Sister Bridgette

So I'm late-again!  But I walk to school!  I'm six!  I have to wait for my brothers and sisters.  They lollygag-they take their blasted time getting ready for school.  They're as slow as molasses!  THEY don't have a mean teacher, who yells and rants and wags her finger at them.  She really does!  Her finger is like a bouncing pointy carrot-right there at the end of my nose!  So close that I could bite it if I wanted to.  I don't, but I could if I wanted to.  It's my opinion, but I'm really a pretty good kid as kids go. 

She's wagging and ranting and I am purple with shame. She does that to me: Sister Bridgette.  I lower my head, cast my eyes down.  That's when I get a clear view of her pointy black shoes, all laced up tight, tight, tight.  If she had some green and red striped socks on, I would swear that she IS the Wicked Witch of the West, disguised as a nun.  She's got the dress for it: a swishy, long black frock that rustles and sizzles when she walks.  A silver twinkle flashes at me from deep within the million folds of her skirt.  I see the holy cross, dangling at the end of a rosary, hanging from her waist.

"Oh, God! Save me!"

"LOOK at me, young lady!"  Her voice is shrill, angry and harsh-worse than fingernails on the chalkboard. I shiver.  I dare to lift my face-to face her wrath.  She bends to confront me, eye to eye, and I can do nothing but focus on her mouth.  I can see her anger all tied up in her lips!  Her mouth is formed into a taut, closed O-shape-like a drawstring pulled as tight as can be.  She is breathing in short little bursts and her face is reddening.  On a good day, she has some nice brown freckles, splashed across her nose. But today, the freckles look like splattered mud on a field of red.  I think I see her trembling.

Her voice is now low and threatening-but controlled-like a dog's warning growl.   I swear she almost spits as she levies the charges against me.

"You are LATE again!  You have FORGOTTEN your BEANIE-AGAIN!"  My eyes can only fall, again-the pressure of her gaze too weighty.  I focus on her pointy toes and pray for a huge glistening bubble to descend into this suffocating space.

"GLINDA! TAKE ME AWAY!" The words race through my head in scream volume, but I remain stunned.  Mute.

I can do nothing, say nothing.  My face is burning, my ears are tingling.  I can feel the tears rising in my eyes.  The corners of my mouth are pulling down and I can see my face in my own head.  It looks like a rubber mask melting and I can't do a thing about it. 

Why does she hate me? I always do my homework.  My letters look really pretty and they are always lined up perfectly inside the lines.  I raise my hand and answer questions about Dick and Jane and Spot and all of their silly, predictable problems.  I sing really loud, too, when we go to Mass, and I point my praying hands as straight as you can to heaven.  So WHY?  Why ME?

All the kids are looking at me as she stares me down.  Have I been here for an hour?  Some of them snicker, behind their stubby hands, their shoulders, hunch and jiggle.

I dart my eyes left and see my friend, Carol Wroble.  She looks so sad for me-I can see it in her eyes.  Her mouth is melting at the corners too.  But then she looks away-like she can't stand to see my face like that.

It feels like forever and then Sister Bridgette's voice shatters the stifled air, this time like breaking glass,

"This is UNACCEPTABLE!  Go to the THIRD GRADE and tell your SISTER that she will JUST HAVE TO STAND IN LINE WITH YOU at RECESS TODAY! YOU WILL LEARN NOT TO BE LATE!"  

She punctuates every word with such force- like she's stabbing at my heart.  I burst into tears.  She is unmoved.

And then, it gets worse.  I feel a stream of warm urine trickling down my legs.  I try to squeeze my knees together to stop it.  Sister Bridgette looks down at my yellowing white ankle socks.  All the kids are stunned and quiet now.  I am mortified but I can't stop the torrent.

"LEAVE!  NOW!"  Sister Bridgette demands, with disgust written all over her face.  She elevates her arm at a right angle.  The gauzy black fabric hangs from her extended arm and pointing finger-my final curtain.  

I flee.  I look back over my shoulder, as the heavy wooden door slams.  She is there-framed by the window in the door- a scary portrait.  She stares back at me with squinty blackened eyes-and that drawstring mouth.

The tears are just shooting out of my eyes now. I stumble through the halls with their gleaming linoleum floors, in search of Miss Cunningham's third grade classroom.

Through a blur of tears, I see the pretty construction paper sign, all reds, yellows and blues-Miss Cunningham, Room 16.  She is my sister's teacher-a lay teacher-not a nun.  The door is closed, but I can hear the melody of her voice as she chats with her pupils at the start of this shiny new school day. 

I have never met her. I muster the courage and knock on the door.  In seconds, the door opens and Miss Cunningham appears. She is pretty, with light blue eye shadow and pink lipstick.   She smells like a flower garden, or powder, or the two mixed together.  Her legs are long and slender, like my Tammy doll.  Her hair is like a blonde bubble, perfectly teased and shaped.  Best of all, she is smiling at me.  She squats down to my level, encircles my shoulders with her arm and speaks to me, like my Mom.

"Oh! Honey!  What's wrong?"

I can only blubber at first.  She is patient and coos at me, smoothes the hair from my face with her pretty hand. I finally manage to tell her that I need to talk to my sister and that my sister has to stand in line with me at recess because I am late to school and I have forgotten my beanie.  I choke and sob and heave great breaths as I tell her of my crimes.  Miss Cunningham gently rubs my back.  I can only wish that I could be in third grade.

Miss Cunningham goes to her desk and gets me a clean hanky.  It's embroidered with a big pink C.  She walks with me to the water bubbler and soaks the dainty cloth in cold water.  She tells me to wipe my eyes and my cheeks.  The cool cloth feels like heaven.

She tells me that she will take care of it all and I am not sure what she means, but I think Sister Bridgette is going to get an earful.  She calls my sister to the door and I cry again as I must replay the scene and tell my sister about her impending lost recess. My eyes sting.  But Miss Cunningham looks like she has all the answers-I can see it all in her pretty blue eyes.

She will reason with the witch.  She will talk to my Mom, and my older brothers and sisters.  She will gently but firmly require that they get me to school on time.  She tells me to keep my beanie in my desk at school.  I am stunned by her brilliant solutions. 

She says, "Don't worry anymore, sweetheart," her voice like honey.  "This will all be taken care of...there's just no need for this.  No need." 

I must go back to face Sister Bridgette.  I hug Miss Cunningham tight around her tiny waist. 

As I start to walk away, I realize that I am clenching the pretty hanky, now a wet ball of tears and snots.  I stop and turn back.  Miss Cunningham is still standing outside of her classroom, watching me go.  I hold the crumpled ball out to her.

"Keep that, honey.  Keep it in your pocket."

I smile and turn again to go.

"Thank you, Miss Cunningham.  Thank you for helping me."

She nods and smiles.  I see Glinda.  Showing me the way out of Oz.