Sister Basil banged her pointer on the blackboard. "Blessed Harvey, patron saint of croaking frogs, save me from this child!"
"And—"
Sister lunged at Sophie, grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her to the front of the classroom. "Enough! Enough of your interruptions, your blasphemy, and your impertinence! Here," she said, pointing to the wastebasket in the corner, "stand here where everyone can see you. And think about your sins." Sophie stood next to the wastebasket, but Sister grabbed her hair again. "No, Miss Bowman, in the basket. And don't slouch." Her green eyes flashed like traffic lights.
Sophie's eyes met mine. She looked puzzled and embarrassed. Every All Saints girl knew that this was the fate of those Sister hated, those who failed arithmetic quizzes, or forgot to raise their hands before answering, or seemed likely to lead the rest of us straight to Hell. I had told Sophie. Didn't she believe me? I looked down at my desk as Sophie stepped into the wastebasket.
"Now, girls," Sister Basil said, "let us finish our prayers." She was smiling.
Parents often remarked on Sister's sweet smile, but I knew what that smile meant. Sister smiled when she made Susan Murphy stay in at recess for laughing inappropriately, when she sent Gert Miller home with a note about her grades, or when she threatened noisy students with the wastebasket. When Sister smiled, the backs of my legs prickled with fear.
So we prayed, with Sister smiling and Sophie in the wastebasket. Then we did geography. I finished my worksheet early and let my eyes wander over the classroom: the crucifix in the center of the front wall, flanked by pictures of Saint Barbara being hit with a hammer and Saint Agnes, patron saint of virgins and Girl Scouts, with a bleeding lamb in her lap; the wooden desks in neat rows (close enough to squeeze in as many as possible but not so close that anyone could cheat, which Sister assumed all students would do if they could); the mission box on Sister's desk, where we collected pennies and nickels to send to the pagan babies in Africa; the pull-down map of the world with the Soviet Union and parts of Germany colored red; the flag in one corner of the room and the statue of the Virgin in the other; the green paper window shades pulled exactly halfway down; the pencil sharpener fastened by the door—anything to keep my eyes from landing on Sophie, who was still standing in the wastebasket, her back as straight as a soda straw.
Finally the bell rang for recess and we all filed out, crossing in front of Sophie, who stood silent and unmoving. She did not look away or down but right into each of our faces as we walked past her.
It looked like Sophie was going to be Sister Basils Victim of the Trash Can for 1949–50. Every year she picked a new favorite, or unfavorite, I should say, to torment. Last year it had been Betty Bailey, with her hair bleached lemonade yellow, her chest too big and skirt too short. Betty left school in January. Margie McGonigle said Betty was pregnant and went to a home for unwed mothers in Arizona. It was hard to believe, even of Betty Bailey, but if true, I guess it was a small price to pay for getting away from Sister Basil.
"Is she crazy, making me stand in a trash can?" Sophie asked once we were settled in the bus. "There are probably cooties and germs in there."
"That's the way Sister punishes girls who talk back or do other things she doesn't like. I told you. Sister likes to pick on people. She's plain mean. Just be quiet and do what you're supposed to, and it won't happen anymore."
"Oh, I don't really care. Other teachers have done worse. But it just isn't right. I wanted to ask some questions," Sophie said again, "and I was punished for the sin of intellectual curiosity."
"That's the way it is in Catholic school," I told her. "Why, once last year, Susan Murphy asked Sister Immaculata if nuns wore black underwear under their black habits, and she had to spend a whole week in the second grade. Nuns don't much like questions."
Sophie rubbed her forehead slowly, disarranging her bangs, and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Is it so wrong to want to know things? Should I be punished for that? What about free speech, as guaranteed in the First Amendment to the Constitution?"
"In this school they care more about sin than free speech," I told her.
"Well, it's not right," said Sophie. "It's fascism, that's what it is."
"Wait, Sophie," I said. "You keep saying 'fascism' like it's something I'm supposed to know about. I know it's a bad thing and has something to do with Hitler and Nazis, but I don't think that's what you mean."
"Fascism? Well, it means having a dictator, using censorship and violence to stifle free speech and people's rights, making everyone conform and obey in silence." She got louder and louder. "Fascism is what you have in this school, and it's not right!"
While I brushed my teeth that night, I thought about Sister Basil and the way she had treated Sophie. I wished I could tell Sister how wrong it was, although I couldn't imagine speaking up to her. I dreaded the idea of standing in the wastebasket, but what I really feared was her smile. Now, if she were a strict but sweet and lovable nun like Ingrid Bergman, who starred as Sister Benedict in the movie The Bells of St. Mary's...
"Sister Basil the Great," I said to the mirror—Sister liked it when we called her by the full name, Basil the Great, to distinguish it from all the other Basils who were not so great, I supposed. I myself thought of her as Sister Basil the Not So Great. Or Sister Basil the Rotten. "Sister Basil the Great," I said again, "I wish to speak with you about Sophie Bowman. 1 don't think you should have been so mean to her and made her stand in the wastebasket on her first day of school."
"I must keep order in my classroom," I said, being Sister with a mouthful of foaming toothpaste, "and Sophie was being disruptive."
FRANCINE: She is merely curious and, being from public school, doesn't know about raising her hand, obeying without question, and suffering in silence. We must give her a chance.
SISTER: You are right, Francine. Jesus spoke of charity and understanding, and I have practiced neither.
FRANCINE: Actually, I don't think anyone should stand in the wastebasket. It hurts their feelings.
SISTER: Forgive me, Francine.
FRANCINE: I forgive you, Sister. Upon further thought, perhaps you could make the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone, that stuck-up snitch, stand in the trash can, but no one else.
The end. That's the way it would be in the movies. I took a bow and spit into the sink.
3
Flowered Skirts and Paper-Doll Saints
"Look, Francine," Susan Murphy said, pointing to the hem of her skirt. "Isn't it delicious?"
I examined the skirt closely. There, drawn in black ink in the white parts of the blue, green, and white plaid, were flowers—roses and daisies, tulips and lilies. "Ye gods, Susan," I said to her, "you're ruining your uniform. Sister will blow a gasket."
"Who cares?" she said. "This is the last year I have to wear this crummy skirt. I want to see how long it takes Sister to notice."
"Ten seconds, I'd guess," I told her.
I was wrong. Sister didn't notice all that day. The next day, when Sophie and I arrived at school, there were Susan, Gert Miller, Margie McGonigle, and even the timid Florence Bush under the big palm tree near the front door, inking flowers on their skirts.
"Wow!" said Sophie. "What a swell idea." She pulled a pen from her book bag, flopped down next to Margie, and began to draw. "Come on, Francine. I have extra pens, if you need one."
I shook my head.
"She won't do it," Gert said, pointing at me with her pen. "She never does anything fun."
It was true. I never did. Not if it would get me in trouble. "All great artists need an audience," I told Sophie. "You draw and I'll be your audience."
The bell rang for class. "Let's show our skirts to Sister," Sophie said. "It could be a protest against uniforms."
"Not me," said Margie, "and don't you dare either. You'll get us all in trouble."
"So what?" asked Sophie.
"You can be as weird as you want, Sophie Bowman, and get in all the trouble you want," said Gert
, "but leave us out of it."
"Cowards," said Sophie.
"Oddball," Margie muttered as they turned to go inside.
Sophie looked at me. "I don't suppose you will either," she said.
I shook my head.
"At least do one flower." She held her pen out to me. "Just one. I'll go in if you'll draw one flower."
I took the pen and drew a tiny daisy, on the inside hem of my skirt where it couldn't be seen. "There. One flower. Now let's go."
We caught up with the rest of the girls in the hallway. I examined their skirts. They were definitely more lively with little black flowers amidst the plaid.
I envied those girls. My own little hidden flower was a poor effort. I wished 1 was able to draw flowers on my skirt or paint faces on my knees or smoke behind the building after school like some of the others, but I never dared. I'd never been in trouble at school and had a knot in my stomach at the very thought.
By the beginning of fourth grade, I knew I would never be part of the lively crowd, the ones who had fun. 1 was too busy keeping out of trouble. So I decided to make friends with Mary Agnes Malone. She was pious and well-behaved, as boring as white rice, but she and her friends never got in trouble and were certain to go to Heaven, said the nuns. Besides, I was lonely.
I started by saying the rosary with Mary Agnes and her friends every day at lunchtime, even though it meant putting down my library book and leaving the Bobbsey twins or Rufus Moffat in some scrape I couldn't imagine how they could get out of.
One Sunday afternoon I was invited to Mary Agnes's big house off Wilshire Boulevard. Weslia Babchuk, Mary Catherine Parker, and Lois LaCroix were there too. We prayed, talked about homework, and had milk and vanilla wafers.
"Next week bring your paper dolls," Mary Agnes said as I was leaving. I skipped home. I loved paper dolls. I could create a whole world just the way I wanted it, with a brave, outspoken, colorful, popular Francine. I was in charge, my dolls did whatever I told them to, and none of us got in trouble.
My paper dolls were movie stars. Doris Day, Mona Freeman, and Betty Grable each lived with her clothes in her own separate Sees candy box, the one-pound size. They had not only the dresses they came with but also special outfits I drew and colored, and socks, bathing suits, and pajamas I cut out of the Sears catalog.
I grinned as I packed up Doris, Mona, and Betty that next Sunday. We were about to meet new people and have glorious adventures.
After Mary Agnes led us in a Hail Mary, we all pulled out our paper dolls. "Doris Day? We don't play movie stars," Mary Agnes said. She handed me something that looked like a tiny black paper bathrobe. "Have her wear this. You can play she is Saint Rose of Lima." So Doris became the holy Saint Rose, and poor Mona Freeman had to be Saint Lucy and pluck out her own eyeballs.
I lasted only four Sundays before I began to make excuses not to go to Mary Agnes's. Paper dolls weren't nearly as much fun when they had to be made to pray and fast and act like saints. The last straw was when Betty Grable was torn apart by lions in a glorious martyrdom. I picked up the pieces and took poor Betty home, where she was miraculously healed through prayer and Scotch tape. The paper dolls and 1 stayed home on Sunday afternoons after that.
In the fifth grade Mary Agnes gave her paper dolls away for Lent, and she began putting all her spending money in the mission box for the pagan babies in deepest Africa. Sister Saint Elmo said Mary Agnes's actions were perfect and admirable. I told Betty and Doris and Mona all about it as I colored new ball gowns for them.
All that remembering made me thirsty as I rode the bus home after school. I got off on Pico Boulevard and went into Petrov's Groceries and Fresh Meats. The store was dark and smelled of dust and overripe bananas. I pulled a bottle of Coke from the icy water of the cooler.
"You will rot your teeth, you young people and your Cokes," Mrs. Petrov said, shaking her finger at me from behind the counter.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Petrov, I brush." I took a big gulp of the Coke, so cool and bubbly and sweet going down. "How's Mr. Petrov today?" Mr. Petrov had a bad heart. He sat in the back of the store and listened to baseball on the radio while little Mrs. Petrov did all the work. Sometimes he'd take his chair out front and sit in the sunshine, eyes closed, eating cherry Popsicles and singing slow, sad songs in Russian.
As Mrs. Petrov took my nickel, she shook her head. "He is not well, not well at all."
I had another nickel in my pocket. I'd planned to put it in the mission box at school, but apparently I wasn't as perfect and admirable as some people, for I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to Mrs. Petrov. "I'll take a cherry Popsicle, too," I said.
I took the Popsicle outside. "Here, Mr. P," I said as I passed his chair. "This is for you from the missionaries in Africa."
He opened his eyes and looked puzzled as I handed him the Popsicle. But he nodded as he took it from me.
4
Lamb Chops à la Shoe Leather and Dinner at the Greens'
The next week Sophie invited me over for dinner. "My father is cooking," she said. "Lamb chops a la shoe leather and lima beans. And martinis, but we don't get any of those."
"My father calls them martoonies," I told her.
"Oh nausea," she said.
Mr. Bowman shook my hand solemnly when I got there. He was very tall and thin, with long fingers like a piano player. His glasses, like Artie's, sat on the end of his nose. Tying an apron over his shirt and tie, he sang while he fried the lamb chops.
"The Marriage of Figaro," Sophie whispered. "Opera."
"Sounds more like The Murder of Figaro," I whispered back. She grinned and nodded as we sat down at the table.
"1 had to stay after school today," Sophie said before she even took one bite. Jeepers, 1 thought, was she asking for trouble, dumping it on him right away like that? 1 tried to look invisible as I chewed.
Her father just sighed and finished his martini. "Why this time?"
"I merely asked Sister Basil a question. Just one question and she blew a gasket."
Mr. Bowman chewed slowly for a long time, probably trying to get the shoe leather soft enough to swallow. "And the question was?"
"She was talking about Maria somebody who should be a saint because she was martyred for refusing to act in what Sister called 'an unholy manner' with the farm boy. I asked her what she meant by unholy. Talking back? Missing Mass? Necking and petting? How unholy? She said never mind the details. We should just pray to be like the Blessed Maria. 'You mean get murdered?' I asked. She called me blasphemous and, zowie, after school. She said my curiosity and outspokenness were vicious habits."
"Sophie, my darling, you do not have to ask every question that occurs to you. Or say everything you think. Remember, patience, moderation, and self-control."
Was that all Mr. Bowman was going to say? Was Sophie in the clear? If I did something like that, I would be sent to my room until the year 2000!
"What about you, Francine?" Mr. Bowman was asking.
I gulped down a mouthful of lima beans. "Me? I didn't do anything."
"Of course not. I was merely asking about your day. I take it you were released at the normal time?"
I nodded. "It was fine. We collected almost a dollar for the pagan babies and did word problems in arithmetic," I said. "Sophie is real good at word problems."
"It must be her affinity for words of all kinds," Mr. Bowman said. "Especially 'fightin' words.'"
"Wonder where I get it," Sophie said, and took a big gulp of her milk.
After dinner Mr. Bowman picked up his newspaper while Sophie and I cleared the table. "I see in the Times that the Council of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization is meeting in New York," he said. "Nations working together for peace and protection. What do you girls think? Will that make us safer?"
I stood still with my stack of plates, speechless at the very thought of a grownup asking my opinion about anything more than "chocolate or vanilla?" but Sophie said, "It's a start, I guess, but I think it's all useless
unless they ban the bomb."
"But Sophie, I'd say it's fear of Russia and communist nations in general that prompted the creation of NATO. I doubt they'll ban the very weapons they see as protecting us from Soviet aggression."
"Probably not," she said, pausing with her hands full of knives and forks, "but I'd feel a lot safer if people were out there fighting with sticks instead of bombs."
"You do have a point, my darling," Mr. Bowman said, laughing. "What do you have to say about international peace and security, Francine?"
Me? What? Did Mr. Bowman really care what I thought? He had the same martini-and-cigarette smell my father had but otherwise was nothing like my father or indeed any other grownup I knew. Finally I managed to squeak out, "I think it would be a good idea."
Mr. Bowman nodded. "Indeed, Francine, indeed."
I walked home puzzled, as if I'd been in France or Poland or someplace where they spoke another language. I mean, dinner at my house last night went like this:
Scene: It's an ordinary family home. To the left is the dining room, elegant in brown wallpaper with gold roses and green leaves. The dining-room table is polished and gleaming. No one is eating there. No one ever eats there. At right is the kitchen-tan linoleum floor, tan cabinets, white curtains with a border of red cherries. Gathered around the kitchen table are a woman of middle years in gold-wire glasses, her fine brown hair in a sausage roll (Mother); her husband (Father) in blue tie and bifocals; a skinny boy of five in horn-rimmed glasses much too big for his little face (Artie); and his beautiful, sweet older sister (me, Francine, of course-20/20 vision). There is an empty chair because the oldest girl, a vicious hag of sixteen named Dolores, who needs glasses but pretends she doesn't, is being sent away from the table for wearing her hair rolled up in pin curls at dinner.