Saturday May 27th, 2000

Sitting by the window is easily the best decision I've made this semester. No matter what class, Math, Biology, even this one, English Lit, now I can spend everyday, every class, every lesson outside the window.

Spring is the season I hate the least. Everything melts and drips and sags. You can hear it. I can watch snow melt off the trees, down the roads and into the sewers, and that's the part I like best. When everything's done being hidden under snow and ice, Spring is what's left underneath. Spring is what's real.

The bell rings, so now I get to go home, although I'm in no hurry. My mom actually took a leave of absence from work to be home for me. I guess I've been "blessed" with parents that care so much. Still, I often wish they cared a little less.

"Gail?"

God, I've totally spaced out and now Miss Nordstrom's calling my name for the third time.

I turn to face her, "Yes, Miss Nordstrom?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your essay," she begins.

We wait in silence while everyone else leaves the room.

"You did a really excellent job, Gail," she says after everyone's gone, "Highest mark in the class."

Miss Nordstrom's still pretty young, like thirty or thirty-one. Her hair is always so clean that it shines, like an ad in a magazine or something.

"The Literary Council is hosting a contest," she continues, "You should enter."

She's smiling a little and I try to return it except I can't so I just stare at her blankly for several seconds until finally tears well up in my eyes and run down my face and I am crying in front of Miss Nordstrom.

The most peculiar thing is that she's not even looking at me with concern. She doesn't even seem surprised. Still, I feel obligated to fabricate a story to explain my tears.

"My dog died," I stammer, "I know it sounds lame but we had her for so long. Years and years, y'know?"

Miss Nordstrom hands me a Kleenex.

"I just don't look forward to going home knowing she's not there, y'know?" I finish.

"I know what it's like to lose a part of yourself," she tells me.

I turn to go, ashamed. I want to die of embarrassment. Who cries in front of their teacher?

I turn back to offer her another word of explanation but she's not even looking at me. She's staring out the window too, watching everything melt. Just like me.

I want to fly out the front doors and run down the street to get home but I suddenly remember what I'm going home to and the urge to get there passes. A leave of absence, like she needs to baby-sit me every hour of the day.

"Hey, you dropped this." Someone's tapping me on the shoulder.

I turn around and some random guy is holding out a book.

"It's not mine," I tell him and turn back around.

"Yeah, it is," he insists, "You put your name in the front, see?"

I check it out just to satisfy him, and he's right after all; there's my name, printed neatly in red pencil crayon.

"Oh," I mumble and I take the book from him. Franny and Zooey. I don't even remember reading it, "Thanks."

"No problem," he replies and he falls in step beside me, "You're in my English Lit class."

I finally turn to look directly at him. Blankly. I have no idea who he is.

"You're always looking out the window," he says, "But then you still always know all the answers. It's amazing."

I want to smile and tilt my head and flirt but I cannot do anything. I have no idea who he is.

He reads my mind, "I'm Ira," he smiles at me, "I sit near the back in English Lit and since you're always looking out the window, you never see me."

I nod, speechless. Again, I want to touch his arm and giggle and say, "Of course I know you. You're Ira. Everyone knows you Ira," but I can't. I wait for him to continue.

"So what did Nordstrom say to you?" he asks.

"What?" I don't look at him; I just keep my eyes on the sidewalk in front of me.

"Well, she kept you after class," Ira explains, "Did you flunk the essay?"

I watch the ground, "No," I reply, "She wants me to enter this contest. For writing."

Ira brightens up, "Oh, the one by The Literary Council," he says, "My dad's running that. He teaches English at the University. He wants me to enter too. Are you gonna do it?"

I shake my head slowly, "I don't know," I reply.

"I thought maybe Nordstrom freaked out on you or something," he goes on.

"Freaked out?" I repeat, "Why would she do that?"

"'Cause she did that to Mary-Catherine Rossetti last semester," Ira explains, "You never heard about it?"

I just shake my head at him.

"Yeah, Mary-Catherine tried to turn in her essay late and Nordstrom kept her after class and just lost it. She started throwing things and screaming stuff."

"What sort of stuff?" I ask, intrigued.

"Just a lot of crap that didn't really make a lot of sense. Mary-Catherine said it was like she was just yelling at someone else in the room even though they were the only people there."

"Was Mary-Catherine hurt?" I ask.

"No," Ira answers, watching me closely, "But Nordstrom left after that. I dunno if you remember but they said she had to go out west to take care of her sick mother."

I shake my head, no.

"Well, she was really in a mental hospital," he finishes, widening his eyes, "The one downtown. You know it?"

I ignore his question and consider what he's said, "How would you know that?" I ask him after a moment.

He shrugs, "My dad plays golf with her shrink."

We stop at an intersection and a crossing guard walks boldly into the middle. She blows her whistle and several young children brush past us. Ira smiles at me.

"Well, this is my street," he says, pointing to the right, "I guess I'll see you on Monday."

I nod and am finally able to smile at him slowly. All this time and I had idea. Ira is just a boy, just like any other boy.

"Okay," I reply, and I'm grinning at him. I raise my eyebrows at him, questioningly.

He pulls me aside and lowers his voice, "A bunch of us are going to her house tonight. Nordstrom's, I mean. It's just a joke, sort of a trick, nothing big. D'wanna come with?"

I stare at him, "What sort of trick?" I ask.

He shrugs again, "A funny one. Totally harmless."

He stands back and watches me carefully.

"You in?" he asks, finally.

"Okay." I concur.

He smiles broadly and I smile back, "Great!" he says, "Meet me here at eleven."

He turns to go and the crossing guard blows her whistle again.

"Oh," he calls to me, grinning, "And bring a roll of toilet paper," he adds.

At home, my mom sits across the table watching me eat the doughnut. With every bite I take, her smile grows wider.

"I got some of those honey-dip ones and some of those apple fritters," she continues, "You used to love those when you were little."

I smile a little, to reassure her, "I remember," I add.

She suddenly becomes very conscious of the fact that she's just sitting there, watching me eat. She gets up and moves to the coffee maker.

"So, how was school today?" she asks, as she pours herself a cup.

"Okay," I reply, "I'm going out tonight."

She stops pouring, "Out?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I reply, hoping she won't make a big deal or not let me go.

"Out where?" she asks, carefully. She puts the coffee down and comes to sit across from me at the table again.

"Just for something to eat, or to watch a movie or something," I reply, "Nothing big."

"With who?" she asks, becoming more worried, "I mean, are you going with anyone?"

"Yeah, of course," I reply. Did she think I was going to hang out by myself?

"Just this guy from school," I continue, "Nothing big," I repeat.

Her face totally clears up, "Like a date?" she says, and she's started smiling, "A boy from school asked you out on a date?"

I immediately shake my head, "No, not like that," I say, "I mean, there'll be other people there too, so it's not just him and I."

My mom won't hear it, "Who is he? Is he in any of your classes?" She's beaming so widely now, I can't help but smile back.

"Yeah," I reply, "English Lit. He sits in the back."

"Well, that's great!" she exclaims, "English Lit. Did he say where he was taking you?"

I shake my head again, trying to make her understand, "No, it's not like that," I try to explain, "He's not taking me anywhere, just a bunch of us are hanging out. So I need to borrow the car tonight. That's all."

She nods her head in agreement, "Right," she consents, "Well, that's fine. Of course you can use the car. I just filled up the tank too, so you don't have to worry about that. Do you have money?"

I nod, and finish off the doughnut. She gets up from the table and goes back to the coffee maker. I can tell she wants to say more but she's afraid that I'll run away to my room.

"Mom."

She turns to look at me, expectantly.

"What should I wear?"

"So we only have that front bush left to do," Ira whispers to me, "Then we gotta get outa here before someone catches us."

I nod at him, completely exhilarated. Who would have thought tee-peeing someone's house could be so liberating?

Ira smiles at me, "I'm glad you came," he finishes.

We finish the last bush and stand back to look at our handiwork. We have made the biggest mess. Toilet paper hangs everywhere, from every limb, from every eaves trough, across every window. I thought I would feel guilty, doing this to poor Miss Nordstrom who had always been nice to me but for whatever reason I feel great. I have friends. Ira is glad I came. I am being mischievous and angst-ridden, like any other typical teenage girl. It feels so good to finally be normal.

A light inside the house goes on and instantaneously the six of us flee down the road. When we get to the park at the end of the street we all collapse to the ground and finally start laughing.

"She's gonna freak when she sees all that toilet paper!" Kamron says, his dark eyes dancing, "Maybe she'll have to go back to the loony-bin!"

"It was a good idea to do the windows too," Jen says to me, "I never would have thought of that."

"Yeah, Gail's good at thinking about stuff like that," Ira adds, admiringly, "You should have seen her in English Lit today. She wasn't even nervous when Nordstrom asked her to stay after class."

The rest of group regards me with wonder and Ira doesn't bother to tell them that I had no reason to be nervous since I'd never even heard about what happened to Mary-Catherine. I smile at him openly and he grins back at me.

"I'm hungry," he says, standing up, "Let's get some pizza or something."

Everyone agrees and we scamper off to our cars. Ira rides with me and even holds my hand. I don't even think once of Miss Nordstrom.

The next morning, I am consumed with guilt. Miss Nordstrom was nothing but nice to me. And so what if she had been in a mental hospital? I was one to pass judgement, I knew all the doctors at the mental hospital downtown by name. What if that had been me? What if I was thirty or thirty-one and still sick? It wouldn't be fair for anyone to make fun of my pain. Why is it okay because it's someone else?

I get up early and get on my bike. I peddle furiously all the way to Miss Nordstrom's house, a million and one explanations on the tip of my tongue. I would call Ira from her house and tell him to come over and clean it up. It was only fair.

When I round the corner, I see Miss Nordstrom is already cleaning all the toilet paper. She's in her robe and slippers and dragging an already half full green plastic garbage bag behind her. She's kneeling in the garden, cleaning the front bushes.

I hop off my bike and go to kneel beside her.

"I saw it last night, but I waited until this morning to bother cleaning it," she starts, "I always hated cleaning in the dark."

"It was just a dumb joke," I tell her, putting some paper in the garbage bag, "It was mean."

She scoffs, "I'm not stupid, Gail?" she tells me, "I know what everyone says, I know what the kids think of me."

I don't say a word.

"The board doesn't think I should leave, they think everyone will just forget about it," she continues, "But they're wrong. No one will ever forget. It's not something one overlooks, now is it?"

"I used to be sick too," I offer, "Last year and the year before."

She regards me, quietly, "What was wrong with you?"

"I got depressed," I respond, "And I hurt myself once."

She nods as though she knows exactly what I mean, "Well, I hear things and see stuff. Like that day with Mary-Catherine. They just wouldn't go away."

"What do you see?" I ask her.

She straightens up and shrugs her shoulders, "People, animals. Dogs mostly. Great big dogs. And they don't do anything, like bark or pant or whine. They just sort of stand there, staring. And I always go to pet them, to make them feel better, y'know?"

I nod, slowly.

"But when I look again, the dog is gone. And I'm just left holding a stick or a rock," she concludes.

"What did the doctors say?" I ask.

"Schizophrenia." She says it calmly, unapologetically.

She continues stuffing the toilet paper into the bag, "You know what, Gail?" she says, "I used to be just like you once. Young and smart. I used to get depressed and sad and hurt myself. Everyone kept saying to snap out of it and I kept waiting for that to happen, to just wake up and to start feeling better. But it never happened. The hole just got bigger and deeper. I couldn't climb out now even if I wanted to."

She considers it a second, "I used to just sit and wait to start feeling better. I was convinced it would happen soon, since I'd felt so badly my entire life. I was convinced it couldn't get worse. And I know you do the same things too."

She abandons the bag and heads up the stairs to the front door, "So we're really not that different, me and you."

I stop cleaning and stand up, "Will you go back to school?" I ask her.

She shakes her head, "Will you enter the contest?"

I shake my head. She nods in return.

"I'm going to leave it," she gestures to the ruined yard, "I'm sort of starting to like it."

She smiles cryptically at me, and I nod back at her. I walk slowly back to my bike and get on. I sit on it, watching her for a moment and waiting.

"I know what it's like to lose a part of yourself," she calls to me, "You never get it back."

She turns and heads through the front door and I turn and peddle off, back to my house.

Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson

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