by Nōnen Títi
I concentrate on Jerome, who’s whispering with Fred.
As soon as Mr Shriver steps away from our corner, Fred turns and throws us a folded piece of paper. We look at it together. It’s our own drawing with additions: a cloud raining over the lonely figure and a flower as tall as the wall with four red petals.
Fuck you, I write through it and throw it back at them.
Fred turns around and grins at me, only to be startled when Mr Shriver drops a stack of books onto his table. “Give everybody a copy. I want each of you read this book, which describes the experiences of a Jewish girl your age in a concentration camp during World War Two. You may start now; I want them returned by next Monday along with these questions answered in full sentences in your own words. Don’t use the study guides.”
“You can’t ask us to read all this in two days,” Charlotte complains.
“I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”
“Well, I won’t do it. You get weekends off, so why can’t we?”
Mr Shriver doesn’t respond to that. Charlotte and her friends are habitually late with homework and they don’t come to school at all if it suits them.
Next Jerome and I have history, which Kathleen and Fred don’t share but Charlotte does. We seldom get homework for history and we usually don’t have to write in class because the teacher lectures rather than instructs. Most of the time I prefer that. For one thing he assumes we’ll pick up what we need and learn it on our own accord instead of treating us like preschoolers. If nothing else it’s a chance to catch up on a bit of lost sleep.
I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or not, but after Wednesday I’m just a little more aware of my existence in his class. I feel like he’s observing me. From the depression and communism he now also mentions the Second World War.
“I remember seeing a movie once,” Mr Fokker says. “It started with a young couple in relative poverty. We were introduced to them and the very skilled director made us care deeply for them over the course of the movie. At the end the woman was about to give birth but there were many complications and we feared for the life of the baby. To our great relief, at last, both mother and son were saved. Do you know how this movie ended?” he asks.
Nobody responds.
“It ended with one last question. The attending doctor turns to the young parents to ask what this baby shall be named. He literally says, ‘What will you name your son, Mr Hitler?’, and the father answers, ‘Adolf’. Or maybe it was the mother, but you get the idea.”
I think about his story for a moment. Would there have been a war? Would somebody else have stood up and done the same thing? “I think, just to play it safe, they should dispose of all male babies at birth,” I say to the room in general.
“Yes, that would certainly solve the population problem, wouldn’t it? Within two generations people would go extinct,” Mr Fokker answers.
“Maybe that would be better.”
“No they wouldn’t. We’d just make sure the sperm banks are filled first,” Charlotte says.
Following her, more girls get involved and soon we have more or less decided that men are expendable.
“Okay, so enlighten me, ladies. How would you decide which men could contribute to those banks and who would have to die without doing so?” Mr Fokker asks, sitting down on top of his desk.
“Intelligence. That is, as far as male brains are capable of that,” I answer, looking at him, but he shows no response.
“Health,” Charlotte says.
“They have to be kind,” another voice adds.
“Looks.”
“You can’t go deciding who gets to live or die at birth. It isn’t your place to decide that. You’d be doing the same thing as the Spartans did. It would be like abortion. It isn’t allowed,” one of the dangler girls says.
“Why not, if it would safe the future of humanity?” Charlotte asks her.
“But it’s forbidden.”
But I agree with Charlotte in this. “Until the day governments stop sending kids to war to be killed they have no right to say that unborn children should have the chance to be born. Discussion closed.”
Mr Fokker softens my attack. “Assuming for now that it would be allowed and supposing you’d be able to assess those attributes in babies, is that all? You’ve mentioned mind, body and heart. Are you not missing something?”
“Soul,” Charlotte answers.
“I don’t think men have any.”
She turns to me. “That’s okay. You could supply that for your kids, while they can contribute what you’re lacking – the body.”
“I’d rather lack a body than a brain, baby.”
“Because that’s all you have to offer. I guess Jerome got the better deal of the Puissant gene pool, eh?”
“Yes, Charlotte. He’s the perfect man. No inhibitions and ready for war with all the other hyped-up testosterone monkeys. Do you want him?”
“Be quiet, both of you,” Mr Fokker says putting his hand on Jerome’s shoulder.
Jerome bends as far over his writing as he can.
“At least we would prevent the human race from regressing to looking like hairy apes,” Charlotte says anyway.
“Yeah well, those hairy apes could think. Maybe we should get rid of all bimbos at birth as well while we’re at it and save the next generation from stupidity.”
Mr Fokker pulls a the noteblock from his drawer and throws it onto my table with a bang. “How about you write all your grievances in an essay? For I don’t want to hear any more of them.”
That’s fine with me. Paper listens better and it doesn’t argue back. During the rest of that class I manage to write away some of my anger at the male species in general with a utopian proposal of the ideal society, which would be based on breeding techniques to create a species that would handle the Earth with intelligence and respect; techniques like those used to breed dogs, always favouring intellect first, next the soul or whatever it is that keeps people honourable and identifiable as different from the herd, and last kindness. I stress that idiots who use words like “peace-keeping” in connection to soldiers would be the first to be eliminated. I don’t stop to think if I should mind my words. I never really expected him to ask for the essay until he does when the bell goes.
“I wasn’t finished.”
“That’s okay, I’ll save it for next time.”
In civics we watch a documentary called Our Greatest Good about protecting our liberty, but this time I listen more closely. It goes on and on about the freedom people in this country and its allies enjoy and it makes comparisons to countries like Uganda, which makes me wonder how old this program is.
“How about the native people, do they agree with this?” I ask Miss Coven. “How about the refugees in the detention camps? Did you ask them?”
This starts Kathleen and Fred and then some others asking questions about who would consider themselves so lucky to be free. At first they sound serious and consider the poor, the handicapped and the mentally retarded. Then Charlotte mentions kids being forced to be in a prison called “school” every day. Soon they question the right to keep dogs on leashes and fish in bowls. A normally quiet guy named Mick mentions the forced spaying of cats, which he says is an indication that people will be next if they are to control the population.
Obviously confused and unable to come up with a reply, the teacher blows her nose. I’m beginning to wonder why anybody should go to school if those who are supposed to have the answers fall apart when the first questions are asked and the material that is supposed to prepare us for this wonderful life is based on a situation from before we were born.
Period six is assembly and time wasted handing out badges to the athletics people, but since Kathleen came second in the hurdle we can’t stay away. This is followed by a speech about pride for the winning team, the school and, of course, our country. I’m about to fall asleep and like last week I stay in my chair when all the others stand up for the anthem. That g
ets me in trouble when I leave the gym to go home.
“Miss Puissant,” Mr Shriver says.
“What?”
“I’m not impressed with your recent show of disrespect.” He carries on about the standing up for the song and follows that with a harangue about my uniform. “It’s not appropriate to wear other shirts underneath,” he says.
“Oh really? You want me to wear nothing underneath?”
“I want you to wear a new shirt next week; a shirt that is still green and in good condition.”
“Are you going to pay for it?”
“You are purposely disregarding the rules.”
“You bet. Uniforms are an insult. Their sole purpose is to make sure we feel inferior to you, while you boast about choices and leadership skills, and it denies our individuality.”
“Uniforms have been part of the school system for generations, Mariette.”
“Wars have been part of the world for generations.”
“This is not a discussion. You either wear a proper school uniform or you can be in detention.”
“You mean you want me to wear one of those half-cast skirts so Mr Moralis can satisfy his animal instincts?”
I know I’ve made a faux pas when he grabs my arm. It’s okay to say these things among ourselves – but not to them, the enemy. Yet it’s common knowledge that teachers insist on uniforms for this reason, so maybe it was time somebody said it.
“I’ll call your parents to say you’re being physically harassed, Mariette,” Kathleen says from behind me.
Mr Shriver instantly lets go of my arm. He gives Kathleen a death glare and walks away. Even his neck is blushing.
“You two are in so much trouble,” Fred says with an approving smile.
“Is that true?” Lindsey asks.
“Is what true?”
“That Mr Moralis looks at the girls like… you know…” Normally Charlotte’s friends aren’t so shy about these subjects.
“You bet,” Kathleen says. “Doesn’t it bother you to know that you’re making yourself the object of lust for a dirty old man?”
Lindsey tugs her skirt a little lower. We walk to the milk bar with Fred and Jerome. Moments later Charlotte and her gang appear. “That was pretty brave. I always thought you were a little lamb. If you want we’ll back you up if he makes trouble, if you know what I mean?”
I nod to acknowledge this show of support, amazed more than serious. I have no real worries about Mr Shriver. I never disliked him but he was repeating cliché arguments.
I feel strangely pleased while walking home with Jerome, who hasn’t said anything at all since history. I have a sudden sense of satisfaction that my anger is paying off. I don’t really care about the support from the students. I just want to be taken seriously by the adults.
JEROME
I take the clean school shirt downstairs when going to dinner and put it next to Mariette. “I can buy myself another one next Monday.”
“I’m not wearing those shirts. I thought I made that clear,” she says.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”
“What is it with men and being stupid? I won’t wear those shirts. I’ll wear the one I have and no other one even if you donated me a whole wardrobe. It’s about the principle, don’t you understand that? No, I guess you don’t. You’re used to complying with the mob when the pressure is on, right?”
At least she’s finally attacking me. The last week was just a precursor, but I prefer this over the hints.
“What’s this all about?” Aunt Karen asks.
“What it is is between Jerome and me,” Mariette replies.
“There’s no need to hurt his feelings,” Uncle Gerard says, which is kindly meant but doesn’t help.
I can feel Mariette’s glare go through me; a wordless threat I understand only too well and she knows I’ve received it. I can see it in the darkening grey of her eyes.
“What happened with the uniform, Jerome?” Aunt Karen asks.
Mariette glares again.
“Nothing happened. I just thought-”
“Come to think of it, I didn’t see your shirt in the wash last weekend, or your trousers,” Aunt Karen tells Mariette. “That would be because they weren’t.”
“Make sure they go in tonight, Mariette.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? You can’t wear the same uniform weeks in a row without washing it.”
“Or the same black clothes,” Miranda adds and gets told to mind her own business.
I stay out of the argument that follows as does Uncle Gerard. He winks at me while Mariette and her mother fire each other up. It doesn’t upset me as much anymore; Uncle Gerard and Miranda are both adamant that me being here isn’t the cause. “Women,” Uncle Gerard says, but Miranda protests.
On Saturday I join my aunt and uncle for a shopping trip and to watch Miranda’s netball game. It gets me out of the house for a bit. I promise them that I don’t want to go out at night or to parties.
“What is it with kids today being so serious? We have to almost drag Mariette out of her room most of the time. She writes,” Uncle Gerard says.
“I like to read,” I excuse myself.
That evening Grandpa Will calls. He’s been to visit the hospital and Dad has agreed to talk on the phone on Sunday. I can visit him the weekend after if all is well.
“How is school? Are you learning anything?” Grandpa Will asks.
“That doesn’t generally happen in schools.”
“What does happen?”
“I’m not sure, Grandpa.”
“And Mariette? You kids getting along yet?”
“No more than any siblings would.” Apart from Rowan and I, that is. I’d like to tell Grandpa Will about our problems. I’d like to tell him I have the feeling that Mariette wouldn’t get into trouble normally and that she’s doing it because of me, but I say nothing.
“I see I won’t get any answers out of you,” he says and asks for Uncle Gerard.
I talk to Dad the next day.
The first thing he says is, “I’m sorry for deserting you.”
“Don’t worry about it; we’re okay for now. Just get better.”
“I guess I didn’t count on being so lonely. I’d never been alone before.”
“Maybe we could all live on the farm,” I suggest.
“Maybe, Jerome…”
I hear him hesitate. I know what he wants to say, but he doesn’t and I can’t either, so I promise to visit next Sunday. “I can take the train from the city.”
“That’ll be great,” he says.
After that I go to my room and cry for no reason. I do it again on and off for the rest of the day while reading the English assignment.
The new school week is a little easier than the first one. I know the people and routines. I’m grateful for Fred, more than I can say; grateful I don’t have to be afraid every day. To my relief and surprise Mariette gets no hassle for her uniform. Mr Shriver doesn’t even get upset when she tells him she didn’t read his book or answer the questions.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because I can’t. It isn’t you, it’s the story, the subject. It makes me furious, the stupidity does.”
“Whose stupidity?”
“That of humanity as a whole, I think.”
He even smiles at her. “Not just the men, then? Listen, Mariette, by making people aware we can stop these things from happening. That’s why the book was written and that’s why we read it.”
“Even if that were true and you can stop it, I can’t read it. It makes me sick.”
“You can’t avoid the problems from the past. That’s hiding from reality.”
“I want to hide from it.”
“I can’t agree with that attitude. If you don’t do the exercise I’ll have no choice but to give you an F.”
“Then do what you must, just don’t tell me you’re being fair or something. I’m not asking you to
agree. I’m asking you to leave me my opinion without saying it’s right or wrong. Treat me like a person and don’t grade opinions. You have no right.”
Fred whistles quietly. “I love the way her eyes have long since said her opinion before her mouth does,” he whispers.
I silently agree with Mariette, but I never would have said this to a teacher.
For the rest of the week Mariette makes it a point to comment on everything, just like she does at home – not only in English classes, but in all of them. Not all teachers are as cool as Mr Shriver, who resolved to leave her assignment ungraded.
Kathleen and Fred both tell me she was never like this before. “What happened between you?” Kathleen asks. “You’re both nice people. You can’t just hate each other this much without a reason.”
I have no idea how to answer that. I couldn’t tell Kathleen in the first place, seeing she’s Mariette’s best friend, but even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t know where to start.
I try not to get involved with the arguments between Mariette and Aunt Karen either. I try to look forward to the weekend but I find it hard. I’m starting to wonder if I’d prefer not seeing Dad for a while. I’d like to forget what he yelled at me that night, but the plans for the weekend are made. We’ll all drive to the farm on Saturday and sleep over. I get to visit Dad the next day with Grandpa Will and then we’ll come back.
On Friday night Aunt Karen starts packing and collects the uniforms for washing. Mariette refuses to put hers in and won’t agree to change her weekend clothes so they can be washed.
“And I never see you take a shower, either!” Aunt Karen shouts at her. “What are you trying to do, get kicked out of school?”
“I’m not trying to do anything.”
“Then get cleaned up because I don’t want you at the table like that anymore.”
“Fine.” Mariette knocks over her chair, goes upstairs and stays there. She doesn’t shower and she doesn’t eat.
On Saturday morning we all get into the car. Miranda is in the middle of the back seat, but when Mariette comes in she moves over. “Yuck, you smell.”
Before anyone can stop her, Mariette lashes out and slaps her. Miranda starts crying, Aunt Karen gets angry again, and we haven’t even left yet. I can’t help thinking there would be no problem if I wasn’t here, but I also feel a little annoyed with all three of them. I figure if I can keep my feelings inside, then why can’t they?