by Monica Nolan
The prayer at breakfast, led by Miss Otis, competed with the buzz of whispering. And when the Latin Mistress concluded with a petition “for our Headmistress, that she may speedily recover from her head cold,” the misguided attempt to hide the nature of Miss Craybill’s illness was met with snorts of laughter. As she speared a sausage, Karen Woynarowski asked Bobby point-blank if Miss Craybill had “gone mental.”
“Of course not!” Bobby said loudly. “She’s overtired and is resting.”
It was basically true, Bobby reflected. The only news from the sickroom was that Miss Craybill was still heavily sedated. Miss Otis left immediately after the prayer, and Mona was absent. With the senior faculty table heavily decimated, Gussie Gunderson was left to keep what order she could, but no one understood the admonitions she issued in Greek. Fragments of conversation swirled around Bobby as Dorset emptied out after breakfast. “Miss Otis fainted when she saw her.” “I heard her shriek!” “…then Coach Bobby held up a cross.” “Madame Melville tried to give her absinthe, but…” “It’s fifty-fifty whether she’ll ever regain consciousness, the doctor said.” “I heard forty-sixty.” “If Miss Otis takes over, I’m asking my folks to transfer me to Peasley!”
Bobby froze at the last comment. Without Miss Craybill at the helm, would the little world of Metamora shatter and disintegrate? What would Bobby do then?
“When Stalin died, they played classical music on the radio,” Miss Rasphigi remarked to no one in particular as the teachers followed the students out the door. Bobby couldn’t tell if the Chemistry Mistress meant the comment as a suggestion. I don’t think classical music would calm the situation, thought the Games Mistress as she watched Miss Rasphigi retreat in the direction of Essex and the chemistry lab. She remembered what Angle had told her and Enid last night. Miss Froelich’s fall had nothing to do with nuthatches, according to Miss Rasphigi. She took a step after the retreating Chemistry Mistress, then stopped. Best not to rake that business up right now. The last thing she wanted to do was to fuel more of these wild speculations that were so damaging to Metamora’s reputation.
Bobby glanced at the newest edition of The Metamora Musings, which she’d picked up outside Dorset. METAMORA TO WELCOME OLD GIRLS, one headline read.
On Friday, November 1, the Old Girls will descend on Metamora’s campus like a plague of benevolent locusts. Festivities will include an Old Girl Tea, classroom visits, and the annual Old Girl Revue, which promises some delectable evening entertainment for Old and New Girls alike. Old Girls are expected from as far away as Valdez, Alaska, and Petropolis, Brazil…
What had Miss Otis said about the Old Girls? That they’d spread any unsavory rumors to the ends of the earth. What would they make of Miss Craybill, invalid after an encounter with a ghost?
Bobby sighed, and crushed the paper in frustration. She wished she could talk to Enid. She wanted to tell the attractive Math Mistress they’d been right about Mona, and about the Housekeeper’s clandestine affair with Dot Driscoll. She wanted to ask her if she’d done the right thing, promising Mona secrecy. If only Enid would suddenly appear, maybe in that snug-fitting red sweater she’d worn last night. I guess I’ve been lonelier for a real friend than I realized, Bobby thought.
But the Math Mistress had been absent all morning. Hoppy Fiske had told Bobby and the Burnhams that just before breakfast Enid had discovered a large cache of lurid literature, wrapped in plastic and hidden in the toilet tanks of the third-floor washroom. Apparently bookworm Sandy, frustrated with Bobby’s vigilance, had entered into a partnership with Linda, transferring her collection to Manchester. Linda had taken advantage of the hapless Enid’s inexperience to establish a rental library, doing a brisk business. Only a stopped-up toilet had foiled their scheme. Enid had spent the breakfast hour combing Manchester for every last copy of Kinsey’s Sexual Behavior in the Human Female.
All in all, it was an odd time to make innovations in the classroom, Bobby thought wryly, as she stood by the record player, the record arm in her hand. But if she was ever going to make anything of herself as a teacher, she had to stop hiding behind Miss Fayne’s curriculum and try out some of her own ideas.
She set the needle gently on the grooved record.
“Come on baby, let’s do the twist
Come on baby, let’s do the twist
Take me by my little hand, and go like this.”
Now she had the girls’ attention. “Let’s begin. Right foot forward, left foot back. Now we’re going to swivel our hips”—Bobby demonstrated for her fascinated audience—“while shifting our weight from front to back, back to front…Okay, let’s try that much.”
As the students began to swivel their hips, Karen Woynarowski waved her hand frantically.
“Coach Bobby,” she said breathlessly. “Is this going to be on the final? Isn’t this supposed to be peasant dance class?”
“What is a peasant?” parried Bobby. The question seemed made for one of the “enrichment opportunities” she’d read about. She stopped the record player and the twisting came to a halt. “Let’s take a moment and try to say what ‘peasant’ means.”
“It’s like a serf, in Russia,” volunteered Joyce Vandemar. The fourth formers were reading Anna Karenina.
“A lower-class person,” Penny Gordon offered. It cheered Bobby that the fourth form Savages wasn’t holding a grudge over yesterday’s tongue lashing.
“But the serfs have an innate nobility,” argued Joyce.
“Anyway, America doesn’t have aristocracy and servant classes,” put in Gwen Norton. “We’re a meritocracy.”
“Good points, all of you,” interposed Bobby. “Actually, another way to look at it is that America is one big peasant class, because most Americans are descended from immigrants who were peasants in their own countries. So all Americans are peasants—”
“Even DAPs?” asked Penny, open-mouthed.
“—and American songs are all, when you get right down to it, peasant songs.” Bobby put the music back on. “Now, let’s try again.”
The girls were all twisting energetically now, and Bobby felt a little wave of excitement. Why, peasant dance could be fun! She saw that Sally Stafford was frowning as she rocked stiffly forward and back. “The movement comes from the hips,” said the Games Mistress, going to her. “Try to relax your upper body. Let it rotate naturally.”
“I can’t do it! I don’t have any natural rotation!” cried Sally in frustration.
This was the real teaching challenge, Bobby realized. To convince a hopeless girl that her body was capable of more than she realized. Yet how to relate the dance to this girl’s own experience? “Sally, you’re a member of the Young Integrationists, aren’t you?” Bobby asked. The discouraged girl nodded. “Pretend the top half of you is on the picket line,” she told the teen, “and the police are coming to arrest you. What do you do?”
“Go limp,” said Sally, doing so. Bobby caught her before she fell. “But just the top half,” she reminded the teenaged agitator. Sally tried twisting again. “I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.
“You do!” Bobby felt just as pleased as the dancing girl. “Just don’t forget the second point of perfect posture, tucked tummy.”
I just love this job, the Games Mistress thought in a rush of emotion. What did it matter if she never knew who had dreamed of heaven and earth and philosophy? She had taught the Twist to the most uncoordinated student in her class!
And why stop there? Bobby was boiling over with ideas. Why not collaborate with Hoppy on a seminar, “Body Mechanics for Non-Violent Resisters”? And that hip-swiveling motion, with that little kick—how well it would translate to a feint followed by a push-pass. Bobby quickly sketched out a play on a piece of scrap paper. “Ready for the next move?” she asked as she put the paper in her back pocket.
“Yes!” cried the class enthusiastically.
Bobby was still riding the wave of her unexpected success after class when she ran into Kayo, coming from Jer
sey.
“Coach Bobby!” Kayo hurried toward her. “I’ve been looking for you—where did you go last night? I feel just awful about the game with the Birdbrains the other day. It was all my fault!”
“No, Kayo, you mustn’t blame yourself—”
Kayo dropped her art class portfolio on the path and grasped Bobby’s arm. “I read the riot act to Linda and her friends after dinner last night. You won’t hear a peep about ghostly possession from them ever again! Linda’s on to some new craze anyway.”
“That’s good.” Bobby tried again to interrupt the tempestuous teen. “You know, I made mistakes too—”
Kayo overrode her. “And I promise you, I won’t let myself get distracted again.” She dropped her voice and moved closer to the Games Mistress. “It’s just—I keep thinking about you and that day in your office…”
“Yes, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that,” Bobby temporized, wondering what on earth to say to the passionate center. She didn’t want to hurt Kayo’s feelings.
“Do you think about it too?” Kayo’s eyes were limpid pools of blue, inviting Bobby to jump in and sound the depths. “Do you remember the way you tore my shirt open so the buttons popped off? Do you remember the feel of your flesh against mine, the way you pummeled every part of me with your punishing kisses?”
Bobby took a step back, her breath coming faster in spite of herself. Kayo must have been borrowing from her sister’s lending library!
“I could meet you for a special practice—or a student-teacher conference,” Kayo persisted.
Bobby looked wildly around for some rescue and spotted Enid walking briskly toward them. The Math Mistress was like a life preserver, floating amid the waves of passion that threatened to drown the field hockey coach.
“Enid! How are you today?” An edge of desperation made her cheery greeting shrill.
“Hello, Bobby, Kayo.” Enid’s measuring glance took in Kayo’s flushed cheeks, the portfolio on its side on the ground, Bobby’s wild eyes. Bobby wondered if Enid was remembering another gym teacher and team captain. She hoped not.
“Were you looking for me?” she asked eagerly.
“No.” Enid glanced toward Jersey. “I need to see Mrs. Burnham.”
Bobby felt disappointed, all out of proportion with the cause. “Oh. Well, I thought we could—consult, maybe—about that matter from last night?”
“Of course.” Enid seemed distracted. “I’m free before dinner.” She continued down the path with a hasty farewell.
“It’ll be a relief when she’s gone,” Kayo remarked, looking after the Math Mistress with disdain.
“What are you talking about?” Bobby asked sharply.
“Scuttlebutt is that she’s interviewing for a job with some big company in Bay City. If she gets it, she’ll be gone next semester.”
Bobby marveled anew at the way the Metamorians knew everything that was going on, practically before the events occurred.
“And a good thing too.” Kayo’s dislike for the Math Mistress was plain. “Everyone knows she’s been down on the Savages from the beginning!”
With a sinking heart, Bobby realized she’d failed to conceal her feud with Enid from the students. Another teaching mistake! It seemed like for every step forward she took a step back.
“Miss Butler has always had Metamora’s best interests at heart,” she told the Savages’ captain sternly. Kayo gave her a smile of complicity.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “By the way, the old killjoy made me forget the rest of my news—Mrs. Gilvang told me the Ants lost to the Virgins the other day, so that means if we beat the Pioneers, we’ll be up against the Virgins in the playoffs!”
“The Holy Martyrs beat the Ames Ants?” Bobby was distracted from her emotional turmoil by this piece of intelligence. “Gee, I thought the Ants were supposed to be the stronger team.”
“That’s what everyone thought. Mrs. Gilvang said it was a terribly close game. She said that the Ames coach thinks there was something funny going on. Her forward line all got stomach cramps at halftime after sucking ice cubes from the same ice tray.” Kayo looked at her watch. “I’ve got to tear,” she said reluctantly. “I have a DAP confab before lunch. We’re collecting money to send flowers to poor Miss Craybill.”
“Wait a second, Kayo.” Bobby put a restraining hand on the departing girl’s shoulder. “Why was Mona—Mrs. Gilvang—at the game between the Ants and the Holy Martyrs?”
“She goes to all the games,” Kayo explained. “She’s the biggest fan field hockey has! She’s always asking me about the other teams and players—who’s injured, what the team mood is, who plays better in the rain.” Kayo bent and picked up her portfolio, stuffing back into it the crude sketches of hockey players that had fallen out. “Just let me know about that student-teacher conference,” she told Bobby. “I’m ready anytime.”
Bobby watched the blond ponytail bounce up the path, but her mind wasn’t on Kayo and her unfortunate fixation on her coach. Why was Mona keeping such close track of the Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League? What was the attractive housekeeper up to?
Chapter Twenty-four
The Sick Room
Bobby was still thinking about Mona’s keen interest in field hockey that evening as she worked in her office in the gym, sketching out the new play she’d thought of in peasant dance. A tap at the door pulled her out of her reverie. “Come in!” she called, hoping it was Enid. The conversation they’d had before dinner had been unsatisfactory. Enid had chided Bobby for promising Mona secrecy—she’d been all for revealing the ghostly cyclist’s identity to Miss Craybill that instant. Then they were interrupted by a penitent fourth former turning in a book called Boarding School Hussies, which she’d gotten from Linda. “It isn’t like Metamora at all,” she’d said wistfully as she relinquished the book.
But instead of Enid it was Mona who entered, with her light, energetic step. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Oh?” Was Mona going to tell her she had confessed to Miss Craybill and all was well?
But Mona was there on other business. “You know the Harvest Moon Mixer is this Saturday,” she began, seating herself on the edge of Bobby’s desk and taking out a cigarette.
Bobby struck a match and lit it. “Yes?”
“Bryce and Ole were going to chaperone with the Burnhams, but Bryce has a terrible cold and Ole is staying home to nurse him.” Mona drew on her cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Truthfully, Ole’s the big loss. He’s a wonderful dancer, and so good with the wallflowers.”
Bobby looked at Mona blankly. Where was all this going?
“So you and Enid will have to fill in,” the housekeeper concluded.
“Me and Enid!” cried Bobby. Her pulse began to pound. What am I getting so excited about? she wondered.
“I know you don’t get along terribly well, but really, there’s no one else. Serena and Alice are going to Bay City—there’s a performance of Götterdämmerung Serena’s been wild to see and their tickets are purchased. Hoppy has a teacher friend visiting. Gussie, Yvette, Connie—well, they just won’t add to the party spirit the way you and Enid will.”
“I can’t dance with the wallflowers,” Bobby pointed out.
“Enid agreed to ask her beau Rod to come. Seems he’s a terrific dancer.” Mona got up and strolled behind the desk. “Honestly, I don’t understand why the two of you are making such a fuss. It’s a party.” She peered at Bobby’s playbook as she lightly kneaded the coach’s tensed-up shoulders. “New strategy?” she asked. “Are you going to use it against Adena?”
“No, the girls need more practice with it first.” Bobby shut the playbook. “Say,” she added, trying to be casual. “I hear you went to the Ants–Holy Martyr game.”
“That’s right,” said Mona. “The school nurse at Ames invited me over for afternoon bridge and then I kept her company at the game. She had her hands full with those sickened forwards!�
��
“I hear the coach suspects foul play,” ventured Bobby.
“It did seem odd, all those players getting upset stomachs at the same time,” Mona agreed as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “So I can count on you for the dance? Enid’s already dusting off her mist-gray organza.”
“I don’t have anything suitable to wear,” Bobby fretted, distracted from the idea of field hockey sabotage by the thought of Enid in organza. How could she let Enid see her in that old blue party dress she’d worn through college?
“Serena will have something that fits you.” Mona stubbed out her cigarette and went to the door. “I ought to get back to the Headmistress.”
“Have you had a chance to tell her the identity of the ghostly cyclist?” Bobby queried sternly.
“Oh, Bobby.” Mona laughed gaily, pushing open the heavy door to the playing fields, and letting a cold wind sweep into the gym. “She’s barely sitting up, and it was all I could do to coax her to eat some prune whip. I’m going to make her a nice blancmange tonight.”
As Mona chattered away about invalid menus, Bobby couldn’t help thinking that the truth about the ghostly cyclist would be a better tonic than all the blancmanges in the world. Yet the next morning, when Bobby repeated her question to Mona, the housekeeper put her off with egg custards; and another day it was beef tea. Mona kept telling her there was plenty of time, but Bobby’s impatience grew.
“Have you heard?” Enid called to her on Saturday as Bobby was exiting Suffolk, a dry cleaner’s bag over her arm. “Misako’s father called to find out if the Headmistress was truly possessed by a ghost—seems his daughter wrote him about Miss Craybill’s collapse. Miss Otis managed to convince him that it was a language misunderstanding. When is Mona going to tell Miss Craybill the truth?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Bobby helplessly. “You really think I should take matters into my own hands?”
