Mannequin Girl

by Ellen Litman

  In the dorm, they routinely stay up well past midnight, snacking on Jules’s chocolates, slathering their faces with cucumber astringent that is supposed to cure spotty skin. If asked, Kat would be unable to explain what keeps the two of them together.

  It’s strange how time moves at night. An hour can last forever. Kat drifts off, only to awaken to the sound of high, nervous voices and frantic footsteps outside. When, despite the late hour, the matrons and night nurses don’t bother to walk on tiptoe or lower their voices, you know it must be an emergency.

  The lights come on abruptly. The door, flung open, hits the corner of the wardrobe. Margo walks in, followed by two night nurses. “Where’s Litvinova?” she asks.

  Cherub’s bed is unmade, which is probably why no one noticed that she’s missing. They must have glanced in passing at her bed, noted the crumpled blanket, and deduced from it that she was in the toilet or brushing her teeth.

  “Cherub?” the gaggle clamors. “Where’s Cherub?”

  There’s a brief, rather pointless discussion of who saw Cherub last. Jules says she did her hair. Cherub stuck around for a while, watching Jules do Shrew’s makeup.

  “May I ask what she’s done?” Little Hog inquires. “As the chairperson of our detachment council, I feel it’s my responsibility—”

  “You may shut your mouth,” says Margo. It’s clear to her that no one here knows Cherub’s whereabouts.

  She and the nurses leave shortly thereafter. But the girls, agitated, can’t rest. Was Cherub at the disco? Some say she was, at least in the beginning. And later? No one can say. Perhaps she did go back to the dorms. “Girls, check your belongings,” says Snake.

  They go through their assorted canvas sacks, the wardrobe shelves stacked with soap dishes and toothpaste. They don’t have much, but most keep at least a few rubles stashed here or there, enough for a movie ticket or a packet of potato chips.

  In the past Cherub stole earrings, hairclips, a watch, twenty rubles in cash, innumerable snacks, a pair of jeans. And that’s just what they’d managed to recover. Countless other treasures have never been found, their disappearance never officially pinned on Cherub—though the suspicion remains.

  “What if she did it?” Kat whispers to Jules.

  “What? Kill herself? Don’t be stupid.”

  Just as they start winding down, someone quietly raps on the door. This time it is two girls from 7B. “Can we come in?” they say. “We have the info!”

  And the story unfolds: Sometime after the disco, the gym teacher locks up the gym. Then he stumbles up into the attic, because that’s where he keeps his liquor. Right now he really needs it—although he’s had some already, a big swig in the afternoon. So anyway, up to the attic he trundles, and at first it’s too dark to make out any shapes, except he’s pretty sure someone’s there. And when his eyes adjust, he sees them, the pair for all time: Mironov and Litvinova. Stark naked and drunk out of their minds. Doing you-know-what.

  Really doing it?

  Don’t interrupt. They’re so drunk, they don’t hear him at first. He has to cough or something to alert them. Next thing you know, Cherub flees.

  And Mironov?

  Too sloshed to move, apparently. Got taken to the infirmary.

  Or else the sobering-up station. I heard his mother is a total lush. An apple doesn’t fall far from, you know, the cherry tree.

  I’m sorry, but these two are finished. Expelled in the morning. Finito!

  Gross! Mironov and Litvinova.

  You think they actually did it? All the way?

  Girls, can you picture Mironov undressed?

  Sick!

  No really, do you think he’s . . . what do you call it . . . well-endowed?

  Sick, sick!

  And Cherub, damn! She looks like such a demure little thing.

  Devils live in still waters.

  On and on it goes, this senseless conversation, long after the girls from 7B depart. Jules falls asleep. Kat gets up twice to use the bathroom. She keeps thinking about Mironov, about that classroom on the second floor. Was Vika Litvinova with him? Was she the shadowy presence that broke the odd moment between them? And the attic. The cold, dingy attic, the cold cement floor—she can only imagine, she’s never actually been there. The groping in the dark and drunken giggling. What did it feel like: the rub of the fabric, the touch of a probing index finger, the warmth of the skin underneath. It should feel disgusting, but it can’t be. It isn’t.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, no one openly mentions the incident. You catch a group of students snickering and you figure it’s probably about that. The teachers act as though nothing happened. Not one of them asks about Cherub or Mironov. It’s the last day of the quarter, so why dwell on such shameful things?

  Cherub was found shortly after midnight. Earlier this morning she was seen exiting the premises, her face swollen with tears, her suitcase in tow. As for Mironov, no one has seen him yet.

  Anechka makes it to work, despite her illness. Both she and Misha seem a little tense. It’s not their job to monitor the students at the discos. That’s what the matrons are for. Still, the discos are their responsibility.

  “Have you heard?” Kat asks, which is a silly question.

  “I wish they’d expelled the whole class.” Anechka scowls. “That girl’s just revolting, and the boy—”

  “Yes,” Misha interrupts, “the boy. You’ve seen his back, Anya? Where’s he going to go with that back? A local school? Some no-name sanatorium for invalids? There’s no father in the picture, and the mother’s the sort you wouldn’t wish on a kid.”

  “I see you’re well informed about him.”

  “Yes,” Misha says. “I checked. He won’t last outside. He needs his treatments. Most likely surgery as well. And at the very least, he needs a decent education.”

  “You suggest we cram it down his throat?”

  “I suggest we give the boy a chance. Do you realize, Anya, he’s been Kat’s classmate since first grade, and we barely know him. We barely know his name.”

  Kat interjects, “Mironov.”

  “Seryozha,” her father corrects. “Sergey Mironov.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re advocating. You’ve seen his grades?”

  “You’re missing my point, Anya. We’ve failed him. The system’s failed him. It’s what we used to talk about, you and I, how our system doesn’t work for everyone, how we don’t do enough to reach these broken boys and girls. And honestly, I don’t know anyone as broken as this one.”

  And that’s when Kat speaks, to everyone’s surprise. She’s been standing there quietly, listening to Misha, to his talk of justice and compassion and Mironov’s sad fate, and suddenly she’s had an inspiration. Here is her chance to distinguish herself, to prove that she shares her parents’ ideals and that, like them, she can be selfless, brave.

  “What if I tutor him?” she says, and for a moment no one speaks.

  Anechka touches Kat’s forehead. “Have you lost your mind, baby?”

  Then Misha says, “No, she hasn’t.” He’s nodding slowly, as if he’s probing Kat’s idea. “It’s not a bad strategy. What if we talk to the principal? He’s a reasonable person, our principal, as long as we can make a solid case. A trial period, perhaps? Some way to measure his accomplishments? Anya, don’t you think it makes sense?”

  But Anechka has turned her back to them. She’s looking out the window, her fingertips flat on the cold pane of glass. What can possibly be so interesting there? The edge of a glassed-in walkway, the well-trodden path? The same unchanging scenery. She wipes her eyes.

  “Anya?” Misha says.

  She swivels on her heels, unsteadily, and now Kat can see that she’s really sick. “You’re a good person, baby.” She leans in and kisses Kat, a clumsy, sloppy kiss. Rising, she staggers a little, and Misha has to catch her by the elbow.

  “I’m losing it, aren’t I? I didn’t use to be like this. You know me, I used to care.”

&nbs
p; Misha says, “You still do. You’ve just been feeling ill.”

  “I’ve become this Fury, this Megaera.”

  He smiles. “You have not.” And then he holds her for a long, long time, until she gets her bearings.

  And that’s the most amazing part—these strange and errant moments when, despite everything, Kat’s parents come together and you can see how, amidst domestic drudgery and gripes, they’re still these beautiful young rebels, still true to their dreams and their principles, and still tremendously in love. Together they leave the classroom. Together they walk downstairs, where no door or sallow-faced secretary can keep them away from their goal. They are invincible—as long as they remain together.

  10

  ON THE DAY KAT RETURNS AFTER THE BREAK, the mood at school is hushed and cautious. Cherub is no longer there. In the past, back when she was a nuisance, her absence would have barely registered. Now it seems momentous, and Kat feels as though everyone is giving her dark looks.

  “It’s like they’re blaming me,” she says to Jules.

  Jules says, “Don’t be insane. No one knows you’ve sold your soul to the devil. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Who, Mironov?”

  “No, Grandpa Mazai and his rabbits.”

  Oh yes, it appears that Mironov is missing as well. At the start of the break, Kat still felt great about her decision. She’d be a hero, a celebrity. The teachers would admire her pluck. She’d do such a bang-up job with Mironov that they’d ask her to help with their other challenging pupils. By Wednesday, though, she began to lose her nerve. Some of it had to do with Anechka, who all week was skeptical and irritable. She’d be doing the ironing, for instance, and without much preamble she’d start in on Kat again. “I just don’t know what you were thinking,” she’d say. “It’s a noble idea in principle, but someone else should do it. Your own grades are not that great, and I’d rather you focused on yourself.” On another occasion they were returning from the local grocery and Anechka said, “Don’t you have enough conflicts at school?”

  By the end of the week, Kat was in agony. She didn’t know a thing about tutoring, and yet she was stuck with Mironov now, responsible for his atrocious grades. She’d have to approach him, she’d have to interact with him.

  “Maybe the deal fell through?” Jules speculates.

  “Blessed is he who keeps the faith,” Kat quotes from Woe from Wit. And she is right: Mironov turns up before second period, in a new zip-up cardigan and his usual ratty sweatpants.

  “I think we’d better start tomorrow?”

  Jules pats her on the shoulder. “You’re on your own, pal.”

  Second period is geometry. At the end, just before letting them go, their math teacher, Beatrisa P., calls Kat and her nemesis over. Calls openly, in front of the rest of the class: “Knopman! Mironov!” She is a bitter little person, Beatrisa, thin-voiced, imperious, merciless in her remarks. She had a stroke three years ago, and the left side of her face twitches whenever she’s displeased.

  “Knopman,” she says once Kat and Mironov approach her, “are you aware that your friend here failed last quarter?” She speaks as if Mironov has always been Kat’s burden. “The next exam is in two weeks. If he flunks, you’re getting a fail also.”

  “But—” Kat begins.

  “It’s non-negotiable.”

  This wasn’t the deal, Kat wants to scream. But you don’t scream at a teacher, and furthermore, you never scream at a disabled person. Beatrisa will grimace as if Kat were a disgusting small thing and say it’s not her job to deal with Kat’s emotions. “You want to shriek, shriek at your parents; but spare me your hysterics,” she will say.

  She is not part of the old guard, not one of Kat’s parents’ sworn enemies, though neither is she their supporter or personal friend. She is simply one of those who wanted Mironov expelled, and now that Kat’s parents have prevailed, she’s seething with frustration.

  “Go study,” she tells them.

  “Where?” Mironov says. His voice snaps from nervousness, and Kat sees how desperate he is. “Where do we go?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” says Beatrisa. “Not my problem.”

  The scene repeats itself in other classes. No one’s as openly malevolent as Beatrisa, no one else threatens to fail Kat. Still, the teachers make it clear: they want rapid improvement, they don’t intend to mollycoddle them.

  By the end of the day, Kat is falling apart. What Mironov needs is an army of tutors. Misha has gone home early, and since she doesn’t have a choice, she stumbles, near tears, into Anechka’s classroom. “Why do they hate me?” she demands. “There’s no way to do this tutoring. No time, no place.”

  Anechka watches her coldly. “You can always back out,” she says. “I told your father this was more than you could handle—”

  “I’m handling it,” Kat says. “I’d just like a little bit of help.”

  “Help,” Anechka scoffs. “You should have thought of that before.” Then she sighs and tells Kat not to go anywhere. She is gone for at least twenty minutes, but when she returns she’s in a better mood, like maybe she’s now amused by Kat’s predicament. She dangles the drama room key before her nose. “There,” she says. “One of your problems solved. The rest, of course, is up to you.”

  MANY YEARS AGO, when Kat was little, she used to love cloaking herself in Anechka’s old shawls. But it is one thing to play school, to make up fake class registers and lecture rows of invisible students, and it’s another thing entirely to tutor an actual boy. Minutes into her first session with Mironov, it’s obvious to Kat that she is no good at teaching. She’s got neither passion nor patience. She lacks grace in the face of his obstinacy; she expects gratitude.

  When she told him, discreetly, to meet her outside the drama room, he just shrugged and grunted something unintelligible. Because they were in public, she was inclined to excuse his response. But now, in the drama room, it’s not that different. He doesn’t acknowledge her instructions, doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t even look at her.

  They are doing geometry drills from the hand-bound book of supplemental problems. Kat shows him how to do it, then lets him try one by himself. He scribbles something. She paces. The drama room is cozy: there’s a small electric kettle, and Kat finds a half-empty packet of cookies left from before the break.

  She can feel herself flushing. It’s disturbing to be in his presence, to feel the familiar mix of old guilt and disgust whenever she thinks of their feud, the first-grade incident that led to her concussion.

  “Are you done?” she says, when she sees that Mironov has put down his pencil. But when she checks the page, there’s nothing there, nothing but a picture of a smirking cat with a cigar. It’s outrageous: he is mocking her, while she is doing him a favor.

  “What’s this?” she says, in the tone Anechka reserves for the most worthless of her students, usually the ones from 7A.

  “Don’t know,” he says, and she can tell from his voice that, like her, he doesn’t find this ordeal amusing. “I fucking hate these stupid riddles.”

  “Watch your language,” she says. “They’re problems.”

  She sits down next to him—even though he’s smelly and unpleasant—and they begin again. Soon she discovers that it’s true what Misha said about the system having failed Mironov. There are awful gaps in his schooling. He’s got no grasp of geometry. Plus, for whatever reason, he still won’t really talk to her. She asks him a question, and he answers with something like a groan. Would it kill him to speak like a regular person? Or show some respect for her?

  The system has failed him, so now it’s her job to suck it up and help him. She gets out her calico notebook, the one she’s been keeping in preparation for next year’s exams, each question numbered, each page cut with scissors to form a side tab. It’s actually better than their textbook.

  They start with the axioms, the parallel postulate. By six o’clock they have reviewed ten pages and done a handful of correspond
ing problems from the book. Kat says they’re getting somewhere.

  “Right,” says Mironov. “I’m practically an academic. Why bother if they’re gonna boot me out anyway?”

  It’s the most he’s said to her all day, which Kat thinks must be a good sign.

  AND THIS is what her life has become: at four fifteen she sneaks into the drama room for tutoring; afterward it’s homework (always done in a hurry), supper, the tedious class hour, the survey of the news. She spends hours designing the tutoring sessions, laying out detailed lesson plans, thinking of theorems and proofs. Even at play rehearsals, she catches herself puzzling over obtuse and acute angles.

  She’s not suited for this. Anechka was right about that. There are others at school for whom learning comes easier. They gulp down new knowledge instantly, commit it all to memory, wrap up their work in half the allotted time, and their grades, as if shaped by a lathe, are identical, effortless fives.

  Gone are the days when anyone thought Kat a wunderkind. She’s become plodding: for hours she pores over her textbooks, and always runs out of time. On tests she makes careless mistakes, because she’s so often anxious. She has the diligence, but diligence alone isn’t enough. The last thing she needed was a pupil of her own.

  And not just someone, but Mironov—Mironov, who has always despised her, who grunts and scoffs at her instructions and offers no response. Their situation is unworkable. Their only joint concern is to keep him from flunking. They study in secret, during the evening walks, because it’s too embarrassing for both of them.

  How secret these sessions are, to start with, is up for debate. One day Sveta Vlasenko and Ritka Mavrina drop by the drama room and don’t seem too surprised to find them. Sveta drifts over to the piano, while Ritka unrolls a sheet of Watman paper and sets about sketching the poster for their play.