Читать книгу Bobby Blanchard, Lesbian Gym Teacher - Monica Nolan - Страница 12

Bobby blew her whistle and the fourth formers stopped shambling through the Russian peasant dance she’d been attempting to teach them, sagging collectively in relief. “Straight spines, straight spines!” Bobby called reprovingly as she made her way to the phonograph where Bartók was still spinning around. The bell rang, marking the end of the period, and she lifted the needle off the record. “Class dismissed!”

The young gym teacher felt as relieved as her students at the conclusion of the hour’s gyrations. Miss Fayne’s lesson plans were as dull as ditchwater, but after the disastrous reception of her timekeeping lesson, Bobby had decided to play it safe and stick to the established curriculum. After all, Miss Fayne had taught at Metamora for three years!

Yet she had to admit that she was as bored by the Russian peasants as her students seemed to be.

“Miss Blanchard, Miss Blanchard!” Karen Woynarowski was hopping up and down with eagerness. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

At least the students had warmed to her as a woman, if not as a teacher. As usual, a crowd of them in their scarlet gym tunics were hanging around her desk, thrusting out excuse slips for Bobby to sign, asking for advice, or just peppering her with questions on every subject under the sun.

“Go ahead, Karen.” Bobby smiled.

“What kind of beauty routine do you follow at night, Miss Blanchard?” blurted the blushing fourth former. There were self-conscious giggles from the group of girls as each one pictured the gym teacher, at night, in her bedroom.

“Beauty routine?” What did that mean? “Well, I wash up with soap and water every night before I go to bed, and I brush my teeth, of course,” Bobby admitted.

“What do you think of going steady with a boy?” Gwen Norton quickly followed up.

“Steady with a boy?” Bobby was puzzled. “How are you going to go steady with a boy at a girls’ school?”

“Miss Fayne said we shouldn’t kiss on the first date,” another girl broke in.

“But kissing is the point of a date!” said Bobby, astounded at such advice. When she saw the girls exchanging surprised, pleased glances, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Probably Miss Fayne was worried that kissing would lead to heavy petting, intercourse, and then pregnancy,” she offered, not wanting to contradict her predecessor. The little stir of excitement told her she’d blundered, yet again, onto a forbidden topic.

“I heard you can’t get pregnant the first time,” said Gwen eagerly.

Bobby’s indignation overcame her caution. “Girls who believe that find themselves on a plane to Mexico!” she scolded. “Now, we’ll talk about all this more thoroughly next semester in hygiene. Get along and change before you’re late for lunch!”

She watched the sophomores—that is, fourth formers—head to the locker room, an indulgent smile on her lips. These kids kept her on her toes, no question! She didn’t always know if she was saying the right thing, but she enjoyed the give-and-take. She had discovered how to manage the freshman—that is, the third form—problems in her dorm. Maybe her methods weren’t by the book, but they worked!

Take the other evening, when she’d poked her head into the Cornwall common room. A group of third formers had ganged up on Debby Geissler, and were teasing her about her sleepwalking.

“Girls who sleepwalk aren’t right in the head,” one girl had declared.

“That’s not true!” cried Debby, a plump girl with rosy cheeks. “My doctor said it’s just a phase—a hormonal imbalance I’ll grow out of—”

“Her hormones are out of joint!”

“Where do you go, Debby?”

“What do you do? I bet you do things you wouldn’t do when you’re awake!”

Debby was on the brink of tears when Bobby came to her rescue. “Let me tell you something about Debby’s sleepwalking,” she addressed the gang of girls. “Even asleep, Debby’s a model of perfect posture! She’s a sleepwalking illustration of all five points!”

The jeering stopped and the third formers looked at Debby respectfully.

“Now, poor posture,” Bobby continued. “That’s a sign of deep-seated problems. Who wants to play a little game?”

“We do, we do!” Even Sandy Milston, Debby’s roommate, looked up from the corner of the couch where she was deep in a book.

“Tell me the first point of perfect posture,” Bobby asked her rapt audience.

“Firm feet!” the girls chorused with flattering alacrity.

“Patty, why don’t you demonstrate.”

Patty Suarez obeyed, and Bobby gave her a gentle shove. The girl swayed, but did not topple. “Excellent! You all see how well balanced she is?”

Soon all the girls were testing their balance and attempting to push each other over. Sandy had put her book aside and joined the fun. Teasing Debby was forgotten as the girls giggled and grunted, grappling with each other like wrestlers while Bobby watched with a satisfied smile. The best way to keep the third formers happy was to make sure they had a physical outlet for their youthful energy!

Yes, Bobby thought now, as she picked up her satchel, Miss Watkins had been right about this: Bobby basked in the swarms of young girls surrounding her, at least outside of class. She enjoyed their lively chatter, their eager curiosity, their funny notions. She was more intrigued than annoyed by bookworm Sandy Milston, who was forever acquiring and hiding copies of the books on the forbidden literature list—everything from Forever Amber to obscure anthropological texts. Ferreting them out was fun, and the confiscated books had certainly provided Bobby with some interesting bedtime reading!

Bobby headed to Dorset and lunch, taking her usual shortcut through the locker room and out the side entrance, which led to the path that climbed the hill to the quadrangle. “Don’t be late for lunch, now,” she called to Gwen Norton and Joyce Vandemar, who were still frolicking in the showers.

Life at Metamora agreed with her. Bobby enjoyed the familiar school routine, rising early, going for a run around the athletic field, greeting Bryce and Ole as they strolled to breakfast from the old Amundsen homestead in the woods, Bryce’s flowered tie always coordinated with the seasons. She relished the tasty meals Mona and the cook concocted, the eggs Benedict, the Salisbury steak, the macaroni and cheese, the boiled cabbage. Her mouth watered as she anticipated today’s lunch menu—liver and onions, mmm!

Bobby joined the growing throng of scarlet-trimmed gray uniforms streaming toward Dorset. A girl in front of her shifted her books, and a folded piece of paper fell to the ground. “Wait—you dropped something.” Bobby stopped her. Out of habit she opened the note and read:

I think you’re divine. I watch you in Art Class all the time. If I could paint anyone’s picture, it would be yours, but I could never do you justice. Do you think you could ever like me?

“Here now, what’s the matter with you?” Bobby scolded the blushing girl. “You forgot to sign it! How’s your friend going to answer you if you don’t sign it?”

Brushing aside the teenager’s thanks, Bobby continued up the path, musing on life at Metamora. That was another thing she liked—the atmosphere of warmth and affection that permeated the place. This girl’s note was just one example. Half the student body had fervent “pashes,” as they called them, on the other half. The faculty, too, fostered close friendships; Bryce and Ole were devoted to each other, as were Alice Bjorklund and Serena Rapp. Elaine had been dead wrong with that caviar on toast business.

If only she didn’t feel so overmatched, intellectually speaking, in this new milieu. Bobby passed the sundial, automatically speeding up a little. She might be able to beat Serena at tennis, but she certainly couldn’t keep up with her or Hoppy Fiske when they got into one of their arguments about classical versus progressive education.

Noticing Gussie Gunderson standing at the foot of the step up to Dorset, Bobby hurried forward to take her arm and escort her into the dining hall.

*

murmured the Ancient Greek Mistress as Bobby pulled out a chair for her at the table where the senior faculty sat. Gussie often communicated in unintelligible fragments of Greek, but somehow this didn’t bother Bobby. None of the other teachers understood her either.

Except Enid Butler, Bobby thought wryly as she took her seat at a half-filled table. “Good afternoon, Miss Blanchard!” chorused the students, turning beaming faces in her direction.

It was usual at Metamora for the junior faculty to mix with the students for meals. Bobby was pleasantly aware of how the seats at whatever table she chose would fill up as quickly as the seats in a game of musical chairs when the music stops. Today was no exception, and she had to settle a dispute over the last chair, promising to save the disappointed loser a seat at her table at dinner.

All was orderly at the neighboring table, where Enid sat—Enid, who seemed mistress of so much more than mathematics. She debated nuclear disarmament with Hoppy, and even Hoppy had to back down on points of fission she didn’t understand. She spoke French with Madame Melville, Greek with Gussie Gunderson, and had even gotten Miss Rasphigi to support her in proposing a physics seminar for Metamora’s advanced science and math students. At any rate, Miss Rasphigi’s indifferent “Why not?” at that particular staff meeting was as enthusiastic as the solitary Chemistry Mistress had gotten about anything thus far.

But it was on educational issues that Bobby felt truly inferior to the attractive young Math Mistress, who had held forth last night about experiential-based learning and modules versus units until Bobby felt like her brain was being pelted by badminton birdies. That night, for the first time at Metamora, she had had one of her nightmares. In this one, Miss Butler chased her through the Mesquakie woods until Bobby tumbled over the bluff into the Muskrat River, which in her dream was as deep and wild as Niagara Falls.

It was hard to believe that the precocious Enid Butler was only just out of college, and that she’d only minored in education, Bobby thought now, looking enviously at Enid’s cool profile.

Miss Craybill had taken her place at the senior staff table, next to the Greek Mistress, with sharp-featured Bunny Otis on her other side. Miss Rasphigi, Madame Melville, and Mona made up the rest of the table. The noise of chatter died down, and Miss Craybill bowed her head.

“Let us pray,” she said.

After the ragged chorus of thanks for their liver and onions had died away, Miss Craybill picked up a sheet of paper and stood up to make the announcements. “The Young Integrationists are holding their annual elections tonight at seven-thirty in the Kent Common Room, followed by a discussion, ‘Hierarchical versus Cooperative Organizational Strategies.’ I encourage all interested students to attend. The Metamora Literary Society is also having its first meeting. Anyone interested in helping to produce The Tower Chimes is required to attend, but Miss Bjorklund requests that you please save your summer poetry for another meeting. This is to be an organizational meeting only. The Problem Solvers…”

Miss Craybill was having a good day, Bobby was relieved to observe. It had become clear to the young physical education instructor as well as the rest of the faculty that Miss Craybill was not quite herself. Even in a community that tolerated a wide range of behavior, some of the habits the Headmistress had lately developed might be termed eccentric.

For example, the distraction Bobby had noticed at that first sherry hour had become more pronounced. The other day at lunch Miss Craybill had simply stopped mid-announcement, her attention drawn to a bird outside the window. Exclaiming excitedly, “A short-billed marsh wren!” she had abruptly exited Dorset in pursuit, leaving the students buzzing as Miss Otis finished the announcements. Alice Bjorklund told Bobby that the late Miss Froelich had been an avid bird-watcher—it was surmised she had fallen from the tower while observing the white-breasted nuthatch. “I think Agnes has taken up the hobby as a way of feeling closer to her departed friend,” the gentle English Mistress confided, tears filling her eyes. “She’s even taken over Nerissa’s Life List!”

And then there was the Headmistress’s sudden mania for cleaning out the school’s dusty storeroom and attics. “Fall cleaning won’t hurt anything,” said Mona philosophically as she patiently helped Miss Craybill sort through trunks of mildewed academic gowns or boxes of discarded etiquette textbooks. Bryce Bowles, the generally cheery Biology Master, had sternly refused, however, when Miss Craybill suggested she give a good going-over to his and Ole’s woodsy retreat. “There’s such a thing as privacy!” he exclaimed indignantly.

But on the whole, the staff tried to accommodate their beloved Headmistress, still shaken by the unexpected death of her dear friend, Miss Froelich. It was no wonder she was a little “fragile,” said the older teachers diplomatically; “odd,” the younger teachers told each other more bluntly.

“…and lastly, Patty Tompkins is missing her collection of the works of Ayn Rand. No questions asked if it is returned before Study Hall tonight.”

Miss Craybill sat down, and conversation broke out immediately. “Have you seen the first issue of The Metamora Musings, Miss Blanchard?” asked Peggy Cotler eagerly as the waitresses set down steaming plates of liver and onions in front of each student. “It has the interview I did with you.”

“It’s out already?” Bobby said. “And you printed my announcement?”

“I sure did,” Peggy assured her.

Bobby half rose and then sank back down. “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until after lunch,” she complained jokingly. “Seeing as I have to set an example for you girls that doesn’t include leaping up in search of reading material.”

“Here’s my copy, Miss Blanchard!” A half dozen copies were held out to her in an instant. Bobby took a copy from third former Patty Suarez, who sat on her right.

“Remember, kids, we’re supposed to be conversing on topical events, cover for me,” she instructed as she leafed hastily through the paper. The giggling girls conversed in artificial tones about a recent plane crash and the uproar in Alabama as Bobby turned past stories about club meetings, Prefecture elections (Metamora’s name for student government), and an editorial on changing school rules to permit unsupervised strolls in the woods between Metamora and Mesquakie Point (“Why Is Mother Nature Forbidden Territory?”). Her attention was caught briefly by the interview Peggy had written, headlined NEW GAMES MISTRESS WOWS CAMPUS, and she wondered to herself if her hair really was “a cap of iridescent red-gold” and if she really “radiated warmth, wisdom, and wit.”

Ah—there was the announcement she was looking for, boxed and placed prominently next to the picture of her sitting in the bleachers. “Metamora Field Hockey Team to be Re-formed,” it read. “Tryouts Thursday Afternoon, 4 P.M., Louth Athletic Field.”