The Cat Ate My Gymsuit

by Paula Danziger

  The class looked at her and at one another.

  Alan Smith laughed and said, “What is this gonna be, a class of detectives?”

  Ms. Finney looked at him without smiling. But she didn’t yell, either.

  “I know that this may all seem a little strange to you now. Maybe it won’t work, but let’s try. Take out a piece of paper, and for the rest of the period think about communication and write about what it means to you.”

  We all took out paper. I stared at mine and then snuck looks at Ms. Finney. She was young and pretty and seemed nice. She sounded smart. She was different, but I wasn’t sure how, and I didn’t know if I could trust her. I mean, she was a teacher, and an adult.

  During one of my looks, she stared right at me and smiled. I lowered my head and pretended to be writing. Dumb teacher. Who did she think she was? What does a blimp know about communication? How could she know what it feels like to be so fat and ugly that you’re ashamed to get into a gymsuit or talk to skinny people? Who wants to say, “This is my friend, the Blimp”?

  Class was almost over, and I still hadn’t written anything. I stared at my paper again and began:

  The bell rang. Grabbing my books, I rushed up to the front and put my paper face down on the desk. No one else was going to see what I wrote or drew.

  Going to gym class, I overheard some of the kids talking about Ms. Finney.

  “She seems O.K.”

  “Weird.”

  “I like her.”

  “She’s a creep, like the rest of ’em.”

  In the locker room all the girls rushed to get dressed, except for me. I sat on a bench.

  Nancy came over and said, “Marcy, not again! You’ll flunk.”

  I just sat there. Trying to change into a gymsuit while hiding my mini bra and fat body would have been a gymnastic feat in itself.

  Once the class started, I walked up to the gym teacher, Schmidt.

  “All right, Lewis. What is it this time?”

  “The cat ate my gymsuit.”

  She shook her head, frowned, and wrote another zero in her marking book.

  I sat down to watch my eighty-millionth volleyball game.

  CHAPTER 3

  Things got better at school after that, at least for me. For a while, some of the kids were mad at Joel for spoiling their fun. But a lot of the kids were glad that everything had settled down. And we started doing some really neat things in class. There was a lot of writing, but I like to do that. Sometimes it is easier to write things down than it is to say them out loud. Ms. Finney said that to communicate is to begin to understand ourselves and others. She wanted us to be honest in our thinking, and to write well. That’s really hard, to be honest and remember things like commas and paragraph structure and stuff like that.

  The really nice part is that she never asked us to discuss anything that she wouldn’t discuss herself. One day we had to write about the things that bothered us. Ms. Finney stood in front of the class and said, “I remember that when I was a kid, I used to be so embarrassed because I wore braces on my teeth and everyone used to call me ‘Tinsel Tooth.’”

  That may not sound important, her telling us that, but it made it easier for us to write about and discuss things that bothered us. You know, like mothers who insist on being Girl Scout leaders when you don’t even want to be a Girl Scout; falling down steps when you are trying to make an entrance; bad breath; having to take your younger brother to the movies; aunts and uncles who keep asking if many people “shoot up” marijuana; dumb stuff like that. It surprised me how many people had problems. I’m sure that lots of people had more trouble than we talked about, but Ms. Finney was careful not to let it get too personal.

  One time, she talked about some guy named Marshall McLuhan, who wrote about people getting turned on by music and films and stuff. Then Ms. Finney turned off all the lights, put on a whole lot of light boxes that blinked on and off, turned on an album real loud, and told us to experience it. She said she wanted us to decide for ourselves whether this type of thing was an escape or a way to really get involved. It was really neat, but then the vice-principal, Mr. Goldman, walked in and called Ms. Finney out of the room. When she came back in, she looked very upset and put the lights back on and stopped the lesson.

  We also put on a play. Ms. Finney asked me to be assistant director. That was very hard for me. I had to get up and walk around the room and get stuff ready. I always feel safer sitting behind the desk, where nobody can see my body. But Ms. Finney asked, and it would have been hard for me to explain to her why I didn’t want to do it, so I did it. It ended up being O.K.

  Don’t get me wrong. Ms. Finney wasn’t perfect. She never got reports back on time, she gave hard tests, and once in a while she got mad. She also did weird things like holding on to a piece of chalk, forgetting what it was, and trying to smoke it. Sometimes she let kids get away with too much. But she really tried.

  And we all really dug her. In the beginning, some of the kids were worried because they were afraid they wouldn’t learn what they had to know to pass the college entrance exams. Other kids thought that Ms. Finney was just plain weird. But eventually we all said that we did learn. We wrote more for her than we had ever written before. She never gave true-false or multiple-guess tests. I think most teachers like them because they’re easier to correct. Instead, she made us write our own interpretation of what we’d read.

  She brought in all kinds of books to read. And a lot of us bought paperbacks from the book club. It was like a celebration the day the books came in the mail and Ms. Finney sorted them out and gave them to us. I spent most of my allowance on books. We shared and swapped them. I feel like I’m addicted to the printed word. Like I need a book fix when I get upset.

  We talked about poetry and current events and plays and movies. Ms. Finney knew an awful lot, and she made us feel that we knew a lot too and were important. She really listened. It was amazing.

  And she didn’t talk to us just in English class. During her free periods she’d walk around the school and drop in on some classes, like home ec. and shop and art, classes where there were times that she wouldn’t be interrupting other teachers. She’d taste the food that the kids made, admire the sewing, and look at all the projects in shop. It made everybody feel good, like she knew that there was more to us than just the time we spent in her class.

  One day she came into my gym class. I had just told Schmidt that my little brother had misplaced his security blanket and was now using my gymsuit instead. Ms. Finney looked at everybody playing volleyball and then came over and sat down next to me.

  “Hi, Marcy.”

  “Hi, Ms. Finney.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  “The blue team.”

  “Don’t you feel well?”

  “I’m O.K. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  We sat and watched the game for a few minutes. I didn’t know what else to say.

  She turned and said, “I’m going to ask Ms. Schmidt if I can play. I’m a real clod at volleyball, but it’s fun. Do you want to play too?”

  I shook my head. Looking at me as if she wanted to say something else, she just smiled and walked over to the game. Schmidt obviously said that she could play, because she took off her shoes and joined the red team.

  She really was bad. When someone hit the ball to her, she ducked. When she served, she didn’t always get it over the net. But she looked as if she were having fun, making up her own rules as she went along.

  “It’s a do-over. I forgot to call out the score.”

  “English teachers get an extra serve.”

  “People named Barbara get two extra serves.”

  Someone yelled across the net, “Hey, Ms. Finney. Just pretend that the ball is a direct object and our team is the indirect object.”

  Ms. Finney smiled and volleyed. The ball just missed hitting Nancy on the head. Nancy turned around, laughed, and yelled, “She said a direct object, not a dangling p
articiple.”

  Schmidt blew her whistle and said, “Everyone hurry up. Into the showers and then get dressed.”

  Ms. Finney yelled, “Thanks, everyone, for letting me play.” Then she came over and said, “That was fun.”

  I just smiled at her and followed the rest of the kids into the locker room.

  One day in class, Nancy raised her hand and asked Ms. Finney if we could do more about how we felt inside. Ms. Finney thought about it and said that we had to use the class time to do what was in the syllabus, the guide that schools give teachers. She said that she felt a responsibility to go over the assigned material. After thinking awhile, she smiled and said, “Why don’t we start a club after school? That’ll work. I’ll tell my other classes and you all tell other friends. We’ll start Monday after school.”

  That’s how Smedley got started.

  CHAPTER 4

  Smedley wasn’t a person. It was the club. What happened was that twenty-five kids came, which was really good because a lot of the kids had to take buses to school and staying after meant a long walk or having someone pick you up. We figured that the club should have a name. Nancy suggested “The Self Club.” Joel wanted it to be called “Interpersonal Persons.” Alan Smith said that we should be named “The Sherlock Holmes Crew,” because we all would be searching to find ourselves. That kid is probably going to be a detective some day, or a peeping tom. A kid from another class said, “Why don’t we just call ourselves Smedley, after that dopey guy in our grammar book who is always looking for the right way to say things?” Everyone liked that.

  Ms. Finney said that we should begin by examining what had just happened, that each of us should look at how we acted in the group and how we all finally agreed. This, she said, was group dynamics in action. She said that she had taken college courses involving that sort of thing, and that she had had a minor in something called Human Organizational something or other. I don’t remember exactly, but it sounded good.

  So we talked about it and saw that some people have different roles in a group. Some are leaders. Some are reactors. (Alan thought that meant that he was like an atomic reactor.) Joel said that Alan and Robert Alexander always acted like clowns when they wanted attention or were afraid of something. They both got mad at him and called him a brainy creep. He called them cretins, and finally Ms. Finney had to tell them to stop.

  “O.K. That’s enough. If you want me to be advisor to this club, you all have to try to work things out. Let’s begin with an exercise to get acquainted.”

  Nancy raised her hand and said, “Ms. Finney. That’s silly. We’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

  Ms. Finney looked around the room. “You may have known each other since kindergarten, but do you really know each other? I bet you don’t. I’ve noticed that some of you don’t even talk to people who aren’t in your classes.”

  She split us up into pairs and told us to spend fifteen minutes getting to know the other person. I thought I was going to die. She had put Joel and me together.

  Joel pulled his desk near mine and said, “Hi. I’m Joel Anderson.”

  I just nodded my head.

  “You should tell me your name now.”

  How could I tell him? I was so nervous, I couldn’t remember anything. Finally, it came to me.

  “Hi. I’m Marcy Lewis.”

  Joel asked, “Have you always lived here?”

  Again I nodded my head. I couldn’t stand it. I felt like such a blob, a real idiot.

  Joel tried again. “What would you like to tell me about yourself?”

  I didn’t know. Was I supposed to tell him I was a blimp trying to disguise myself as a real person; or that I probably had a horrible case of contagious impending pimples; or that I had this weird brother with a teddy bear filled with orange pits; or that I thought that he was cute and brave and probably thinking about how suicide would be better than talking to me?

  I finally looked down at my desk and said, “I’m Marcy Lewis . . .thirteen . . .I hate dancing lessons . . .grammar tests . . .and questions.”

  He said, “Don’t you like anything?”

  I thought for a while and said, “Yeah. I like Ms. Finney, reading books . . .and felt-tip markers.”

  Then I sat there, trying to think of something, anything, to ask him.

  “Joel, do you like Ms. Finney?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Were you scared when you got mad at the class and told them to give her a chance?”

  “Why should I be scared saying what I believe?”

  “Aren’t you afraid that people won’t like you?”

  Joel just looked at me. I decided that I’d better change the subject.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “Joel Anderson.”

  Ms. Finney told the class to pull the desks into a circle, and that each of us had to introduce our partner to the group. Everybody seemed to know new things about the others. When my turn came, I said, “This is Joel Anderson. He doesn’t have any brothers, sisters, or pets, and I think he’s smart.” Then I sat back and waited for Joel to introduce me.

  “This is Marcy Lewis. She says that she doesn’t like lots of things, but I bet she really does . . .and she has a nice smile.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d been sure he was going to say something like “This is Marcy Lewis. She’s a real creep and doesn’t know how to talk.” Or “This is Marcy. She might even look human if she didn’t look like a Mack truck.” I wasn’t used to anyone saying anything nice, except Nancy and my mother, because they had to.

  Once we had finished with all the introductions, Ms. Finney told us all to reach out to the people at the desks on either side of us, hold hands, close our eyes, and think about the group. Joel was on one side of me, Ms. Finney on the other. All I could think about was how scared I was that my hands were sweaty. I was also afraid that they would notice that my fingernails were all bitten down.

  The group sat like that for a long time. Then everybody sort of let go, and Ms. Finney said that we should all go home and write a self-description to bring in for the next week, one that only she would read.

  I was afraid to look at Joel. All of a sudden, I heard him say, “ ’Bye, Marcy. See you in class tomorrow.” He had talked to me in front of all those people! I was so excited, but I just smiled and said, “Yeah. See ya, Joel.”

  Nancy and I walked home, Beauty and the Blimp, Wonderwoman and the Blob Who Ate Brooklyn. Nancy was really excited about Smedley. She kept saying how much fun it would be, how she liked to get to know people, and how she thought it would be good for me. I asked her why.

  “Oh, Marcy. You know. You’re so hung up about your weight . . .you and your family don’t talk to each other . . .and you’re so afraid of things . . .and you shouldn’t be.”

  I just clumped along, biting my nails and thinking about what she had said.

  CHAPTER 5

  School went on as usual. I kept getting good grades in everything but gym. My anonymous letters to the Student Council suggestion box were ignored. Lunches continued to be lousy. We were only up to the Civil War in history class.

  It was different in some ways, though. I didn’t sit alone at lunch anymore. I sat with some of the kids from Smedley. Ms. Finney’s classes were still great, but the rest of the classes seemed even more boring than they were before she came. We kept asking the teachers to be more like her, but they made faces and told us to keep quiet. We talked out in classes more and asked more questions, but they didn’t like that. We even asked some of them to join Smedley, but they said things like “What are you doing? Getting your heads shrunk?” and “My contract doesn’t say I have to stay after school past last period.”

  What changed a lot was my home. It got even worse. My father has a horrible temper. He doesn’t hit, but he yells. Even worse, he says awful things to me, like “I don’t care
if you get good grades. You do stupid things. Why do I have to have a daughter who is stupid and so fat? I’ll never get you married off.”

  My mother would try to tell him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. They’d get into a fight and she’d start to cry and then go get a tranquilizer.

  Then my little brother, Stuart, would cry and run for his teddy bear. While all this was happening, my father would scream at me. “Look at what you’ve done. We’d never fight if it weren’t for you. Apologize.” By that time, I’m crying. It usually ended with me running upstairs, slamming my door, throwing myself on my bed, and rocking back and forth. My mother would come in and hug me and tell me everything would be O.K., but that I really should lose some weight and look like everyone else.

  I hated it. That’s what usually went on in my house but, as I said, things got much worse.

  In a way, it was because of Smedley. We did lots of neat stuff in there, and I wanted to try some of it at home.

  One day in Smedley we broke up into small groups and told each other how we saw each other and felt about each other. I was really excited. Nobody said that they hated me. They said I was smart and nice, but too quiet and shy. No one made fun of me. They didn’t say I was skinny and beautiful, but they didn’t tell me I was ugly and fat either. So I thought that maybe it would be good to try it at home.

  My mother was all for it. I had told her about what we were doing in Smedley, and she really dug it, because she said it was making me different. I didn’t tell her how scared I still was, though. I wanted her to be proud of me.

  So one night at dinner, she explained that she wanted us all to sit around and talk like a family.

  My father said, “I’ve worked hard all day for this family, Lily. Isn’t that enough? I don’t have to talk to all of you too, do I?”

  Mom very quietly said, “Martin, I think it’s important. Please.”