. She is ineligible for this society.”

  Long silence. Bettye pushing her chair back.

  Meryl Lee raised her hand again. “The invitation said everyone from St. Elene’s was invited.”

  “The invitation was not meant to include the junior staff,” said Mrs. Connolly.

  “The invitation said ‘everyone,’” said Meryl Lee.

  But Mrs. Connolly looked at Bettye Buckminster. “As I said, the invitation was not meant to include the junior staff.”

  Bettye got up and, looking at the floor, left.

  Another long silence.

  Then Mrs. Connolly said, “So, let’s begin our discussion.”

  But they didn’t begin, because Meryl Lee stood up.

  “Mrs. Connolly,” said Meryl Lee.

  Mrs. Connolly’s eyes rose from the collected poetry.

  “I can’t attend the next meeting if Bettye is not invited.”

  And Mrs. Connolly did that breathing thing with her nose and said, “Miss Kowalski, do not be influenced by misguided sentiment.”

  And Meryl Lee said, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Mrs. Connolly—not be influenced by misguided sentiment.”

  Then Charlotte stood up too.

  “Miss Dobrée,” said Mrs. Connolly, sort of warningly.

  And Charlotte said, “Bettye Buckminster deserves to be a part of the literary society.”

  “Bettye Buckminster is not part of the literary society,” said Mrs. Connolly.

  “Then neither are we,” said Meryl Lee.

  They left together. Jennifer and Marian and Heidi went behind them.

  * * *

  They found Bettye in the kitchen. She was trying not to cry. They told her to ignore Mrs. Connolly. Anyone associated with St. Elene’s was supposed to be eligible, and she was associated with St. Elene’s. They told her to come again next time. Okay?

  “Bettye,” Meryl Lee said, “you are an Accomplished poet.”

  “Maybe so,” Bettye said, “but I need this job.”

  And Charlotte said, “Your villanelle is amazing. I’m glad I wrote mine before I read yours, or I wouldn’t have even tried. And it doesn’t matter that Mrs. Connolly didn’t read yours aloud. It is still better than anyone else’s.”

  Then Bettye and Charlotte hugged.

  That’s a sign of how things are going to be someday, thought Meryl Lee.

  * * *

  After Evening Meal, the eighth-grade members of St. Elene’s Literary Society—provisional and otherwise—each got a letter from Mrs. Connolly. The goal of the literary society, the note said, was the development of a keen and discerning understanding of literary forms and expression, and this development was limited to the academic members of the St. Elene’s community. Those girls who did not wish to proceed under these conditions should think about following other extracurricular pursuits.

  Meryl Lee first thought about what Dr. MacKnockater would say. Then she thought about following other extracurricular pursuits.

  Spring soccer looked as if it would be the one and only.

  * * *

  Monday morning, in history class, Mrs. Saunders was absent with a cold, so Dr. MacKnockater came in to teach. They were supposed to start a unit on Eleanor Roosevelt, but instead Dr. MacKnockater began to talk about women’s suffrage, and how women got the vote, and how they had to demonstrate and go to prison before they got the vote, and how her friend Ella was the first woman to vote in Flushing, New York, where she grew up. Then Dr. MacKnockater began singing the lyrics for Votes for Women! songs from a hundred years ago in her old lady warble, and then she decided to have the girls sing the old Votes for Women! songs in their young sopranos, and pretty soon they were all singing—“To the tune of ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ girls!”

  Ye men who wrong your mothers,

  And your wives and sisters, too,

  How dare you rob companions

  Who are always brave and true?

  How dare you make them servants

  Who are all the world to you?

  As they go marching on?

  Men and brothers, dare you do it?

  Men and brothers, dare you do it?

  Men and brothers, dare you do it

  As we go marching on?

  The songs were pretty rousing, and Dr. MacKnockater gave them her full mezzo warble. And Meryl Lee had to admit, singing “Votes for Women!” was a whole lot more fun than studying Eleanor Roosevelt.

  But when they were finished and class was almost over, Dr. MacKnockater said, “Girls, we’ve had a good time with these songs, but let’s remember this: The women who sang them, sang them during sit-ins that brought about justice. They sang them during sit-ins that brought about change. They sang them from their hearts.”

  Then Dr. MacKnockater looked right at Meryl Lee. “What are you going to sing from your heart?”

  On Wednesday morning, Meryl Lee stood by Mr. Wheelock’s daffodils as the teachers and students of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, lower school and upper school, walked into Newell Chapel. She held a sign in her left hand—

  OPEN THE LITERARY SOCIETY TO ALL!

  and she held a sign in her right hand—

  FREEDOM TO ASSEMBLE

  FREEDOM OF SPEECH

  and she did feel sort of . . . conspicuous.

  When Mrs. Connolly saw Meryl Lee and her signs, she turned away and looked straight ahead as she processed into Newell.

  When Mrs. Saunders saw Meryl Lee, she smiled and processed in, blowing her nose.

  When Mrs. Hibbard saw Meryl Lee, she stepped out of line and kissed her on the cheek.

  Wh
en Coach Rowlandson saw Meryl Lee, she mouthed, Sticks down, Kowalski!

  When Dr. MacKnockater saw Meryl Lee, she nodded and went in.

  Meryl Lee stood by the daffodils through Chapel.

  She stood by the daffodils through morning classes.

  She stood by the daffodils during dinner.

  She stood by the daffodils during afternoon classes—when Jennifer came to stand next to her.

  She stood by the daffodils during Evening Meal, when Heidi came with two plates of Chicken à la King and mugs of hot tea. Heidi held the signs while Meryl Lee and Jennifer ate, and when they finished, Heidi took the OPEN THE LITERARY SOCIETY TO ALL! sign and said she’d stay with them.

  A little while later, Charlotte came with some blankets, and she stood with them as it got dark and cold.

  Mrs. Kellogg came around eight o’clock.

  “Girls,” she said, “you need to come back to the dorm now.”

  Heidi and Charlotte looked at Meryl Lee.

  “Will Bettye Buckminster be allowed into the literary society?” Meryl Lee said.

  “I am not part of that decision,” said Mrs. Kellogg.

  “Then we’ll stay,” said Charlotte.

  Mrs. Kellogg hesitated. “I won’t compel you to come to the dorm,” she said.

  “Thank you,” said Heidi.

  A little while after Mrs. Kellogg left, Marian came with mugs filled with very hot tea and lemon. When they’d all finished drinking, Marian said she would stay too.

  And in the morning, when the teachers and students of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls processed into Newell Chapel, Meryl Lee and Jennifer and Heidi and Charlotte and Marian were still by the daffodils, holding their signs. They were looking a little bit bedraggled. Charlotte’s hair was positively uncurled.

  But they stayed all day.

  And after Evening Meal, Mrs. Kellogg brought them more blankets and thermoses of hot chocolate and hot tomato soup.

  They stayed all night, again.

  And on Friday morning, when the teachers and students of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls processed into Newell Chapel, Mrs. Hibbard got out of the line and stood with them. She took the OPEN THE LITERARY SOCIETY TO ALL! sign and held it high.

  Then Mrs. Saunders got out of the line and stood with them too. She took the other sign.

  And then Lois Tuthill got out of line, and Julia Chall and Barbara Rockcastle and Elizabeth Koertge, too.

  And during Chapel, Bettye came.

  And then, Alethea. She looked at Meryl Lee for a long time.

  “You know, you were right,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t know you.” Then Alethea folded her arms across her chest and it looked as if it would have taken three trawlers to move her away from the front of Newell Chapel.

  Which was good, because Meryl Lee was exhausted. Two nights sleeping outside of Newell Chapel with just blankets?

  On Friday afternoon, Dr. MacKnockater came to Newell Chapel.

  Marian was asleep.

  “Ladies,” she said, “Mrs. Connolly has resigned from the literary society, which is now, for lack of a mentoring teacher, disbanded.”

  They looked at each other.

  “What does that mean?” Meryl Lee asked.

  “It means, Miss Kowalski, that if there is to be a literary society open to participation by all, it will need to be reconstituted with a new mentoring teacher.”

  “I am free on Friday afternoons,” said Mrs. Hibbard.

  Dr. MacKnockater nodded.

  But Meryl Lee still didn’t understand. Perhaps her brain had fallen asleep.

  “Meryl Lee,” Dr. MacKnockater said, “you can go back to your room. You have been brave and true. And you have won. Maybe you have changed the world a little bit.”

  That Meryl Lee understood—in a drowsy, underslept sort of way. “Now we’ll see what happens,” she said.

  “Yes, we will,” said Dr. MacKnockater.

  Meryl Lee went back to Netley.

  Jennifer spread her green duvet over the two of them, and she and Meryl Lee slept, and slept, and slept.

  They slept all through the night, and then through breakfast, and they would have slept through Morning Chapel if Mrs. Mott had not shaken them awake. Even so, Meryl Lee was barely conscious when she processed into Newell with all the students of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy—the one boy being absent, as usual—and she felt herself nodding dangerously close to the pew in front of her, yawning and yawning, and her eyes closing, and so she only half understood what Mrs. Kellogg announced from the front: that Dr. Nora MacKnockater had been found that morning in her Sherbourne House rooms, unconscious. She had fallen and struck her head against the floor, causing a presumed concussion that the doctors feared might be dangerous in the extreme.

  It took a few seconds until the words meant anything at all to Meryl Lee.

  She sat up.

  She turned to Heidi.

  “What?” Meryl Lee said.

  Thirty-Six

  Captain Hurd picked up Meryl Lee the next morning to take her to the Downeast Medical Center.

  When they got there, Dr. MacKnockater was still unconscious.

  Matt had stayed all night—and he looked like it. Together they watched the nurse on the new shift come in to check Dr. MacKnockater’s vitals. “Are you relations?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Matt.

  Dr. MacKnockater was so still. The white of the bandage wrapped around the top of her head seemed no whiter than her skin, which looked thin and dry. Her eyelids fluttered now and again, but they did not open, and the tubes of oxygen that ran into her nose seemed . . . violating.

  She looked old.

  After the nurse left, Matt stood over Mrs. MacKnockater and he whispered, so quietly that only Meryl Lee could hear, “Bagheera.” He leaned over her. “Bagheera,” he whispered again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Nothing.

  He could not even see her breathe.

  And then, suddenly, he was in the Alley again. And Georgie was on the ground. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything. His mouth was open too, but he wasn’t breathing.

  Meryl Lee rose and took Matt’s hand.

  She didn’t need to look at his face to know he was crying.

  The doctor came in, and he looked at the chart, then at his watch. He took out a flashlight, lifted Mrs. MacKnockater’s eyelids, and shone the light onto her pupils.

  “Her concussion is severe,” they heard the doctor say to the Captain. “We don’t know what precipitated it. A heart event, perhaps. A stroke. Maybe something as innocuous as a stumble against a chair leg.”

  Matt leaned down closer. “Bagheera,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”

  “The unexplained oddity,” said the doctor, “is that in addition to the blow to the forehead, there is also a blow to the back of the head.”

  “How did that happen?” said the Captain.

  “We don’t know,” said the doctor. “It seems unlikely that both blows would come from a single fall.”

  Matt stood up. He looked at Meryl Lee. “They didn’t,” he whispered.

  He let go of Meryl Lee’s hand.

  “In any case, one such wound in a woman her age is dangerous. Two . . .”

  “I’ve got to go back to the house,” said Matt.

  The doctor and Captain Hurd looked at him.

  “You’re staying with me tonight,” said the Captain.

  “No,” said Matt. “I’m staying at the house.”

  “Then I’ll stay with you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Matt.

  “I don’t care if you think—”

  “Can we go now?” said Matt.

  Quiet in the room—though even in that quiet, they could not hear Mrs. MacKnockater breathing.

  “Okay,” said the Captain.

  Silently they drove to Mrs. MacKnockater’s house. Silently Matt got out. He closed the doo
r. He did not look at them. He said nothing. He walked up onto the porch, pulled the door open, and slammed it shut behind him.

  As they drove away, they did not see him look through the front room window and watch them drive out of his life.

  And they did not see him go back outside, sit on the porch steps with his pea jacket hunched around his shoulders, and wait through the day as the sun began to slide down toward the incoming tide and paint everything a dark yellow.

  * * *

  Captain Hurd dropped Meryl Lee off at St. Elene’s. She sat through dinner, then wandered over to Putnam, waved at Mrs. Hibbard, sat down to work at quadratic equations—which seemed to take forever. She fussed with the next poem for the literary society but couldn’t get any of the lines right, then wandered the stacks until she found a book of Edgar Allan Poe poems that she thought might help—but after a few of those, she knew that anything she wrote that day would sound like “Annabel Lee.” So she gave up, gathered her books, waved at Mrs. Hibbard, and walked back outside. But she did not go back to Netley. She wandered beyond the dorm out to the soccer field, and she stood beside the goal. The air was colder than she expected for May, and she drew her jacket tightly around her. Already the sun was down and it was quickly getting darker. The light shining on the steeple of Newell suddenly came on, and in the blue-black air it seemed almost a beacon.

  She walked around the goal and leaned back against one of the posts.

  Matt was going to run, she thought. She knew he was going to run. And he would be gone.

  Across the field, the Blank seemed to gather itself.

  He’d be gone not like Holling, but still gone. She’d never see him again.

  Gone not like her father, but still gone.

  Gone just as much, in a way, as Alethea’s brother was gone.

  The Blank began to rise.

  Gone like Jonathan had gone when he went off to war—leaving home and going someplace Bettye had never been, would never go.