“Of course I remember. I’m not demented.”
“One of the guys thinks a girl with long brown hair is so cute, he’d like to ask her to the spring dance. But I’m not saying which guy, you have to guess!” Debbie grins at me, and then just for badness, skips away.
“Debbie, get back here!” I chase her across the playground, leaping across hopscotch games and jumping over skipping ropes. “I’m going to kill you! Who is it? Tell me!”
She slows down by the concrete steps, laughing so hard she has to bend over to catch her breath. “Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It’s not Steve.”
“Oh thanks, that’s a big hint. He’s your brother and he’s only got a girlfriend already.”
“Okay, then I’ll give you another hint. He’s really tall, got gorgeous big blue eyes, and his ears stick out a bit, which you can’t really notice because his hair is so long.”
“John?” My eyes grow wide and it feels like someone has lit up a bulb inside my face. “John Ryan wants to ask me to the spring dance?” Unbelievable. Girls from Fatima are hardly ever invited to the St. Matthew’s spring dance. Usually it’s just girls from high school. “But why me?”
Debbie looks at me like I’ve grown another nose. “Duh! I guess he likes you, Maureen. I guess he thinks you’re cute.”
A rush of excitement thrills through me. Me? John wants me to go to his dance! And then my stomach plunges. Oh my God, I’d have to talk to him all night. I can’t do that. There’s no way. Plus I don’t even know if Dad would let me go. I’d have to ask permission, which would be horribly embarrassing.
“So?” Debbie’s watching me, waiting for an answer. “What will I tell him? He’s not calling, unless he knows for sure you’ll say yes.”
“Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know. Oh Debbie, for God’s sake, what am I going to do? I can’t talk to John all night. What would I say? Plus, I doubt that Dad will even let me go. He’ll just say I’m too young.”
“Don’t be so foolish.” She flicks her hands like it’s no big deal. “Lots of people go to dances in Grade Eight. And what do you talk about? Well, you just talk about anything, that’s all. School, exams, teachers. It’s easy. You just open your mouth and words come out.”
Yeah, right. Easy for her, maybe. On Friday night, Debbie chatted comfortably with the boys like they were all her best friends. Meantime, I sat there like the number one moron, getting all red in the face anytime one of them made a remark to me. I guess that’s what comes from having no brothers. Debbie’s lucky that way. If I had an older brother like her, I know I wouldn’t feel like such an idiot.
“Come on, just relax about it. Whenever you’re talking to him, just pretend you’re talking to me.”
“If you were going to be there, then I wouldn’t mind so much. That wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Maybe I am going to be there! Didn’t think about that, now, did you?” Debbie’s looking at me all superior-like, hands on her hips like one of the teachers.
“You’re going! To the dance? With who, Doug?”
Debbie nods her head excitedly.
“Your mom says it’s okay, she doesn’t mind?”
“No, she doesn’t mind. Steve is going too, so he’s supposed to be looking out for me. So ridiculous, like I can’t take care of myself.”
“Okay, but I can’t decide about this right now. There’s no way. I’ll have to ask Dad tonight and then I’ll call you after that. This is crazy! I just can’t believe John Ryan wants me to go to his spring dance!”
* * * * *
Whispering and giggling, the two of us push through the bathroom door, making a quick stop just before the afternoon bell rings. Some other girls are here too—we hear them chattering over behind the stalls. Suddenly, a single sentence knifes through the bubbles of my excitement.
“She says her mother’s at St. Clare’s but it’s not true.”
Instantly I freeze, every nerve ending on edge.
“You’re kidding!”
“Yeah, she’s out at the Mental. Can you believe it? She’s gone right off her head.”
“Are you serious? How do you know?”
“Aunt Thelma works in the isolation ward at St. Clare’s and she says Mrs. O’Neill isn’t there. I heard her say so to Mom.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and apparently Mr. O’Neill goes out to the Mental all the time to visit her.” This from a third voice. “Mom was out to Bowring Park the other day and she saw him drive right up to the building.”
“My God, poor Maureen. Imagine if your mother was nuts. Must be some embarrassing.”
I’m senseless, paralyzed. It feels like every ounce of blood and energy has drained away from my body. I stand there, rooted, then feel the pressure of Debbie’s hand on my arm.
“Maureen,” she says, her voice loud and clear and distinct. “Don’t pay any attention to that pack of lies.”
The talking stops dead, just like that. Debbie pulls my sweater, drags me over behind the stalls where Mary Ann, Heather, and Bernadette are huddled together, as nervous as trapped mice.
“You guys have something to say about Maureen, then why don’t you say it to her face? Here she is.” Debbie’s furious now, boiling mad. She pushes me forward.
I’m totally outside myself. I look blankly at the three girls, as they fidget and twitch.
“Sorry, Maureen,” mumbles Mary Ann. “If we knew you were there, we never would have said a thing.”
“Take back those lies,” orders Debbie. I’ve never seen her so angry. “Take ’em back now!”
The three girls exchange guilty glances, hesitate. Bernadette bites her lip. Of course, they can’t take back the lies. It’s impossible. Because they’re not telling lies, they’re telling the truth.
I charge through the washroom door as fast as I can. Tears blaze in my eyes as I bolt down the corridor. Oh my God, they know. Everyone knows. What am I going to do?
Just then, the one o’clock bell rings. It’s deafening, like a train whistle, like two cymbals clanging on either side of my head. I slide into my desk as Sister Marion enters the classroom.
The afternoon session has begun.
CHAPTER NINE
SISTER MARION’S JUST OPENING her science book when Debbie, Mary Ann, Heather, and Bernadette scurry through the classroom door. They throw nervous looks in my direction, but Debbie’s got another look too. Worried and concerned, watching me closely, like a good friend should. But I turn my face away as she slips into her seat.
“Ladies.” Sister glares at them, a stony edge to her voice. “I must ask you to be on time for class. What is the reason for this?”
“Sorry, Sister,” says Bernadette. “We got held up in the bathroom.” I feel her eyes drift toward me again. But I’m staring straight ahead, on autopilot.
Sister’s sharp eyes follow Bernadette’s and land inquisitively on my face. “I’m afraid that’s no excuse, Bernadette,” she says, watching me thoughtfully. “Please arrange an earlier visit to the washroom during lunch hour. Next time I’ll be issuing a late slip.”
I avert my eyes from Sister’s steady gaze. After a few seconds she turns and picks up a piece of chalk.
Debbie bends over, slides out the science book from beneath her desk, and whispers, “Don’t worry about those three blabbermouths. I set ’em straight.”
I turn toward her, nod stiffly, say nothing. Does Debbie know too? What did they say after I left? What am I supposed to do now?
Debbie looks puzzled and hurt at my blank response. She pulls away quickly, flips open her book.
Meanwhile, I’m concentrating with all my might on Sister Marion, as she describes the circulatory system, drawing the human heart in all its detail on the blackboard.
I sense Debbie stealing sideways glanc
es at me. But I refuse to look back. Instead, I focus completely on the circulatory system, copy down perfect notes, do not allow myself to think of anything else.
Class is over. Sister Marion sails out the door as Miss Godwin comes in. Debbie leans over, all anxious. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” My voice sounds cold and remote. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” She pulls away again, slumps down in her desk, defeated.
Meanwhile, Miss Godwin is dragging a beaten-up old record player across the front of the classroom. I watch with detached irritation as she fumbles with the buttons and dials on the front. Then several old albums are held up as she closely inspects each title, her nose nearly touching the worn covers.
“Girls, I have a lovely surprise for you this afternoon. Today we’re going to hear some of the more famous works of the composers we’ve been studying all winter. I have selections from Hayden and Mozart, and even a bit of Beethoven for Maureen!” Her pale, sincere face breaks into a smile as she looks down at me.
I give back a tight little smile of my own.
“Unfortunately my regular record player is being repaired, so we’ll have to make do with this older one. Shall we begin with The Magic Flute by Mozart?” She slides a shiny black record from its cardboard sleeve, lays it flat on the turntable, and twists a big round button.
Nothing happens.
Miss Godwin’s forehead puckers. “Oh dear. I must be doing something wrong. I’m really not the best when it comes to machinery.” She taps a forefinger on her thin lips and frowns at the record player, like it’s some sort of creature from outer space.
Meanwhile, we watch and wait.
Can anyone possibly be this scatterbrained? There is simply no way I can deal with Miss Godwin’s problems today, I have too many of my own. Exasperation builds inside me until I think it’s going to burst right through the ends of my fingers. Around the classroom, girls are rolling their eyes and snickering.
Okay, that’s enough. I can’t take it anymore.
“Oh Miss!” I jump up. Deep inside my brain I’m aware this is not a good idea, but you know what? I don’t even care anymore. “Let me help you,” I say, strutting to the head of the classroom.
Miss Godwin’s delighted, all pleased and grateful. Debbie looks alarmed—well, so what about that. Bernadette, Heather, and Mary Ann are glancing at each other, puzzled. Nearly everyone else in the class is grinning, just waiting for the show to start.
“Now Miss, let’s see what we have here.” My tone is as bossy as one of the nuns. Miss steps aside, ladylike and dignified.
“Thank you, Maureen. You know something about record players, do you?”
“Yes, Miss, indeed I do. So, let’s see. Record player plugged in? CHECK! Record placed properly on the turntable? CHECK! Record player switched on? CHECK!” Each time I say “check,” my tone is louder and more obnoxious than the time before. Laughter burbles around the room.
Miss Godwin’s eyebrows knit together. “Maureen, please, there’s no need to shout.”
“Sorry, Miss.” I tap my right foot, looking deadly serious. “Just give me another second.” I squat down and press my face close to the dusty speaker. Miss Godwin arches her long neck forward to see. All the girls in the class lean out of their desks, heads moving sideways for a better view. There’s a tense silence.
“MISS! I HAVE IT!”
The girls scream shrilly and collapse into giggles. Miss Godwin startles with fright, then looks annoyed. “My goodness, Maureen.” Her tone is clipped and brisk. “You’re causing a commotion. Do you have any idea what the problem is?”
I don’t answer right away, just stand up and take a moment to carefully smooth down the box pleats of my wool tunic. Then I turn my head toward Miss Godwin as imperious as a queen.
“This record player is broken, Miss. We have to throw it out.”
The whole class explodes with laughter. I feel the familiar tingling warmth up the back of my neck, burning away every other thought. I know I promised never to do this again, but I just can’t stop myself. This bit of fun with Miss Godwin has the soothing effect of numbing the washroom gossip.
“Oh for heavens sakes, Maureen! We’re hardly going to throw it out.” Miss Godwin is trying to be firm here, but there’s that telltale tremor in her voice.
“Miss Godwin, I’m telling you the facts.” I hold up both hands like a policeman stopping traffic. “I’ve inspected this record player thoroughly. Nothing can be done to fix it.”
“Maureen,” says Miss Godwin, collecting herself, attempting to take back control. “We simply can’t throw out the record player, it belongs to the school. Actually, I think it’s time for you to sit down.”
“Miss, I’m sure Sister Brenda would agree completely with my assessment. Shall we call her on the P.A.?”
“I think Maureen’s right, Miss.” A loud, brazen voice comes from the back of the class. It’s Evelyn Coady, chewing on a big wad of gum. “Throw the thing out. If it’s not working, what’s the point of keeping it?”
“Yeah, Miss,” Patsy Gallagher chimes in. “What’s the point of keeping a piece of junk like that?”
“Girls, please!” Miss Godwin looks totally exasperated now. “Don’t be rude. Perhaps if I take another quick look myself . . .”
She darts around to the back of the record player, frazzled, and oblivious to the black electrical cord stretched between it and the wall. She hits it at high speed—the machine shudders, the arm scratches sideways over Mozart’s Magic Flute, and an amplified ear-splitting screech fills the room.
Poor Miss Godwin just stands there, still as a marble column, staring in disbelief at the electrical cord yanked from its outlet, now lying limp at her feet.
“Speaker seems to be working okay, Miss,” shouts Evelyn, her eyes glinting.
“Nothing wrong with the volume either, Miss,” roars Patsy, a crooked grin on her face.
I bend over and inspect the record; a distinct white scratch has cut a clear path from the outside rim to the centre. Part of me knows this is more than I bargained for—something very mean has just happened—but I’m in too deep to pull out now.
“Miss, it appears we have a new issue. This record is ruined. Might as well throw it out, too.”
Miss Godwin blinks twice, then sits down slowly behind the teacher’s desk, one hand covering her forehead. “I’ve had that record for years,” she says in a small, weak voice, more to herself than anyone else. “I brought it with me from England.”
Sharp needles of guilt prickle inside me. Glancing around, I see faces softening in sympathy for Miss Godwin. What to do now? I clasp my hands together dramatically, a stricken look on my face.
“Miss, I’m so sorry! Can you ever forgive me? If only I’d stayed in my desk, this terrible accident would never have happened.”
Miss Godwin looks up at me dully, but the girls are all grinning again, I can see that. Then I notice Debbie’s face. Her eyes are narrowed and she looks totally disgusted. Well, too bad about her, I’m thinking, when all of a sudden Debbie stands and walks to the front of the classroom.
“Here, Miss. Let me take a look at your record player.”
What does she think she’s doing?
“Oh thank you, Debbie,” says Miss Godwin, defeated. “But if it’s broken, nothing can be done.”
“Let me check.” She glares at me as she sweeps by. What’s her problem, anyway? She plugs in the cord and flicks a sliding switch at the edge of the box. Slowly, the turntable chugs into life and the shiny black record starts to spin.
“There, Miss. There was nothing wrong with it after all. I guess Maureen didn’t see the switch.” This last remark is laced with sarcasm and Debbie shoots me a poisonous look as she heads back to her seat.
She’s making me look like
an idiot.
Miss Godwin’s face brightens with weak relief. “Thank you, Debbie, thank you so much. Perhaps now we can continue with the lesson. Maybe some Chopin instead of the Mozart?” She pulls another album from the pile on her desk, replacing the damaged record on the player.
I’m still standing there. But Miss Godwin is ignoring me now, not even looking in my direction. Some of the girls are sneering—what will I do next? The entire scenario has flipped, thanks to my best friend. I’ve no choice but to return to my desk, which I do, my face burning. I feel like killing Debbie.
“That’s really too bad about your Mozart record, Miss.” Debbie’s two eyes are pinned on me like darts. I glare right back at her—who does she think she is?
“Let’s not worry about that, shall we? No point crying over spilled milk. I’m just grateful, Debbie, that you were able to sort out the problem.”
* * * * *
The three o’clock bell rings and we all head for the cloakroom at the back of the class. I keep my eye on Debbie and catch up with her in the corridor outside the classroom.
“What was the point of all that?” I’m angry and hurt. “You made me look like a moron!”
“Oh, you didn’t need any help looking like a moron.”
“It was just a bit of fun, Debbie. What’s the big deal?”
She turns and faces me, looking around to make sure no one else is listening. “That wasn’t fun, it was mean. You promised not to do this again. Miss Godwin’s just trying to do her job. Why can’t you leave her alone?”
I stare at her, speechless. At that moment, Evelyn and Patsy stroll by.
“Hey Maureen, that was some laugh!” calls out Evelyn, cracking on the gum. “That Miss Godwin’s only retarded.”
The Secret Life of a Funny Girl Page 6