The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (6 page)

CHAPTER NINE

SISTER MARION'S JUST OPENING her science book when Debbie, Mary Ann, Heather, and Bernadette scurry through the classroom door. They throw nervous looks in my direction, but Debbie's got another look too. Worried and concerned, watching me closely, like a good friend should. But I turn my face away as she slips into her seat.

“Ladies.” Sister glares at them, a stony edge to her voice. “I must ask you to be on time for class. What is the reason for this?”

“Sorry, Sister,” says Bernadette. “We got held up in the bathroom.” I feel her eyes drift toward me again. But I'm staring straight ahead, on autopilot.

Sister's sharp eyes follow Bernadette's and land inquisitively on my face. “I'm afraid that's no excuse, Bernadette,” she says, watching me thoughtfully. “Please arrange an earlier visit to the washroom during lunch hour. Next time I'll be issuing a late slip.”

I avert my eyes from Sister's steady gaze. After a few seconds she turns and picks up a piece of chalk.

Debbie bends over, slides out the science book from beneath her desk, and whispers, “Don't worry about those three blabbermouths. I set 'em straight.”

I turn toward her, nod stiffly, say nothing. Does Debbie know too? What did they say after I left? What am I supposed to do now?

Debbie looks puzzled and hurt at my blank response. She pulls away quickly, flips open her book.

Meanwhile, I'm concentrating with all my might on Sister Marion, as she describes the circulatory system, drawing the human heart in all its detail on the blackboard.

I sense Debbie stealing sideways glances at me. But I refuse to look back. Instead, I focus completely on the circulatory system, copy down perfect notes, do not allow myself to think of anything else.

Class is over. Sister Marion sails out the door as Miss Godwin comes in. Debbie leans over, all anxious. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” My voice sounds cold and remote. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” She pulls away again, slumps down in her desk, defeated.

Meanwhile, Miss Godwin is dragging a beaten-up old record player across the front of the classroom. I watch with detached irritation as she fumbles with the buttons and dials on the front. Then several old albums are held up as she closely inspects each title, her nose nearly touching the worn covers.

“Girls, I have a lovely surprise for you this afternoon. Today we're going to hear some of the more famous works of the composers we've been studying all winter. I have selections from Hayden and Mozart, and even a bit of Beethoven for Maureen!” Her pale, sincere face breaks into a smile as she looks down at me.

I give back a tight little smile of my own.

“Unfortunately my regular record player is being repaired, so we'll have to make do with this older one. Shall we begin with
The Magic Flute
by Mozart?” She slides a shiny black record from its cardboard sleeve, lays it flat on the turntable, and twists a big round button.

Nothing happens.

Miss Godwin's forehead puckers. “Oh dear. I must be doing something wrong. I'm really not the best when it comes to machinery.” She taps a forefinger on her thin lips and frowns at the record player, like it's some sort of creature from outer space.

Meanwhile, we watch and wait.

Can anyone possibly be this scatterbrained? There is simply
no way
I can deal with Miss Godwin's problems today, I have too many of my own. Exasperation builds inside me until I think it's going to burst right through the ends of my fingers. Around the classroom, girls are rolling their eyes and snickering.

Okay, that's enough. I can't take it anymore.

“Oh Miss!” I jump up. Deep inside my brain I'm aware this is
not
a good idea, but you know what? I don't even care anymore. “Let me help you,” I say, strutting to the head of the classroom.

Miss Godwin's delighted, all pleased and grateful. Debbie looks alarmed—well,
so what
about that. Bernadette, Heather, and Mary Ann are glancing at each other, puzzled. Nearly everyone else in the class is grinning, just waiting for the show to start.

“Now Miss, let's see what we have here.” My tone is as bossy as one of the nuns. Miss steps aside, ladylike and dignified.

“Thank you, Maureen. You know something about record players, do you?”

“Yes, Miss, indeed I do. So, let's see. Record player plugged in? CHECK! Record placed properly on the turntable? CHECK! Record player switched on? CHECK!” Each time I say “check,” my tone is louder and more obnoxious than the time before. Laughter burbles around the room.

Miss Godwin's eyebrows knit together. “Maureen, please, there's no need to shout.”

“Sorry, Miss.” I tap my right foot, looking deadly serious. “Just give me another second.” I squat down and press my face close to the dusty speaker. Miss Godwin arches her long neck forward to see. All the girls in the class lean out of their desks, heads moving sideways for a better view. There's a tense silence.

“MISS! I HAVE IT!”

The girls scream shrilly and collapse into giggles. Miss Godwin startles with fright, then looks annoyed. “My goodness, Maureen.” Her tone is clipped and brisk. “You're causing a commotion. Do you have any idea what the problem is?”

I don't answer right away, just stand up and take a moment to carefully smooth down the box pleats of my wool tunic. Then I turn my head toward Miss Godwin as imperious as a queen.

“This record player is broken, Miss. We have to throw it out.”

The whole class explodes with laughter. I feel the familiar tingling warmth up the back of my neck, burning away every other thought. I know I promised never to do this again, but I just can't stop myself. This bit of fun with Miss Godwin has the soothing effect of numbing the washroom gossip.

“Oh for heavens sakes, Maureen! We're hardly going to throw it out.” Miss Godwin is trying to be firm here, but there's that telltale tremor in her voice.

“Miss Godwin, I'm telling you the facts.” I hold up both hands like a policeman stopping traffic. “I've inspected this record player thoroughly. Nothing can be done to fix it.”

“Maureen,” says Miss Godwin, collecting herself, attempting to take back control. “We simply can't throw out the record player, it belongs to the school. Actually, I think it's time for you to sit down.”

“Miss, I'm sure Sister Brenda would agree completely with my assessment. Shall we call her on the P.A.?”

“I think Maureen's right, Miss.” A loud, brazen voice comes from the back of the class. It's Evelyn Coady, chewing on a big wad of gum. “Throw the thing out. If it's not working, what's the point of keeping it?”

“Yeah, Miss,” Patsy Gallagher chimes in. “What's the point of keeping a piece of junk like that?”

“Girls, please!” Miss Godwin looks totally exasperated now. “Don't be rude. Perhaps if I take another quick look myself . . .”

She darts around to the back of the record player, frazzled, and oblivious to the black electrical cord stretched between it and the wall. She hits it at high speed—the machine shudders, the arm scratches sideways over Mozart's Magic Flute, and an amplified ear-splitting screech fills the room.

Poor Miss Godwin just stands there, still as a marble column, staring in disbelief at the electrical cord yanked from its outlet, now lying limp at her feet.

“Speaker seems to be working okay, Miss,” shouts Evelyn, her eyes glinting.

“Nothing wrong with the volume either, Miss,” roars Patsy, a crooked grin on her face.

I bend over and inspect the record; a distinct white scratch has cut a clear path from the outside rim to the centre. Part of me knows this is more than I bargained for—something very mean has just happened—but I'm in too deep to pull out now.

“Miss, it appears we have a new issue. This record is ruined. Might as well throw it out, too.”

Miss Godwin blinks twice, then sits down slowly behind the teacher's desk, one hand covering her forehead. “I've had that record for years,” she says in a small, weak voice, more to herself than anyone else. “I brought it with me from England.”

Sharp needles of guilt prickle inside me. Glancing around, I see faces softening in sympathy for Miss Godwin. What to do now? I clasp my hands together dramatically, a stricken look on my face.

“Miss, I'm so sorry! Can you ever forgive me? If only I'd stayed in my desk, this terrible accident would never have happened.”

Miss Godwin looks up at me dully, but the girls are all grinning again, I can see that. Then I notice Debbie's face.
Her
eyes are narrowed and she looks totally disgusted. Well, too bad about her, I'm thinking, when all of a sudden Debbie stands and walks to the front of the classroom.

“Here, Miss. Let me take a look at your record player.”

What does she think she's doing?

“Oh thank you, Debbie,” says Miss Godwin, defeated. “But if it's broken, nothing can be done.”

“Let me check.” She glares at me as she sweeps by. What's her problem, anyway? She plugs in the cord and flicks a sliding switch at the edge of the box. Slowly, the turntable chugs into life and the shiny black record starts to spin.

“There, Miss. There was nothing wrong with it after all. I guess Maureen didn't see the switch.” This last remark is laced with sarcasm and Debbie shoots me a poisonous look as she heads back to her seat.

She's making me look like an idiot.

Miss Godwin's face brightens with weak relief. “Thank you, Debbie, thank you so much. Perhaps now we can continue with the lesson. Maybe some Chopin instead of the Mozart?” She pulls another album from the pile on her desk, replacing the damaged record on the player.

I'm still standing there. But Miss Godwin is ignoring me now, not even looking in my direction. Some of the girls are sneering—what will I do next? The entire scenario has flipped, thanks to my best friend. I've no choice but to return to my desk, which I do, my face burning. I feel like killing Debbie.

“That's really too bad about your Mozart record, Miss.” Debbie's two eyes are pinned on me like darts. I glare right back at her—who does she think she is?

“Let's not worry about that, shall we? No point crying over spilled milk. I'm just grateful, Debbie, that you were able to sort out the problem.”

* * * * *

The three o'clock bell rings and we all head for the cloakroom at the back of the class. I keep my eye on Debbie and catch up with her in the corridor outside the classroom.

“What was the point of all that?” I'm angry and hurt. “You made me look like a moron!”

“Oh, you didn't need any help looking like a moron.”

“It was just a bit of fun, Debbie. What's the big deal?”

She turns and faces me, looking around to make sure no one else is listening. “That wasn't fun, it was mean. You promised not to do this again. Miss Godwin's just trying to do her job. Why can't you leave her alone?”

I stare at her, speechless. At that moment, Evelyn and Patsy stroll by.

“Hey Maureen, that was some laugh!” calls out Evelyn, cracking on the gum. “That Miss Godwin's only retarded.”

“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 two 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.