“Yeah, she’s a real idiot.” Patsy gauges me from hooded eyelids, then the two girls move off.
Debbie watches them go. “Evelyn and Patsy seem to think you’re pretty funny. Maybe you should start hanging around with them.”
What?! How can she say something like that to me?
“Look, Maureen. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now. Maybe you’re upset about your mom being sick, but that doesn’t give you the right to be cruel. It’s not fair to take out your feelings on Miss Godwin. And by the way, it doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with your mom or what hospital she’s in. That’s not important. The important thing is that she gets better.”
Debbie gives me a long, meaningful look before turning and walking away quickly.
Oh my God. She knows too.
I stand rooted to the wooden floor, watching her disappear down the corridor, my eyes stinging with hot tears, stomach churning with fear. What’s wrong with me, anyway? Why am I so mean to Miss Godwin? And what will I do now that the whole world knows about Mom?
CHAPTER TEN
WE CAN HEAR THE phone ringing as Dad unlocks the front door. Beth-Ann bursts through first, charging down the hall toward the phone table. Shaking my head wearily, I dump my bookbag on the sofa. Getting to the phone first is Beth-Ann’s latest obsession.
I flop into a chair, while Dad turns on a few lights. What a day. The amazing news that John Ryan wants me to go to the spring dance, that horrible conversation in the girls’ bathroom, my big act in Miss Godwin’s class, and then that awful argument with Debbie to finish everything off. All too much to process—I can’t even think about any of it. No wonder Aunt Kay kept giving me odd looks all evening, finally asking what was wrong, why I was so quiet. But I simply couldn’t get into it, wouldn’t know where to start, couldn’t bear to hear any advice. So I just told her everything was fine.
“Reenie.” Beth-Ann skips back into the living room. “Phone’s for you. It’s a boy!”
My stomach lurches. Dad’s arm freezes halfway toward the switch on the lamp. “A boy!” He turns around, a foolish grin on his ruddy face. So cranky the whole way home, but this information seems to have picked him up considerably. “A boy calling for my Maureen? What boy?”
My heart is hammering right up in my throat, so it’s kind of hard to get out a reply. “Gee Dad, I don’t know,” I finally say, with more of a saucy flick to my voice than I intend. “I guess I’ll have to answer the phone and find out.” What’s going on here—is John Ryan calling already? I told Debbie he had to wait until I asked Dad.
Dad ignores my tone, just keeps grinning as I force myself to walk calmly down the hall where the receiver is lying on the phone table like a loaded gun. I pick it up slowly and place it to my ear.
“Hello?” My voice comes out all high-pitched. Cripes, I sound like an idiot.
“Maureen?” It’s a deep male voice, but I’m definitely detecting a squeak, no doubt about it. Oh great, he’s nervous too. This is going to be good.
“Yes, it’s Maureen.” Okay, that’s sounds better.
“Hi, it’s John Ryan. You know, Steve’s friend. How are you?”
“I’m fine, how are you?”
“Good, yeah. Just finished my homework. Big chemistry test tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?”
A long, desperate pause and then we both jump into it at the exact same moment.
“Yeah, I’m finished my . . .”
“Some nice day today . . .”
We stop dead. Another awful silence. Oh my God, this is pure crucifixion. Then he clears his throat with a fake cough.
“Yeah, I was just going to say we had track practice after school. Some nice day for it, too.”
“Gee, I wish we had track and field. Maybe the nuns don’t think it’s ladylike for girls to run around a track.”
He laughs, and it’s a real laugh too. I’m actually doing this! Score one for Maureen!
“I called before, but there was no one home.”
“Oh, you did?” He called before? “Sorry about that. We were at my Aunt Kay’s for dinner.”
“Oh right, Steve told me your mom’s in hospital. I forgot. Is she getting better?”
“Yeah, she is, thanks.” Okay, that’s enough about Mom, ask something else.
“That’s good.” He stops. Then his words tumble out in a rush. “Look, Maureen, the spring dance is two weeks from Saturday and I was wondering if you’d go with me.”
Despite everything, despite my horrible day and all the horrible things that happened—I feel so good!
“I’d like to go, I really would. But I can’t say yes until I ask my dad.”
“Oh,” he says. “I guess I should have waited a bit before calling.”
“No, it’s fine. I just—I just, have to ask Dad, that’s all.”
“Okay, so when do you think you’ll ask him? Do you think he’ll say ‘yes’?”
“I can’t say for sure. I’ll have to wait for the right moment, I guess. Can you give me a couple of days?”
“All right, then, so maybe you can call me back on Thursday?”
Call him? Call a boy? I’d rather die first. “Why don’t you call me instead? About this time, maybe?”
“Okay,” he says again, and he still sounds hesitant. “Steve and Annie are going, and so are Doug and Debbie. It would be fun if you could come, too.”
Debbie. Oh my God, that was such an awful argument. I’ll have to call her later, sort things out.
“Well, hopefully Dad will say yes.”
“Okay. So I’ll call you on Thursday evening, then.”
“Great,” I say, as perkily as I can manage. Will this phone call ever end? “And good luck with that chemistry test tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
I cannot believe this! I’ve just been invited to the St. Matthew’s spring dance by John Ryan! Now I’ve got to get permission from Dad, who’ll probably just sit there grinning, asking all kinds of foolish questions. If only Mom were here—I wouldn’t mind asking Mom at all.
* * * * *
It’s well over an hour before I get a chance to sit by the phone again. I had to give Beth-Ann a bath, read her a bedtime story, and listen to her prayers. Then I got my own bath and washed my hair, which is now lying flat and damp down my back. Good thing I got all my homework done at Aunt Kay’s, I’m thinking as I lift the receiver and dial Debbie’s number.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Debbie? Hi, it’s me.”
“Hi!” Her voice is bright and cheerful, no hint that she’s mad or anything. That’s the thing about Debbie, she never holds a grudge. We don’t argue much, but when we do, she just says her piece and moves on, a huge difference from most of the other girls I know.
“Debbie, I’ve got some big news to tell you, but first I want to say sorry about earlier today, that whole thing with Miss Godwin. You were right. It’s a mortal sin for me to treat her like that. I won’t do it again. And this time I’m keeping my promise.”
“Don’t worry about it, we all make mistakes. Half the problem is Miss Godwin is a terrible teacher.”
“I wonder do the nuns realize how bad she is.”
“I bet they know. But they probably can’t do anything about it. But enough about all that, what’s the big news?”
“You’re not going to believe it. John Ryan called and asked me to go to the dance! I was so surprised I hardly remember what I said. Wasn’t he supposed to wait until I asked Dad?”
“You can’t be serious, he called already? Yeah, he was supposed to wait, that message must have gotten fooled up somehow. Anyway, what difference! So he called and invited you—are you going?”
“I still have to ask Dad. So I told John to call back in tw
o days. Now I have to screw up the courage to talk to Dad about it. He thought it was so funny that a boy was even calling me. I wouldn’t tell him afterwards who it was, wouldn’t satisfy his curiosity.”
“If I were you, I’d get that conversation over with as soon as possible. Just go ahead and ask him. The worst he can say is no. How did the phone call go? Did you think of something to say?”
“It was rough at first, I felt like a moron. But it did get a bit better, and I actually made him laugh once.”
“That’s great. He did tell Steve he thought you were cute.”
He thinks I’m cute? I break out into a big grin. But then I take a deep breath because there’s something else that needs to be said, and I can’t put it off any longer.
“Debbie. About Mom.”
“Maureen.” Her voice is kind and firm. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. It must be really hard for you with your mom sick in hospital.”
“I know I don’t have to explain anything, but I want to.” My voice sounds strained, like it’s coming from someone else. “It’s true, you know, what the girls said in the bathroom. Mom’s not at St. Clare’s. She’s—she’s somewhere else . . .” I simply can’t say the name of the hospital, the words won’t form in my mouth.
“It’s okay, Maureen.”
“But the other part they said—that she’s crazy—that’s absolutely not true. She’s just sad, that’s all. Really, really sad.”
“I know. It’s depression. But I’m pretty sure the doctors can fix it.”
My antennae go up. “How do you know?”
“I asked Mom about it. Today. After school.”
“Oh.” And the image of that conversation flashes through my head like a movie scene. Cripes! “Seems like the whole town knows about Mom.”
“Some people know. Not everyone, though. Hard to keep something like this a secret.”
“I guess.” My voice is detached, toneless. “I don’t know what to do about this anymore. I don’t know what to tell people.”
“Just say that your mom’s sick, she’s in hospital. That’s all you need to say. And if anyone’s rude enough to ask more questions, just say you’d rather not talk about it.”
“I suppose. Maybe.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it, only wait for her to get better. But what you can do is get your nerve up and ask your dad about the dance. John is calling back on Thursday night and you need an answer for him!”
We giggle, and next thing I hear Dad shout from the living room. “Maureen, will you get off that phone! You’ve been on it the whole night. Time for bed!”
“Uh oh, gotta go!”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Slowly, I replace the receiver. I’m tired now, but I also feel really happy. I’m lucky to have a friend like Debbie; she can make sense out of anything. It’s good she understands about Mom, and she sure understands everything about me. So glad I called her. Somehow, things don’t seem hopeless anymore.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMAGINE — ME BEING INVITED to the St. Matthew’s spring dance! I still can’t believe that it actually happened. I’m savouring the whole idea on the following Saturday afternoon, while I fix myself a snack. Of all the girls he could have asked, John Ryan decided to ask me. And, according to Debbie, he thinks I’m cute!
Of course, I still had to face Dad about it all. First, there was the teasing. “A date? My little girl wants to go on a date? Well, maybe that young man should have introduced himself to your dad before asking you out!” I mean, really! We’re not living in the Jane Austen era, last time I checked. You’d think John was asking for my hand in marriage, the way Dad was getting on. And then after all that, he couldn’t decide! Had to get on the phone to Aunt Kay, talk it over with her! So humiliating. “I think she’s too young, Kay,” I heard him say. Cripes!
Between the two of them they figured out who John’s parents are, and that he comes from a good family. “The Ryans are lovely people, Dave. And I went to the Mercy Convent with the boy’s mother.” Isn’t that unbelievable, it is only a dance, after all. Then Aunt Kay got on the phone to Debbie’s mom, had to check out the whole event with her! They barely had all this done before John called back on Thursday evening. I was able to tell him yes, thank heavens. But I didn’t go into the process leading up to the decision. He’d definitely think there was something weird about me and my family.
Now my only problem is—how will I carry on a conversation with John Ryan for an entire evening? I won’t think about that now, I’ll think about it later. At least Debbie will be there. I’ll just have to depend on her.
I pop a slice of bread into the toaster. It occurs to me that sometimes this is the perfect snack. So long as it’s toasted just right, not too light and not too dark.
It’s not often that I’m in the house alone, but I am today. Beth-Ann’s at a birthday party. Dad’s out picking up groceries, I think. And Mom is—well, we all know where Mom is, don’t we?
I smother my toast with so much butter that it drips over the side, forming puddles on the china plate. Who cares? There’s no one here to lecture me about wasting food, and besides, it’s my slice of toast, isn’t it? I pour myself a cold glass of orange juice and plunk it beside the toast on the kitchen table.
Sitting there like that, I’m suddenly reminded of something else. An image springs to my mind, the memory of another Saturday not so long ago, when Gran stood here in this very kitchen, the aroma of her homemade bread wrapped around us, as safe and warm as a comfy blanket.
* * * * *
I wake to the sound of the window rattling. The wind is howling and the snow pelts against the side of the house like someone is out there throwing handfuls of nails. Looks like the weatherman was right for once. The biggest blizzard of the winter, he said, a vicious nor’easter set to blow down hard overnight. Too bad, though, it had to happen on a Saturday. No school holiday this time ’round.
It’ll be totally impossible to get back to sleep in this racket. I cross the room to my window and look out. Can’t see a single thing. The snow is pasted like white mud over every square inch, hardly any light able to leak through.
I pull on my dressing gown and slippers and scuff down the hall to the kitchen.
Gran’s standing at the counter, completely in charge as usual. Her two chubby arms are deep inside a wide ceramic bowl, plunging up and down like pistons. She’s totally dressed for the day, hair pulled back into a neat bun, cheeks bright red with exertion.
“Good morning, missy,” she says, looking around as I come in. “How’d you sleep?”
“Morning, Gran.” I sit down at the table. “Slept good, I s’pose, till the wind woke me up. How about you?”
“Good. Can’t complain. That mattress down there is very comfortable.”
Every so often Gran sleeps over at our house for a night or two. Sometimes it’s on special occasions like Christmas or Easter, and then at other times it’s because she’d rather not be alone. Like last night. Gran was over for dinner anyway, and with the report of the blizzard coming, everyone agreed it would be better if she stayed with us. There’s a tiny extra bedroom downstairs next to the playroom, with a little bathroom next door. Gran even keeps some of her clothes in the bedroom closet for times just like these. A flannel nightgown, a robe, a pair of knitted slippers. Sometimes when she’s not there, I go down and bury my face in her clothes and you can smell Gran like she was giving you a big hug. It’s a good wholesome smell, like vanilla and Ivory soap mixed together, always makes me feel really happy. It’s kind of hard to explain.
“Wow, it’s some stormy out,” I say. You can see better out the kitchen window, the wind being on the other side of the house. The snow whizzes sideways, swirling and lashing at trees which bend and strain. Soft white mou
nds obscure what used to be shrubs and cars and driveways. “What are you doing, Gran? Making bread?”
She nods her head as the pounding continues in the bowl. “Soon as I finish kneading this, I’ll set it to rise for a bit. Then I’ll get you some bacon and eggs. Would you like that?”
Would I? See, this is what I love about having Gran around. Every time she sleeps over, she always cooks up bacon and eggs. Feels it’s her way to help out. Well, she doesn’t need to worry about that. Seems to me whenever she’s here, she never stops working.
“Is Beth-Ann up?” I pull my dressing gown closer around me, nestling into it. The room feels cozy, the wind and snow going crazy outside while we’re warm and safe and protected.
“Indeed she is. I gave her a bowl of Sugar Pops to keep her happy. She’s downstairs watching cartoons.”
I don’t even ask about Mom and Dad. If they were awake they’d be in here too. But hey, it’s nice to have Gran all to myself for a change. She’s always fussing over Beth-Ann or Mom or any sort of man who happens to be around. Dreamily, I watch as she takes a big knife to the enormous puffy ball of dough and slices off chunks. The chunks are moulded into smaller balls and gently set into the bread pans. Then all the pans are placed in a warm corner near the stove and covered with a clean cotton cloth.
“I love it when you make bread, Gran,” I say. “I think I love the smell of it more than anything.”
“My mother taught me to make bread,” says Gran, all business now, wiping her hands on the skirt of her apron. “When I was your age, I used to make it all the time.”
“I wish Mom would make bread more often. She hardly ever does it.”
“Making bread is a lot of work, Maureen. It’s a bit too much for your mother. But next time I’m here, I’ll teach you how to do it. You’ll have to get up earlier, though, if you’re making bread with me. Time you strolled into the kitchen all the mixing and measuring was done.”
The Secret Life of a Funny Girl Page 7
