The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I DON'T SLEEP VERY well that night. I lie there planning and worrying, practising smart remarks and comebacks should Patsy and Evelyn say anything at all about Mom. When I do finally fall asleep, it's fitful. Strange dreams, full of false grins and big white teeth. Miss Godwin, Sister Marion, Patsy Gallagher.

Beep, beep, beep.
I startle wide awake, blink at the ceiling. Beneath me, my sheets are damp and twisted. I stare sideways at my pink alarm clock and it takes me several seconds to recognize that it's seven-thirty in the morning. That all those crazy images were only a wild dream.

I feel raggedy and worn out, sick to my stomach. There's a sinking realization that today's the day I have to walk into school, face Patsy and Evelyn, and deal with whatever happens there. It feels like too much. I can't do it. Maybe I'll just tell Dad I'm sick, stay home for the day. I turn on my side and curl into my pillow.

There's a sharp rap on my bedroom door. “Maureen, get a move on. I've got an early meeting.” Before I can say a word, his heavy footsteps are thumping down the hall. “Let's go, princess,” I hear him say to Beth-Ann. “You ready for a boiled egg?”

I might as well get up. It's too complicated to work up an explanation good enough to satisfy Dad. Besides, if I don't go to school, Aunt Kay will definitely call Sister Marion, and that's exactly what I
don't
want to happen. So I push off my bedspread, pull myself out of bed, and pad into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“You okay?” asks Debbie, coming up beside me in the cloakroom at the back of the classroom.

“Yeah. I'm fine,” I say with a tired smile, hanging my coat on the hook. “Any sign of the other two?”

“No. Haven't seem them yet. Probably late, as usual.”

Sure enough, Debbie's right. Science has already started when Evelyn and Patsy saunter through the door, handing their late slips to Sister Marion. Sister purses her lips as she examines the slips, then curtly tells the girls to sit down. “This is quite unacceptable, ladies,” she says. “One more time and you'll be issued detention.”

Evelyn and Patsy seem unperturbed as they settle into their desks. I'm catching all this with my peripheral vision; I wouldn't dare look at them directly. Instead, I keep my expression cool and my focus entirely on Sister Marion. But I know they're watching me. Weird, isn't it, how that happens? How you can
feel
someone staring at you, without actually seeing it?

The morning passes like an intense game of chess. Not that I actually play chess myself, mind you, but I've seen it on TV. Two opponents eyeing each other, assessing their next move, ready to pounce.

We get through science and math like this, then there's recess. Debbie and I keep to one side of the classroom, while Patsy and Evelyn stay on the other. There's the occasional sneer and sideways look from their corner, but nothing is said, not a word.

Then there's music with Miss Godwin.

Smiling graciously, she steps into the classroom, hauling the infamous old record player. Placing several records on the teacher's desk, she lifts her grey head and beams affectionately across the room, right at me.

Oh no!

“Good morning, class!” Wow, is she ever cheerful. I guess she can relax now, knowing I won't be crucifying her anymore. “Isn't this a beautiful spring day? Just the setting for today's musical selection! Can anyone guess the name of our piece, and tell me the name of our composer?”

Dead silence.

“No? Let me give you a hint. It's a violin concerto.”

No traction whatsoever from this snippet of information. There's some rustling of paper and shifting around in seats.

“Hmm. Well, how about another hint? The concerto is one of four that are collectively called ‘The Four Seasons.' There now, I can't be any clearer than that.”

This is
so
painful. Still no one speaks. And then Miss Godwin looks at me.

“Maureen? I'm sure you know the answer.”

I do. But here's my dilemma. If I give her the answer, everyone will say I'm sucking up. If I don't give the answer, then I'm breaking my promise to Miss Godwin—and to myself—to be “the best student she ever had.” I bite my lower lip.

“The concerto is called ‘Spring,' Miss. By Vivaldi.”

“Thank you, Maureen. That is indeed the correct answer.”

She turns to place Vivaldi on the machine and right away I hear the snickering behind me. Two rows over and a few seats back. Exactly where Evelyn and Patsy sit.

“That is indeed the correct answer,” mimics Patsy, just loud enough for me to hear. “Teacher's pet now, are we?”

“What a suck.” This from Evelyn. “Think I'm going to puke.”

See? What did I tell you?

But there's no time to react, because at that moment a paper airplane sails through the air and scores a direct hit in the centre of Miss Godwin's back. She whirls around.

“Who did that?”

Of course no one's going to answer that question. Not even me.

“Girls, I will not tolerate any infractions today. That was extremely rude. I want to know who threw that paper.”

You know, the words are all there, but it's the expression that gives her away. The distinct quiver in her voice, the unsteady look in her pale eyes. It's a sin, really. Miss Godwin just doesn't have what it takes to handle us.

“Miss, I think it was Maureen.”

I spin around and glare right at Patsy. “It was not!” Bet she's the one who threw it.

“No?” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “Sorry, then. My mistake.”

“Maureen?” asks Miss Godwin, looking at me kind of hurt.

“Miss, I did not throw that paper airplane. I swear.”

Relief floods her face. “Okay, I believe you,” she says. Then she wags her index finger close to the curls on her head. “But just remember, you made a promise!”

Cripes! I bury my face in my hands. Can this get any worse?

“A promise!” pipes up Evelyn, a malicious edge to her voice. “How sweet is that? Why don't you tell us what it is?”

“Oh no!” responds Miss Godwin. “That information is strictly between Maureen and myself. It's our little secret.”

* * * * *

“Seriously, Debbie, what am I going to do? That was
mortifying
!”

Debbie's standing there, twisting up her face, trying desperately not to burst out laughing.

“Debbie!”

She can't help herself, out it comes, the big ha-ha and isn't it funny about Maureen and Miss Godwin. “Sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes and catching her breath. “I guess I'm just happy that you have such a nice new friend.”

I start grinning too, I can't help it. Really, it is sort of funny. Miss Godwin suddenly so fond of me, telling the girls about our “little secret.”

“I think I liked being bad better,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I'm not sure I can stomach all this being good.”

Next thing we see Evelyn and Patsy strutting our way. “Just coming by to say hello to Miss Goody Two Shoes,” says Patsy. “My, you're getting some grand. Too grand to have a bit of fun in music class. Too grand to have a smoke. What's it like to be so grand, I wonder, Evelyn?”

“Beats me,” says Evelyn, a wide saucy grin on her face. “Not very grand myself, so I can't say.”

“It's strange, though,” continues Patsy, her mean eyes narrowing into slits, “how anyone can be that grand with a mother locked away out at the Men—”

“What about
your
mother, Patsy? How's she doing?”

I gape at Debbie. Where did this come from? Then my eyes flick back toward Patsy and Evelyn. Never in my life have I seen anyone's expression change so fast. All the sneering has drained away from Patsy's face and for a second she looks scared. Then the face hardens up again.

“Let's go, Evelyn,” she says, a cutting edge to her voice. “I'm getting a bad smell around here. Oh, and Debbie,” she adds as she turns, the words slicing over her shoulder like a switchblade, “you better watch your mouth.”

We stand there, watching the two of them saunter off. As soon as they're out of earshot, I grab Debbie's arm. “What just happened here? What did you mean about Patsy's mom?”

Debbie sighs and her shoulders slump. “Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. But I just couldn't stand it anymore. Patsy's got an awful gall to be slinging insults about other moms when her own is not around.”

“Not around?” I repeat, like a parrot. “What do you mean, where is she?”

“She took off. Left her kids all on their own. They were trying to keep it going for weeks, but then the school found out and now Patsy and her brothers and sisters are split up into different foster homes.”

Oh my God, what a sin! I can't believe what I've just heard. What sort of mother would abandon her own children? “But what about her dad?” I sputter. “Can't he take care of the kids?”

Debbie shrugs her shoulders. “He's not much good,” she says in a low voice, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Apparently, he drinks.”

“Seriously? How do you know all this?” I watch her carefully.

“I can't say, really. I've probably said too much already. I feel badly for Patsy, I do. But she's got no right to talk to people the way she does.”

Then I figure it out. She heard it from her mom. Debbie's mom is such a gossip, everyone knows that. “You sure it's true?”

“It's true. Promise, though, you won't repeat it. I'd be killed if it got back to me.”

“I promise. But I hope Patsy doesn't come after you now.”

“I doubt it. I doubt she'd risk me saying anything else. I hope not, anyway.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Sometimes you have to stand up to a bully.”

I shake my head. “Gee whiz. No wonder she's such a hard case.”

“Yeah.”

But there's no time to say anything else because next thing I see Bernadette, Mary Ann, and Heather coming over. Full of questions about the dance, I bet. I look at Debbie and grin. Sure enough, I'm right.

“Hey, guys. Get new dresses for the dance? You did? You two are so lucky.”

“I wish I was going to the spring dance!”

“You must have nearly died, Maureen, when John called you on the phone. I know I would; I know I'd just die if he even looked in my direction!”

We chatter and giggle until the bell rings to call us inside. Lining up, watching the little ones go in first, I notice Patsy and Evelyn farther down the line. Patsy doesn't look any different. Just imagine, though. Her mother took off, her father's a drunk, and now all the kids are in foster homes. I feel badly for Patsy, despite her meanness. No one in her family to take her in, having to go live with strangers. I eye her again as the line begins to move and Patsy tosses her long rippled hair like she hasn't a care in the world. Then it hits me—if I were Patsy Gallagher, I'd probably act the same way she does. I'd be that angry and upset.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DING-DONG
.

“Cripes, they're here!” I grip Debbie's arm, my heart throbbing in my throat.

“Will you relax? God! They're not monsters, you know. Just a couple of ordinary guys come to take us to a dance.” She gives me an odd look, then leans into the mirror, smoothing on lip gloss with intense concentration.

I take a deep breath, try and calm down. Why am I doing this to myself? I should have never agreed to go. Here I am in a total state—a complete bundle of nerves—when I could be spending a nice, peaceful evening at home with no jitters, no worries, no stress.

There's a soft knock on my bedroom door and Beth-Ann pokes in her head. “Reenie, those boys are here.” Then she stops and stares at us both. “Wow. You sure look pretty.”

Debbie and I grin at each other. I might be having second thoughts, but it's still nice to get a compliment, even if it's only from a six-year-old. Testimony to an afternoon of intense preparation.

Here's how it went. First I put big hot rollers all over Debbie's head, transforming her black curly hair into soft waves framing her face, which looks terrific now with her black and red minidress, and those shiny silver hoops in her ears. Following the hair session, we had a big debate over Debbie's glasses. I wanted her to leave them off—I mean, she's got these gorgeous brown eyes with long dark lashes. So she gave it a shot, but ended up bumping into furniture and doors. Honestly, I had to laugh—Debbie literally can't see two feet in front of her. So finally she gave up. “If I have to choose between looking sensible or looking like a fool, I'll pick sensible every time,” she said, as she picked the granny glasses off the bureau and fitted them back on her face.

Once we had Debbie sorted out, I sat in front of the mirror while she ironed my hair. Took forever, but now it's flat and shiny down my back, held in place with a pink satin band that matches my dress. I'm glad my hair looks okay because, to be honest, I'm not quite sure about this new dress. It's long, down to my ankles, and made of this soft slinky material with pink and white cabbage roses all over it. The roses are enormous and look ridiculous, I think. Plus the whole thing is a tad too tight—I actually feel that if I take a deep breath, I'll burst a seam. Aunt Kay and I picked it up at Ayre's last Saturday and the deciding factor seemed to be that the dress was half-price. Aunt Kay kept saying it was adorable, but I don't know about that. Anyway, it's definitely better than my Christmas dress with its velvet ribbons and long sleeves.

Debbie says the pink colour suits me and to stop worrying about it. (She's only trying to make me feel better, I know it.) At least my skin is clear, no breakouts at the moment, thank God. And with blush on my cheeks, gloss on my lips, and Mom's pearl studs in my ears, my face is definitely brighter than usual. If only I didn't look like a length of sausage in this dress, I might feel more relaxed.

“Ready?” Debbie picks up her white purse from my bed.

“I guess.” My stomach is ping-ponging with nerves. “Too late to turn back now.”

She looks at me like I've lost my mind. “Why would you even
want
to turn back? This is the St. Matthew's spring dance, remember? We're going to have a ball!” She puts one arm around Beth-Ann's shoulders and heads through the door. “Sometimes,” she says to her, “I think there's something wrong with your sister.”

I take a deep breath and follow them down the hall, toward the sound of male voices in the living room.

“Hi, guys!” Debbie's voice ahead of me is bright and chirpy.

“Hi!” the two of them say at the same time.

“Looking good, Deb,” I hear Doug say as I enter the living room. Or almost enter. I hang back by the doorway, clutching my purse.

“Hi, Doug. Hi, John.”

The two of them are sitting on either end of the sofa, long bony knees sticking up from the cushions like teepees. They look kind of cute, though, with their jackets and ties, and their long wavy hair.

“Hi, Maureen,” says Doug.

“Hi, Maureen,” echoes John. His voice cracks slightly but there's a crooked grin on his face, and his eyes are as deep and blue as the ocean off Signal Hill. I smile bravely, still stuck to the door frame, my insides quivering like a big bowl of Jell-O. Oh my God, this is excruciating. I'm afraid I'm going to throw up.

Debbie has plunked herself down in the chair by the sofa, already into a big animated chat with Doug. How does she do that? It's not fair, is it? Thank God for Dad, sitting in his chair by the fireplace. “Honey, you look great,” he says to me. “Come over and sit down. The boys and I were just talking a bit of hockey. Don't get much opportunity to do that in this house.” He winks at the boys, who grin back, already hooked into Dad's easy way.

I inch away from the door. But where do I sit? Dad's in his chair, Debbie's in Mom's spot on the other side of the fireplace, and Beth-Ann's just scampered into the wicker chair by the front door. The only available location is on that sofa, in the empty space between Doug and John.

Cripes.

Carefully and with complete concentration, I mince my way around the coffee table, acutely aware of the length of my dress, the tightness of my waistband, and the high clunky heels of my sandals. My total focus is on sucking in my stomach, keeping my head up, placing one foot in front of the other.

Then it happens.

My big toe snags the hem and in a single breath I'm catapulted forward like a cannonball. It all happens so fast, but in some strange way I see it in slow motion too. My two arms cartwheeling crazily, the sickening sound of ripping fabric. I crash into John's knees, crumpling to the floor in a pink and white heap.

Everyone jumps to their feet in a total panic, shouting and hollering.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

“Maureen? Speak to me!”

“I don't see any blood—I hope she didn't hit her head!”

I'm balled up between table and sofa, paralyzed, mortified, wishing the floor would open wide and swallow me down forever. I know I'm not hurt, but
how could I be so stupid?

Then I feel two big strong arms lifting me up, pulling me to my feet. My eyes are clenched closed and I'm hoping this is Dad, but instinctively I know it's not. I'm standing now, and there's someone holding me close and I've no choice but to open my eyes, so I do. It's John's face looking down at me, all concerned and anxious. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, as he eases me down on the sofa.

“No—no, I'm fine—I think,” I stammer, as I try to smooth down my dress, fix my hair, figure out this disaster. My pink hairband is hanging around my neck and, hurriedly, I straighten it back in place. This is absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. John must think I'm a total idiot. He must wish he'd never invited me.

“Maureen, you sure you're okay? You didn't damage your dress or anything?” This from Dad, as he settles back down in his armchair.

A new horror rises inside me. I know I heard something tear. What if I've ruined my dress? There's nothing else I can wear!

“Hmmm.” Debbie's tone is dry. “The dress looks okay. Maybe it's the hem. Let me take a look.”

She glides over, sits down gracefully on the coffee table, inspecting the bottom of my dress. Why couldn't I do that? How did she get to be so calm? “Yup. Hem is ripped. Nothing a few quick stitches can't fix, though. Beth-Ann, run and get me the sewing kit, will you, please?”

Then a giggle burbles up the wicker chair. “That was funny, Reenie,” says Beth-Ann. “You looked funny falling down.”

A tiny smile tugs up one side of my mouth.

“Yes,” says Debbie, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Hard to believe this is the same girl who danced a solo in the recital last night!”

Dad throws back his head and laughs then, the rich, relaxed sound filling the room, shattering the awkwardness. On either side of me, I can feel Doug and John just holding on, trying not to burst. “Go ahead.” I shake my head ruefully. “Don't hold back on my account.”

Then everyone's laughing—at me and my polished grand entrance. Debbie leans over, whispers in my ear, “Nice job, Karen Kain. Way to make a good first impression.” I giggle self-consciously. What else can I do? My first choice—running away—is not a great option when you're wrapped like a Japanese geisha.

So Beth-Ann finds the sewing box and Debbie takes the hem in her lap and I sit there like the Queen of Sheba, getting my dress all fixed up.

“Sorry about all this.” I look around sheepishly.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” says John, in a soft voice. Then the next thing I know his warm hand is on top of mine. Cripes, he's holding my hand! The hand is clammy, which feels gawky and weird, and I'm really not sure what to do.

Of course, Detective Debbie misses none of this—the two clasped hands are right in front of her face as she's sewing. She doesn't look up or skip a beat, but she's grinning widely. Then she snaps the thread and puts the needle back in the box. “Bit of a patch-up job, but it'll do. We better get going now. Doug, is your father outside in the car?”

“Oh no, your father's been waiting all this time!” I say, horrified, using the opening to pull my hand away fast and jump up. Whew! That's a relief.

Doug nods. “It's okay, he doesn't mind. He's probably just listening to the news, anyway.”

“Well, he must be a very patient man.” Dad stands up. “But we best not keep him waiting any longer. Now, what time will my daughter be home?”

Oh please, is this necessary?

“The dance is over at eleven-thirty, Mr. O'Neill,” says John. “My father is going to pick us up and drive us home.”

“Sounds good. I'll be waiting up. Now have fun, kids. And Maureen . . .”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Watch your step!”

Of course they all roar laughing again. Well, so what? I certainly did a fine job breaking the ice, didn't I? And without breaking any bones either. We clatter out the front door, and this time I'm pretty careful to lift my long dress as I'm going down the steps.

“That was embarrassing,” I say to John beside me. Need to say something, I guess.

“Hey, it's no big deal.”

He holds the car door open and I clamber into the back, wedged in tightly between Debbie and John. I don't say much, just smile and giggle as Debbie chats with Doug and his father in the front seat. The jitters in my stomach have nearly disappeared, when the next thing I know, John's hand is stealing over mine again, his big fingers slipping through my smaller ones. But his hand isn't sweaty anymore, now it feels all firm and confident, like he's right in charge of the situation. Suddenly I don't mind one little bit, because it feels kind of nice. I'm thinking that maybe this dance will be fun after all!

* * * * *

Hours later I'm lying in the dark of my bedroom, eyes open wide in the inky blackness. I'm smiling like a moron—in my room all by myself—just thinking back over the events of the evening. The big round clock by my bed says 2:15 a.m. but I'm
nowhere
near falling asleep. I'm overtired, overexcited—and I don't want to fall asleep because I don't want this feeling to end.

I savour the images of the night like long licks on a lollipop. The four of us leaning over the table in the darkened gym, laughing like fools as Doug told the story of his chemistry experiment gone crazy and the explosion that sent everyone running. John asking about my ballet recital—he actually seemed interested. Then I asked about his track and field meet and heard how he came second in the long-distance run. It was kind of cool, really, after a while it wasn't so hard to talk to him. And whenever we ran out of ideas for conversation, Debbie was right there to keep it all going. Seriously, that girl is amazing.

Then the end of the night—dancing to “Stairway to Heaven.” Honestly, that song just goes on and on forever. Waltzing in slow circles for ages, my cheek brushing against his tweed jacket.

Driving home, I felt drowsy and content with John in the front seat chatting to his dad and Debbie offering the occasional remark. When we got to my house, John jumped out and walked me to the door. “I had a great time,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

“I had a great time too. Thanks for asking me.”

He leaned down and kissed me quickly—soft lips light on soft lips—pulled back, smiled, and was gone. I slipped inside the house, heart pounding, embarrassed, thrilled. Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly. Couldn't even begin to describe the feelings inside me.

Lying in bed, snuggled deep into my pillow, exhaustion finally overpowers me. Sliding toward sleep, my thoughts drift toward Mom, lying in a hospital bed on the other side of town. My very first dance and she missed it. If only she had been here, to see me dressed up, and meet the first guy to ever ask me out. If only Gran had been here too.