Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  After recess, the teacher says, “Nadine will give the first talk. She’s going to tell us something about Spain, I believe?”

  Nadine grins broadly, which she’s good at because she’s got a mouth full of big teeth. She puts her bag on her lap and looks for the folder. She wriggles her hand between the various books, her movements become faster and faster, and then she looks at the teacher in shock. “I, erm—” She starts to empty her bag.

  “What’s taking so long, child? We are waiiiting,” the teacher says.

  “My pictures.” Her voice shakes.

  “Good preparation is half of the work, hurry up.”

  When the entire contents of her bag are on her chair, she peers into her empty bag and begins to cry. “I don’t have it.” She looks as if someone just told her she’ll die of a dreadful disease before the day is out.

  “How is that possible?” the teacher says. “You knew it was your turn today.”

  “I put it in my bag, I know I did.”

  “Yes, yes,” the teacher says with a sigh. “Incomplete. Well, that’s a two-point deduction to start with. Make sure you’re prepared to give your talk tomorrow. Next person, then: Sophie, come to the front.”

  That’s that, now neither of us can concentrate, I think.

  31

  “What score did you get on your last report card again?” Marie calls to me from the room with the grand piano, where she’s sitting with Angelique, a friend of hers. I had to come with her to play with Angelique’s daughter, Marlene, even though I don’t like her very much. Marlene loves Barbie dolls; she’s only ten, after all. She’s got a ton of clothes for them and also a kind of house and a car, both pink. Nothing’s stupider than Barbies and pink. “Come in here, I can’t hear you.”

  I go to them. There’s the softest carpet everywhere, like you’re floating instead of walking. Marie’s friend has a diamond bracelet on her left wrist, and she’s wearing a very long dress that’s a pale kind of green. She smiles at me. She has a brown mark between her nose and lips and she smokes these weird, thin cigars. Marie pulls me onto her lap.

  “Tell us. What was it? Ninety-seven percent?”

  “Ninety-four-point-four.”

  “Mona is so clever. She gets that from her father.” Marie runs her hand through my hair and places a lock behind my ear.

  “You’ve been very lucky with your stepchildren,” Angelique says. “Hilda’s are real devils. The hell she’s had to go through already.” Then they both laugh, really loud.

  “They’re just like my own children,” Marie says. “I love all three of them. I make no distinction.” Then she gives me a kiss on my right cheek.

  Anne-Sophie begins to whimper.

  “Do you want to?” Marie asks. I get Anne-Sophie from the stroller. She quiets down right away. “Mona’s fantastic with babies too,” I hear Marie say.

  When I get back to the playroom, Marlene has put new outfits on three Barbies. She shows them to me. I sit down on the carpet, and just as I’m lifting Anne-Sophie to switch arms, a big gush of sour milk comes out of her mouth. It runs down my sweater and my skirt, and even gets on the carpet. The baby continues smiling happily. I ask Marlene whether she’s got a cloth. The girl stares at me as though I’ve just asked her to give me all her Barbies. Then she says, “Boy, that stinks.”

  We’re in the car. The traffic’s crawling because it’s pouring rain. Marie lights a cigarette.

  “Can I open the window?” I ask.

  “It’s cold outside,” Marie replies. She honks at a van in front of her. To be honest, I think cigarette smoke stinks, even worse than Anne-Sophie’s sour milk. Marie honks again.

  “They’re all stuck,” I say.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” She smiles.

  From the back, I lean into the front seat and push the tape into the tape player. The second song is “Thank You for the Music” and I like to sing along to that and Anne-Sophie likes it when people sing to her. I take a deep breath and join in. Anne-Sophie watches me really closely—she’s super cute when she does that.

  But Marie turns the music off. “Sorry, it’s too much for me. Angelique can talk the back legs off a donkey.” It’s silent for a moment, then Anne-Sophie begins to cry. “Maybe you’re spoiling her too much. She whines a lot when she’s in her bed or in the stroller or the car seat, don’t you think?”

  “Her belly is hurting, she was sick earlier.”

  “Oh, that’s that disgusting smell,” Marie says.

  “No, that’s your cigarettes,” I say. It just pops out, I do that sometimes.

  “Sorry?”

  “Joke,” I try.

  I see Marie looking at me in the rear-view mirror. I rub Anne-Sophie’s belly, but she’s still screaming. I unfasten the straps on her car seat so I can put her on my lap. The car’s practically stopped anyway.

  “You’re not going to take that child out of her seat, are you? Once she understands she’ll even get picked up in the car—” Then the traffic starts moving and Marie doesn’t finish her sentence.

  Anne-Sophie looks at me in confusion with those big eyes of hers, her little mouth half-open, as if she’s wondering whether to keep crying or stop. I have to, I think, just for a moment. The traffic stops again, and Marie turns around and sees Anne-Sophie smiling on my lap.

  “Who’s the mother here?”

  “I’ll put her back in her chair in a minute, just one—”

  “What is this? Are you trying to ensure Anne-Sophie prefers you to me, is that it?”

  “But I—”

  “No buts.”

  Marie honks again. I strap the baby back in her seat, then look out the window. I like watching pouring rain. The streets and the sky and the houses are all blurred, like in watercolor paintings. I suddenly remember that time in the summer when Uncle Artie went outside to dance in a big rainstorm. His clothes stuck to his body and his hair looked really crazy. I would like to see him again, it’s been a while. Since Marie has been living with us, he doesn’t come around as often as he used to. Anne-Sophie grabs my finger and pulls it toward her mouth. “No, that’s dirty,” I say very quietly. She looks at me and smiles. She’s still so little.

  32

  We learn about All Souls’ Day. The teacher says that’s when people honor their dead. For example, they visit their loved ones’ graves. And then she says, “Like Mona, for instance. She’ll be going to the cemetery to visit her mom, right?” I nod because I don’t dare say that we never go, not even on November 2. We never went before and we certainly don’t now because that would be insulting to Marie. I suddenly realize that I haven’t thought about my mommy for a long time. Then I feel guilty. I don’t tell the teacher that we never go to church either because she’s very religious. She wears a chain with a cross on it and begins every day with a prayer. We have to be quiet and keep our eyes shut. The teacher says that praying is talking to God. But why does she always say the same thing, then?

  During recess, Ellen says she’s probably going to Saint-Bavo’s next year for seventh grade. I feel like I swallowed something too big for my throat and it’s stuck there. Daddy and Marie think I should go to Saint-John’s because the Latin instruction is apparently the best. How can they know which is the best? They didn’t go there. I don’t want to go to a different school than Ellen. But even if we went to the same school, we wouldn’t be in the same class, because Ellen doesn’t want to take Latin. She says it’s a dead language that nobody speaks and she doesn’t see the point of it. Daddy and Marie think I should at least give it a go and then maybe switch if I don’t like it after a year or two. But Daddy says that since I love writing and reading so much, I’m certain to enjoy it. He always wants the best for me, so I say yes. I don’t think Ellen will mind as much as I do, our not seeing each other as often. I’m not sure but that’s how it feels. She asks if I want to jump rope with her. I say I don’t want her to go away. This makes Ellen laugh like I’ve said something really dumb. “I’m not go
ing away. Just to a different school.” I try to smile too, but I don’t manage very well.

  33

  I’m woken up by the front door slamming. I hear a car start up. I sit up quickly. They’ve abandoned us, the three of us in this big house. I always try to stay awake for as long as possible because I’ve been afraid of this happening. I breathe deeply in and out. This time it doesn’t help. Alexander is asleep. I check on Anne-Sophie, she’s got one arm outstretched and the other’s next to her head, fist clenched. It’s like she’s stretching, which is very cute.

  I creep down the stairs and stand as close as I can to the living room door. I listen and listen, but all I hear is silence. I hesitate, then open the door anyway and see Daddy on the sofa. He’s sitting with his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up until I close the door behind me. He smiles, in a tired way.

  “Mona, dear, you’re not asleep? It’s so late.”

  “No, not yet,” I lie, moving closer to him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, sweetie, nothing.”

  If there’s one answer in the world that I hate, it’s that. “Why did Marie leave so late?”

  “Marie wanted to go for a little drive, clear her head. Grown-ups need to do that sometimes, but she’ll be back soon. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Where’s she driving to?” I think about the canal. I remember what she said about Daddy: He’s destroying me.

  “I don’t know, just around, I think. Come on, get back to bed. You don’t want her to come back and discover you’re not a good girl.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s late, you really have to sleep, child. You have to get up early tomorrow.” He sounds annoyed when he says this, or maybe just tired.

  “But Daddy, shouldn’t I stay here to comfort you?” He looks so unhappy, I think, so completely alone.

  Then he smiles again. “No, everything’s fine.”

  I don’t let him brush me off. “Why’s Marie sad?” Sometimes it’s like he’s not happy to be telling me things.

  “Marie wants the moon on a string.” I keep staring at him. An answer like that doesn’t help much. He rubs his thumb over the palm of his other hand, like he’s trying to comfort himself. “Everything will turn out fine,” Daddy says.

  As if I didn’t know that some things don’t turn out fine. Like the second-grade teacher’s husband who died, I don’t know what of. Or like Sophie’s hamster that she brought to school last year. It’s really sick now and Sophie’s afraid he’s not going to make it, and Nadine said, “Oh, then you’ll just have to buy a new one,” which wasn’t nice of her. Or like hunger in Africa, I don’t think that’s just going to go away because our country and other countries have already sent lots of sacks of food. People are still dying there.

  “Come on, you really have to go to bed.”

  I walk to the stairwell door, grasp the handle, look back one more time, but Daddy’s already gotten up. I can only see his back as he walks toward the kitchen.

  In my bedroom, I think about Marie and the canal. I wonder how I can help Daddy.

  Just to make sure, I stay awake until I hear Marie come home. She’s been out for an hour and sixteen minutes. That’s a long time when you’re just staring at a clock. A very long time.

  34

  I’ve counted twice: I’ve got 716 francs in my piggy bank. A loaf of bread costs twenty-six francs, and a big bottle of milk, twelve. I could take all my clothes and books with me and some games they don’t have yet. Seven hundred and sixteen francs won’t be enough for Ellen’s parents to pay for my food if I go and live with them, but they’ll get the message that I’m trying to help. And I can do chores in their house: dishes, laundry, walking Banjo, cleaning if necessary. And Ellen will never get bored again because I’ll always be there. And then I’ll write stories especially for them and put them on their pillows to read before they go to sleep, maybe they’d like that. Do I dare ask? Maybe check with Ellen first? I try to imagine how they’d react. Maybe they’d be happy? But maybe not, of course. They’re probably happy with just one child because Ellen is so sweet and kind and good and everything, much more than I am, so yeah.

  35

  Zero out of ten, I’ve never gotten that before. For a moment I think it must be a mistake, but it is written there clearly in thick red pen: zero, and underneath it a slash and a ten. The teacher has written something next to it, two words I can’t read.

  “Miss? What does it say here?”

  “First raise your hand, wait until I give a sign, and only then speak, child. How often do I have to repeat this?”

  I raise my hand, but the teacher makes me wait a long time. I support my right arm with my left hand.

  “Yes, Mona?” she says, like she’s surprised I want to ask something.

  “I can’t read what you wrote on my essay.” I don’t dare say, Next to the zero out of ten. I’m so embarrassed I could die.

  “Bring me your paper.” I go up to her, and before she even looks at it, she says, “Don’t lie, exclamation mark. That’s what it says.” She lays the paper back down on her desk and looks away from me, at the wallpaper or the ceiling.

  “I didn’t lie, though!”

  “The essay was supposed to be about your favorite food, but that doesn’t mean you can come up with something fanciful that doesn’t even exist. Eh, Mona?”

  “Moules parquées does exist,” I say indignantly.

  “You need to write a new essay, unless you persist in lying, of course, in which case we’ll go with the zero.”

  I don’t dare say anything, and return to my seat. It’s been three years since I had a nice teacher, so I’m used to it, but there’s nothing worse than not being believed.

  “Did someone say something?” the teacher asks, looking right at me.

  “No, miss.”

  “Now, all of you take out your grammar books.”

  I can’t help thinking about the raw mussels I tasted for the first time last weekend. Uncle Artie made them as an appetizer. There was a little party at his house, which was fun. Alexander didn’t want to try one. “I don’t eat slime,” he said. But I tried them because Uncle Artie said they were delicious with a sprinkle of pepper and a dash of lemon, and you should try everything at least once, Daddy says. I even asked Uncle Artie how you spell moules parquées because I already knew about the assignment. To be honest, I thought it was a stupid title, the one the teacher came up with: “My Favorite Food.” As if you can write a good story about that. But then I was happy because no one else would have the same food as me.

  At home I’m busy writing a new composition about meatballs in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes when Daddy asks what I’m doing.

  “Writing a new essay,” I say, making my voice soft and putting on a sad face because I’m hoping Daddy will notice something’s wrong.

  “What do you mean, a new one?”

  “The teacher gave me a zero because she didn’t believe moules parquées existed.”

  “What kind of a teacher is she?” Daddy says. Good, I think, he’s as angry as I am. “A person can be uncultured, that’s up to her, but to punish a child for it? I won’t have that.” He pulls the paper from my hands and tears it in two. “What time are you leaving for school tomorrow?”

  “Ten past eight, same as usual.”

  “Come get me. I’ll go with you and tell the teacher what I think of this.”

  I’ve never seen him like this before.

  “But Daddy—” I splutter, worried the teacher is going to get even angrier with me.

  “I will be polite and behave myself, Mona, but I won’t let this happen.” He strolls to the kitchen like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  In the morning I feel the stress all over my body. I’m curious what Daddy is going to say to the teacher and what the other kids will think when they see me turn up with my father. It’s never happened before, so they’ll wonder what’s going on.

  I’ve changed Anne-Sophie’s
diaper and she’s lying happily in her playpen. The lunchboxes are prepared and are in our bags. Alexander has eaten two slices of toast and drunk his apple juice. I’m ready. I go back into the hall to listen. Daddy is probably still in the bathroom. I can’t hear anything. I go upstairs; we have to hurry up or we’ll be late. The bathroom’s empty and I don’t dare go into the bedroom in case I wake up Marie. Then I think, Daddy’s probably in his office going through some paperwork or something. I go into the waiting room and knock. Nothing. I knock again, harder. Then I open the door—no one. I look outside, no one.

  “Come on, we have to go,” Alexander says. He’s right.

  “Daddy,” I call, but not too loud because of Marie. I wait a moment but nothing happens.

  As we walk down the street, hurrying because we’re later than usual, all I can think about is that zero. I was allowed to write a new essay, but if I didn’t, my teacher said, zero would be my final score. Can I think of an excuse? That Anne-Sophie threw up milk on my essay this morning? Something like that could actually happen. I let out a loud sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” Alexander asks.

  “None of your business,” I snap.

  I don’t see Daddy again until we’re at the dinner table. I wonder what his explanation will be, but apart from “Would you pass the salt?” he says nothing to me. I’m angry but that isn’t being nice, being angry, and I know that. I say nothing and clear the table. I scrape the rest of the meal from the pot with a spoon, which makes an irritating sound.

  Later, Daddy lets me stay up to watch a whole movie. Maybe that’s his way of saying sorry? The movie’s not that great, but I love staying up late. It’s raining very hard outside and there’s a strong wind, just short of a storm, but almost one.

  “Do you know what I’d like?” Daddy says, apparently not enjoying the film much either. “Fries. What do you think, Mona? Shall we go and get some together, the two of us under the umbrella?” Daddy loves standing outside under his umbrella in bad weather. Sometimes he just does that in the garden, even though he doesn’t have a reason to be outside. I think it’s a bit strange but also funny.