Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day (7 page)

“So,” she said to Molly, “tell me about this substitute teacher.”

“She's a ditz,” Mary Bridget said. “Whenever she fills in for any of our classes we have sustained silent reading time because by the time she figures out the lesson plan, the class period is over.”

“That's a huge waste of your valuable time,” Irene said. “Not the reading part, of course, which is always worthwhile, nor do I object to the fact that she deviates from the expected. But part of the reason you go to school is to share ideas with each other.”

“I thought you said that part of the reason we went to school is to fulfill the deal we have with society,” Mary Bridget said to Irene. “You know, the deal you were telling us about in which we work hard to grow up and cease to be pesky little kids anymore and if we're lucky we later get to pay income tax for that privilege.”

“That, too,” Irene answered, then began ticking reasons off on her fingers. “One, you go to school to make friends—IVe said that many times. Two, you go to learn how to become not pesky—once you're educated, it's called inquisitive. And three, you go to share ideas—which may well be the most important aspect of all. To ignore a perfectly good opportunity for discussion and debate is nothing short of criminal.” By the time she'd finished speaking, Irene's eyes were shining.

“Everyone likes quiet reading time,” Molly said hopefully. Uh-oh. Irene was sizing up the room.

Irene jumped to her feet and marched to the front of the class with a determined air.

She greeted Mrs. Meyers breezily. “Hello. I'm Irene Flynn, and with your permission, I'd like to teach this class today. Just until you straighten out the lesson plan, of course.”

“That would be very helpful.” Mrs. Meyers smiled up at her dimly. As Mary Bridget had predicted, Mrs. Meyers gave no indication that she found Irene's age or her request at all out of the ordinary. “I'll just try to figure out what we're
supposed to be doing this afternoon. I never can read the notes they leave me.”

“All right, then.” Irene rubbed her hands together as she faced the classroom. “What should we talk about today? What class is this, anyway? Not that it matters—we can chat about anything.”

“This is English class,” Molly called out, “and we're reading—”

“Well have a poetry slam,” Irene interrupted. “They're all the rage.

“We take turns standing up for thirty seconds at a time to recite original poetry,” she explained to the sea of blank faces. “Obviously, since no one knew this was going to happen and we are not, therefore, prepared, we'll be spontaneous. Just create a poem about anything that comes to mind.”

No one moved. There was a kind of stunned silence. Right, Molly thought, they'll do poetry. Right. Out of nowhere they'll do poetry. She propped her elbow on her desk and rested her head on her hand, waiting.

“You have to think of poetry,” Irene continued after a moment, “as a form of jazz or the blues—
a kind of performance art. You improvise and you express yourself. You don't have to worry about being good. They don't have to rhyme. Just be honest. You can talk about anything that interests you, just as long as there is the free exchange of ideas amongst peers.”

Kyle from lunch stood up. “I have an honest poem that expresses my own self.”

“Excellent. Let's hear what you have to say,” Irene said.

Kyle walked to the front of the room and cleared his throat. “Ahem.” He stood tall and rolled his head a few times to work the kinks out of his neck. He clasped his hands behind his back, carefully aligned his toes on a crack in the floor and took a deep breath.

“My own dog. Pizza for breakfast. A cherry fifty-seven Chevy when I turn sixteen. This is all I want in life. A poem by Kyle Bendecker.”

He bowed as the class applauded. Irene patted him on the back as he made his way to his seat. Mary Bridget immediately jumped to her feet and headed for the front of the room.

“The hours of practice, full of mistakes, wet with tears. Endless scales and impossible phrases. All worth it for the one time I play Beethoven as he meant it. So what if I'm the only one who ever hears it. A poem by Maxy Bridget Sheehan.” Maiy Bridget blushed and curtsied, then hurried back to her seat. The class whooped and cheered as she threw an arm around the cello case that was propped against her desk.

Mrs. Meyers surprised everyone by suddenly standing.

“Blue ribbons. Red, ripe tomatoes. Glittering trophies. Golden apple pies. Medals to hang from my neck. Marge Sinclair pea green with envy. The perfect county fair. A poem by Lucy Meyers.”

She nodded happily and sat down again. Irene flashed her a thumbs-up.

The ringing of a phone interrupted the slam. Irene undipped the cell phone from her belt.
“Buon giorno,
Val, what's going on?”

“Valerie is her executive assistant,” Mary Bridget explained to the class. “Mrs. Flynn says she sets the standard for excellence in the field of quality office management.”

“She did what? How large is the crowd now? Talk to me, Val. I can't help you if you don't stop crying…. Uh-huh…. Stay with me, now—is anyone actually dead? What happened then? Well, that's not so bad. … Is she still missing? … I'm sure that's covered by insurance…. Not if the snake hadn't been fed recently, you say. Hmmm, remind me to upgrade that policy.”

“Do you think she's talking about Rhonda the anaconda, Mol?” Mary Bridget looked worried.

Molly held her head in her hands and answered wearily, “I think so, but I'd probably know for sure, Bridge, if I had my notebook. I always keep a copy of Irene's clients’ schedules in case I need to get in touch with her when she's on location.” Under her breath, she added, “And I
know
I had a copy of that insurance rider she's talking about.”

“Well, there's nothing much to do right now except to cancel my scuba lesson and set up a meeting with Vinnie first thing Monday morning…. Vinnie my lawyer, not Vinnie my dance instructor. … No, they're not the same person…. Yes, I'm sure…. Because I've had
dinner with both of them and my lawyer doesn't cha-cha very well.”

Irene looked up at the class and tapped the fingers of one hand together to indicate that Val was yammering on and on. Everybody nodded in sympathy.

“As long as I've got you on the phone, Valerie, give me a rundown of today's phone messages….

Uh-huh Call Judge Morgan back and tell her that

of course she can borrow my bike, but remind Her Honor that she hasn't returned my tent yet…. Sammy the potbellied pig was
not
fired from that job and I don't care if they call it artistic differences—our contract was good, so we're due

full payment Yes, I'd be delighted to speak at the

Youth Correctional Center Career Day again. I just love visiting there. They have great energy.”

Irene pulled the phone away from her ear and turned to Molly. “Does Our Lady of Mercy have Career Day, petunia? I'd be more than happy to come back and give a presentation. I think hearing from a positive female role model would be very beneficial to the students. I'm an entrepreneur
and a,
single parent. Tell me, is it
admirable to be old, too? Because then I'd have a hat trick.”

“I think today pretty much takes care of your responsibility to the students of this school, Irene,” Molly answered.

“Well, maybe you're right, scooter, I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome.” Irene turned her attention back to the phone. “Val, you lost me, hon. I stopped listening awhile back…. No, don't worry about that. You always get three threatening letters before they turn off the lights.” She winked knowingly at Molly. “And, besides, you can come stay with us for a while…. Okay, then, I'll check in again later.
Ciao, bella.”

“I didn't know Valerie was Italian, Molly,” Mary Bridget said.

“She's from Cleveland, but Irene has been listening to that learn-to-speak-Italian tape at the office recently. She's practicing with Val.”

Irene clicked off the phone, reattached it to her belt and glanced at the clock.

“We're almost out of time here, but you've really got the hang of poetry slams. Remember, good is not
important. Sometimes honest is not worth that much either. But enthusiasm is always a good thing!”

The bell rang, and Irene skipped out of the room, her arm around Kyle's shoulders, without so much as a backward glance at Molly.

Molly muttered to herself as she tried to yank Irene's bag out from under her. The straps were caught on the bookshelf under her chair. She dropped to her hands and knees to free the bag. From her position on the floor, she saw Mary Bridget's loafers make their way to her row and stop.

“Thanks for taking my cello, Mol. Carolyn's dad is taking us to dance class and it won't fit in his old convertible. And the other Marys refuse to carry it for me again after that blizzard incident last winter. Although I just know that if Pats hadn't dragged her feet at her locker, they wouldn't have missed the bus and they'd have made it home with plenty of time to spare before the snow started falling that hard. Okay, gotta run. I'll swing by your house later and pick it up. Mrs. Flynn invited me for dinner. We're having leftover finger food from that party she threw to celebrate Jiffy the bear's new job.”

Molly watched Mary Bridget's loafers scurry from the room. She slowly rose to her feet and glared at the cello case. She bent over, took hold of the strap and slung it over her shoulder. She straightened carefully, testing the weight. It might just be possible. She seemed to be bent a little at the knees, but if she was careful and balanced the purse just right it might not break her back. She gently pulled the purse to her, ducked her free shoulder under the straps and, taking a deep breath, slowly rose to her full height, exhaling when the weight of both the bag and the cello hit her, and trudged toward the door.

“Two more periods, that's all I have to live through,” she reassured herself. “Just two more periods of school, and then soccer practice.” She sighed. “Then I can run away from home.”

Mary Margaret was sitting next to Irene, reading the horoscopes in the newspaper, when Molly arrived in social studies class. Ooh… I'm supposed to listen to an older, wiser person today who will give me many valuable insights,” Mary Margaret announced. “You just know they mean Mrs. Flynn,” she added, sighing happily. “Here's yours, Mol. Today is a six—’”

“Yeah,” Molly said, “if one is being eaten by a shark and ten is dropping a bowling ball on your foot.”

“Horoscopes are silly,” Irene told Molly. “But I'd be happy to read your palm. I ordered a do-it-yourself fortune-telling kit from the back of a magazine last year, and if I do say so myself, I'm very good.”

“You told me I was destined to marry a Gypsy and travel the world in a cart pulled by a pig,” Molly reminded her as she dropped Mary Bridget's cello and Irene's purse to the floor and sank into her seat, rubbing her shoulders. My arms, she thought, have lost all feeling.

“What can I say?” Irene shrugged. “I see fascinating adventures in your future.”

Father Connery entered the room as the bell rang and headed straight for Irene. He took both of her hands in his and grinned down at her.

“I heard you were here today. You're the buzz of the school. Irene, my good friend, I haven't seen you since you outbid me for that Boston cream pie at the silent auction during last year's Spring Fling fund-raiser.”

“I've got a mean sweet tooth, Jim, and more disposable income than you.”

Mary Margaret looked at Molly and mouthed, “Jim?”

Molly rolled her eyes and whispered, “Father Connery arranges all those senior citizen trips Irene takes. He's the priest she dared to try bullfighting when she went to Spain three years ago.”

“You never told me the priest in the bullfighting story was Father Connery, though.”

“I try to forget as much as I can about the things Irene tells me.”

“Open your books to chapter eleven and we'll review the electoral college for the test next week,” Father Connery said.

Irene reached over and grabbed her purse from under Molly's desk. She pulled out a radio with a headset and busily adjusted the frequency.

Father Connery glanced over. “A little mood music to help you concentrate on the finer points of democracy in action, Irene?”