Mannequin Girl

by Ellen Litman

  But maybe they’ve been too cavalier about this whole situation. She’s been such a delicious joke, this big-busted blabbermouth Lika. They’ve made bets on how long she will last. One week. Two weeks maximum. But Lika isn’t leaving—not of her own accord, anyway. She’s gained some protectors along the way. The old guard has taken her under their wing. A true Russian girl, Creampuff called her the other day in the canteen.

  “I don’t understand it,” Creampuff was saying. “Why don’t we hire more Russian people?”

  And the teacher she was speaking to agreed. “The school is swarming with the alien-named element.”

  Kat was idling by the giant vats of bread. Not spying, mind you—just waiting to ask Creampuff about next week’s biology quiz. But she knew they were talking about her parents. Also, about Lefty (Emma Aronovna Levit), who teaches history and civics; about Mariya Zinovievna Fratkina, who teaches math; about the art teacher, Jamilya, who is from Kazakhstan; and even Beatrisa, whose origins—French? Jewish? Polish?—have always been unclear.

  “We have to act quickly,” says Anechka.

  “You’re sure you’re not overreacting?” Misha says.

  “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  Whose side indeed? There’s always a side. The side of outcasts, the side of the majority. The side of decency. The side of compromise.

  Anechka says, “You have to speak to the headmistress.”

  Kat says, “Can’t you call her yourself?”

  Anechka shakes her head. “Not anymore. It has to be you, baby.” And when she sees Kat hesitating, she adds, “Just tell the truth. Tell her what Lika’s been saying. You’ll be doing a favor to everyone in the school.”

  Misha says, “Is Lika really such a danger?”

  Anechka won’t look in his direction. “Don’t listen to your father, baby. Looks like he’s so soft-hearted he’s ready to give up both our jobs. He refuses to see that these people, they’re trying to get rid of us. But you, my pet, you know better. You’re my girl. No matter what, we have to stick together.”

  NEXT TUESDAY, the gaggle shows up for literature and Lika isn’t there. They wait ten minutes. It’s probably safe to assume the lesson has been canceled. They wait some more, just to be sure, and then Nina Petrenko lets out a happy whoop.

  Little Hog says, “Shut up, you retard.”

  Someone suggests they cut their losses, skip over to the oxygen café. But Little Hog tells them they can’t. Someone will see them moving through the hallways. “We can’t let Lika down. Understand?”

  So they don’t go. They stay on their cots and wait—wait by the sea for good weather—and only once the bell rings do they gather up their things and leave.

  That day they find out nothing, but the next day Lika’s back. She is waiting for them in her acid-washed jacket, which she normally wears outside. They look at her, puzzled: Why don’t you sit down, Lika?

  She tells them she’s been sacked.

  “Don’t look so surprised. One of you went to the headmistress and denounced me, told her I teach you to take drugs.”

  Little Hog blurts out, “We didn’t.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence,” says Lika. “What I want to know is, who? Who took it upon herself to march in to the headmistress?”

  She stares them down, one at a time, though when it comes to Kat, she skips her for some reason.

  Kat saw the headmistress on Monday. It took her a while to find the perfect moment and then work up the courage to knock on the door. She’s always been shy of the headmistress, a large, severe-looking woman, with close-cropped grey hair and wary, bespectacled eyes. She has no family, apparently, and no close pals among her colleagues. She treats everyone the same. It doesn’t matter who you are—a teacher, a student, a parent; if she thinks you presumptuous or ignorant, she won’t hesitate to tell you.

  She seemed surprised to find Kat in her doorway. Was there something wrong with Anechka? Or maybe Misha sent Kat on an errand? Kat had to tell her it was neither, it was something else.

  “Come in then,” the headmistress said. She wasn’t in the habit of entertaining students. No students came to see her unless they’d been summoned, in which case it was bad news. She had a large office, as large as the whole teachers’ lounge upstairs. Kat had to wait on the couch for a while, beneath a loud grandfather clock, while the headmistress put away some paperwork.

  “It’s about the substitute,” Kat said, blanking for a moment on Lika’s full name.

  The headmistress raised her eyebrows, which, Kat now thinks, might have been a warning, a warning that she failed to heed. But the headmistress wasn’t Jewish, and who knew how she felt about Jewish people? Kat had to remind herself of what she was doing: she was saving the school, saving her parents’ jobs.

  She went on with her story, and the headmistress listened and took notes, and the whole time Kat knew it was wrong, she was wrong, knew it by the way the headmistress pursed her mouth and wouldn’t even look at her. Kat was doing something secretive, something undignified and vile.

  And here is the result: a ruined, raving Lika, standing before the gaggle and tugging at her scarf. “I had heart palpitations,” she is saying. “I couldn’t sleep all night. I had a hellish skin reaction, so bad I can’t show you, you’d throw up.”

  She sucks in her breath, takes a pause, and now she seems to be looking directly at Kat.

  “There’s an informer among you. A weak and frightened person who’s hurt you all. I used to believe in you, people. But not anymore. As far as I’m concerned, every one of you is an informer.”

  “Who?” Little Hog demands.

  Lika says, “I don’t know. It could be any of you. Unless the informer steps forward.”

  They must know it’s Kat. It’s a matter of logic. She would feel better if they figured it out and erupted in their cacophony of outrage. Either that, or Lika will out her herself. Because she’s no dummy, all the drugs notwithstanding. She doesn’t take her eyes off Kat. One, two, three: just tell them!

  But Lika isn’t telling, because it’s a test.

  It would be easy to confess, or as Lika says, step forward, tell them that she did it and she has no regrets. She’s not a frightened person. Isn’t that what Lika is trying to prove—that Kat is afraid? How easy it would be: confess, confess! Except the word “informer” rankles her. There must be other, better-fitting words. She glances at Jules. (“They don’t like you,” Lika asked her, “do they?”)

  Lika waits, but no one is talking. There’s puffiness under her eyes, and she’s wrapped her neck in that big purple scarf to spare them the sight of the welts on her skin. She’s only a substitute, after all. No one bothers about a substitute. But somehow she’s expecting them to speak to her: We’re sorry. Don’t go. A few simple words. She still doesn’t get it, the way 7A is incapable of anything heartfelt, the way they feel spurned at the drop of a hat, the way they retreat into themselves, turn bitter.

  “Your loss,” she says to them.

  STILL, THEY are affected. They wade through the rest of the day in a blur of jumbled feelings. There are violent outbursts, tears, intermittent threats. Little Hog tries to enlist Margo’s help. But Margo says, “We were mistaken.”

  So there’s doubt now, planted by Margo. And maybe—just maybe—some of what Lika said wasn’t appropriate. Like the stuff about her rash. And, come to think of it, her skirts were too short, her breasts too uncontained in those floppy blouses. And her language, wasn’t it a tad—how should we put it—too relaxed?

  “You all claimed to love her!” Little Hog yells, and what can be worse, or more contagious, than Little Hog’s uncontrollable rage? Their dorm becomes a battlefield and, as often happens in such situations, Kat gets her share of abuse. “Shut up and die, Kysya,” they scream, though Kat hasn’t said a word. “You’re annoying me!”

  In the past Kat would have stayed quiet, waited for the storm to blow off. At least that is what Anechka always urged, saying Kat was to
o weak to prevail in a conflict, too sensitive to stay the course. She’d start to crack after a day or so, and it would fall to Anechka to sort out the mess. All the same, in her place Anechka wouldn’t tolerate the gaggle. She wouldn’t mince words or sneak around; she’d tell them exactly what she thought.

  “Lika deserved to get fired,” Kat says, and for a moment it seems that no one heard her. Then, abruptly, Little Hog sits up.

  “You’re the one who reported her.”

  “What if I did?” Kat asks.

  Little Hog begins to move toward her, and it must be this swaggering, gangster-like walk that makes Little Hog so menacing. “You better speak up, Kysya, cause maybe I didn’t hear you right.”

  “You heard me,” Kat says, not backing up.

  Little Hog is closer now, her fists clenched as if for a fight, but until she swings her arm Kat doesn’t believe she might hurt her.

  Just then Jules steps between them. “Enough, you idiots,” she says. “Enough!” But it’s too late: Little Hog’s arm is already in motion, and Jules has no time to duck, and the punch catches her square on the nose.

  IN THE dorm bathroom, Jules holds clumps of toilet paper to her face, trying to stem a nosebleed. She wasn’t hit that hard, but her nose is sensitive. She has frequent nosebleeds—when a snowball gets her, or even when there’s a sudden shift in temperature. She’s learned to use them to her advantage, if she wants to skip a swimming session or hasn’t studied for a test. Except the one she’s having now isn’t fake. Kat brings her a clean handkerchief and waits as Jules sits on the bathroom floor with her head tilted back and a cold bandage on her nose.

  “Sorry,” Kat says. “You know it was meant for me.”

  Jules doesn’t answer, just tips her head farther back.

  “When you feel better we can go to the oxygen café.”

  “You must really think I’m stupid,” Jules says after a pause. “You think we’re all stupid—because we don’t sing those dumb guitar songs, or faint at the sound of poetry, or worship your silly self-important parents like they’re some sort of little gods. Except they’re not that important, Kat. They’re not even clever like Lika, who, for my money, was a real rebel and a much better teacher than your mom. She even won over the gaggle, for God’s sake. And that’s why you got rid of her.”

  “I didn’t—” Kat begins.

  “Oh please! I don’t really care.” Jules gets up from the floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The infirmary.”

  Kat follows instinctively. “Can I come? Are you sick?”

  “I’m sick of you,” Jules says. “And no, I don’t want you there.”

  IT’S NOT easy to get through the rest of the week. No one speaks to Kat, especially not Jules. Not even when they’re on canteen duty together. Jules just goes about her business, picking out twisted forks or waiting for the pot of soup. During the evening walks Kat sits on the swing behind the swimming pool, and sometimes Mironov comes to keep her company. “Want me to push you?” he offers, after watching her sit still. “If you want my opinion, I don’t think you did anything horrible.”

  But she doesn’t want his opinion, and she’s unsure what she did. Did she help the school in some important manner? Rescue her mother’s job? Was Lika incompetent or was she a maverick, a rare trailblazing individual?

  Anechka, at least, is pleased. On Wednesday, when Kat phoned with the news, she called her a clever girl and a hero. She said they’d celebrate on Saturday, when Kat comes home from school.

  Saturday arrives and there are no signs of celebration. They’re having supper in the kitchen, a regular supper, potatoes and reheated old steaks. Misha has tucked himself into the tightest corner, and it’s strange how such a large person can fit into such a small space.

  When the conversation gets around Lika, Misha gets up from his chair. “The two of you, you have destroyed a person.”

  “You fancied her that much?” Anechka says, but he waves her aside and goes to the living room.

  “Never mind him,” says Anechka. “Just tell me how it went.”

  Kat tells all—from the talk she had with the headmistress, to Lika’s parting speech, to the gaggle’s violent reaction.

  Anechka says, “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  “Eventually I did,” Kat says.

  “God, that was stupid. Now the whole school will know and everyone will think it was my work.”

  “I thought you’d be proud—”

  “Proud of what? Of you shooting your mouth off?”

  “I was just standing up to them. You’ve always said to never compromise—”

  Earlier that year they were reading “The Song of the Stormy Petrel,” a revolutionary poem but also a moral allegory, a tribute to noncomformists: “Only proud stormy petrel soars, fearless and unfettered, high above the greyish waters.” Anechka said, “Who among you is such a person? Who is the stormy petrel of this class?” Maybe she thought they’d choose Kat, but they all voted for Little Hog.

  Anechka says, “You’ll never be a stormy petrel.”

  “You don’t even know me,” Kat says.

  “I know plenty. Honestly, Kat, what were you thinking? How will I ever go back to work?”

  “I thought the point was to rid the school of Lika—”

  “The point?” Anechka snaps. “What point?”

  She is loud enough that it gets Misha’s attention. He returns to the kitchen and asks them what’s going on.

  “You”—she points at him—“I know you must have planned it. You’ve been undermining me every step of the way. How long have you been in cahoots with your Lika? Did she come and complain? Did she show up to cry on your shoulder?”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Anya.”

  At first, Kat thinks she must be missing something, a breach between her parents that happened while she was at school. Then she sees how unhinged Anechka looks: trembling, pupils dilated, face twisted with fury. A picture of someone possessed. She seems to have forgotten Kat’s existence.

  “I’m not surprised you liked her, really. A normal, healthy woman for a change. I bet she could make you a whole brood of children. Poor Misha, stuck with a defective wife. Defective wife, defective daughter. What was it your mother called us—cripples?”

  “Shut up,” he whispers. “Not in front of Kat.”

  “Don’t worry,” she tells him. “I won’t be your burden much longer.”

  ~

  IN SECOND PERIOD ON TUESDAY, they recite “Kindness to Horses” by Vladimir Mayakovsky, Misha’s favorite. The gaggle, being who they are, make a mockery of the poem: “Horse, you mustn’t. Horse, listen!” and they cackle like the mob, the loafers, in the poem itself: “A horse keeled over! It’s toppled, the horse!” Misha nods and moves on to the next name on the roster.

  He is curt with them, impersonal, assigning grades and saying little else. Even when they butcher his favorite poem on purpose. “A horse has toppled on her rump,” and now for some reason Kat is picturing Lika. “Child, we are all, a little bit, horses.”

  She’d like to believe she is the sort of person who is kind to horses, the person who wouldn’t join the gaggle but would kneel in the ice before the wounded beast. Except that lately she isn’t sure about anything. “What do you think of me?” she used to ask Misha. She doesn’t dare ask him now, afraid of what he thinks.

  That evening they take a subway to Perovo, as they now do once a week, to see Anechka at the clinic. She’s been sequestered there for a month at least, taking calming pills, doing crafts and yard work as part of her occupational therapy.

  They should never have pressured her, that much is obvious. A week after Lika got fired, Anechka actually returned to work. She lasted a week. They should have noticed the cracks in her armor. Instead, they found her on Sunday, prone on the kitchen floor. A small puddle of water next to her, two empty pill packets. The note on a lined sheet of paper read simply: “I can’t anymor
e.”

  Misha barely looks at Kat now. On weekends he’s quiet and tired, hunched up in his warm kitchen corner, while she boils potatoes and hot dogs for the two of them to eat. Later he does grading on the living room sofa, and when he falls asleep, she covers him with his favorite red and green afghan.

  Every Tuesday they go to the clinic. They bring Anechka fresh clothes, some magazines she may or may not read. Most other things are not allowed. They don’t know if she’s getting better. Some days she’s withdrawn, tearful, refusing to talk to them or even come out for a walk. Other times she’s apathetic, following them dimly across the grounds of the clinic. And yet there are also glimpses of normalcy, vividness, and even traces of her scathing wit. She can be many things, their Anechka: sarcastic, gentle, difficult. Though increasingly one image blurs it all—the shape of her passed out on the kitchen floor.

  These days it never leaves Kat, this image, this sepia-colored despair, the hollow ache. It follows her everywhere. She dreams of the long concrete wall painted yellow, the soggy benches strewn along the paths, the grungy angel statues with chipped fingers and faces. How can anyone get better here? she thinks when she wakes up. And how could she have missed it in the first place, the signs of Anechka unraveling?

  It takes her and Misha a long time to get to the clinic; the rush-hour trains are crowded and there’s no place to sit. They hold onto the handrails and sway to and fro, bumping into each other a little. From the subway station they emerge into the murky Moscow evening—wet sidewalks, pale streetlights, silhouettes of tall apartment buildings. It’s surprisingly springlike tonight. Kat’s taken off her hat, unbuttoned her warm jacket. They both slow down. It’s really not that far.

  “Was it my fault?” Kat says to Misha.

  He says no, don’t be silly, it’s not anyone’s fault.

  “Yes, but you think I was wrong back then, with Lika?”