Читать книгу Mathilda Savitch - Victor Lodato - Страница 9

At school today, first thing, I was told to go to Ms. Olivera’s office. She’s the principal of the penitentiary but you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses. Beads and bracelets and scarves in her hair. She really should be out on the street selling incense.

“Look at me,” Ms. Olivera says.

I only look at the lips.

“How have you been doing lately?” the lips say.

Oh brother, I think, now we’re going to have to go through the whole story of my life, when all she really wants to know is why I slapped Carol Benton in the face yesterday. Which I did without really meaning to do it. It actually surprised me when it turned out to be a real slap and not just the thought of a slap.

“Why are you so angry?” O says. Who does she think she is, the Tree?

“I’m not angry,” I say. I wonder if she’s recording me.

“You slapped someone, Mathilda. That’s an act of anger,” the lips say.

The truth is, Carol Benton is the kind of person who inspires violence. Just the bigness of her face. And more than once I’ve seen her whispering with her friends and then they look at me. What’s the big secret? As if everyone doesn’t already know.

“Mathilda,” O says. “Mathilda. Are you listening to me?”

“I’m giving you a chance here,” she says, and she reaches for my hand like a pervert. I pull away and pretend I have an itch.

“Is everything okay at home?” she says. The same old questions.

“How are your mother and father doing?”

“Is your mother doing a little better?”

“Fine,” I say.

O looks at me with her X-ray eyes but I don’t let her in. I don’t know that I can trust her. I’d like to tell her how it’s been almost one year, and how I still haven’t seen my mother cry in the way mothers are supposed to cry after the death of a child. Ever since Helene died it’s like Ma’s joined the army. Is that normal? I’d like to ask.

“Can I use your bathroom please?” I say.

O nods and I get up and go through the door.

O has her own private bathroom. It’s not as clean as it should be. There’s a hair in the sink. I pick it up with a piece of toilet paper and put it in my pocket, just in case. On a little shelf there’s some air freshener, plus a tin of mints and a candy bar. Who keeps food in the bathroom? Disgusting, if you ask me.

Interesting as well is a bathtub filled with potted plants. All leaves, no flowers. Jungly. I pretty much have to force myself not to make the sounds of monkeys and tropical birds.

I flush the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion. I open the medicine cabinet. Inside there’s a hairbrush, lipstick, a bottle of pills, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I take the pills, which are called Exhilla, and I put them in my pocket. According to the commercial, Exhilla helps you get through your day with a lot less worry. But the thing is, I remember last year, right after the explosion at the opera house in New York that killed a lot of bigwigs including a senator, Ms. O gave a special talk to the whole school and by the end of it she was crying into her scarves.

When I come out of the bathroom, O is smiling. As far as I can tell it’s not a lie.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I won’t do it again,” I say. And I ask her to please not tell my parents.

“You have to ignore people,” Ms. Olivera says. “You can’t let them get under your skin.”

It’s a sad smile. Like my father’s.

“You’re a smart girl,” she says. She stands up and I’m afraid she’s going to try and touch me again.

“Go to class,” she says.

“Yes,” I say, but I don’t move. I don’t move for about ten years. At least that’s the feeling. Time is funny lately, nothing to do with clocks.

After school Anna and I decide to go to Mool’s for a soda and curly fries. Walking there Anna doesn’t bring up Carol Benton, which is a big relief. Instead she asks me what I think of the boys this year in our class.

“Not for me,” I say.

“No one?” she says. Obviously she must have her own eye on someone.

Anna and I haven’t started with boys yet, not professionally anyway. But I have noticed that Anna is becoming a bit of a flirt. She has this new thing she does with her hair, a kind of a toss. It’s pretty impressive actually. If there’s one way Anna’s ahead of me it’s in this department. Flirting isn’t a brain thing, it’s an animal thing. But so is slapping people, I guess. And so if I can slap people I should be able to flirt with them. Probably I should give it some attention. I’ve learned a few things from Helene’s e-mails, most of which are from boys. The language gets pretty explicit sometimes. I can’t believe she printed them out, considering the possibility of Ma finding them. I’m adding bravery to the list of Helene’s virtues.

When you think about your body you barely know where to begin. Even just the words for it. Your bum is your bottom is your butt. Is your ass if you want to get crude about it. There’s a ton of expressions for everything down there. Your vaj is your cooz is your crack. Or your cunt if you’re really in the mood or you’re a slut or if someone’s trying to insult you. Boys have more words for theirs than girls, according to my calculations. Penis and pole and peter and prick, but it’s not just Ps. You also have dong and cock and stormtrooper and willy and sausage and you could go on and on if you had all day. Breasts and tits and knockers and boobs and if you’re an old lady you have a bosom, which is hysterical. If I ever say bosom to Anna she nearly pees her pants.

Once, a long time ago, I saw my father come out of the shower and he was naked. Ma was in the bathroom with him. I saw my Da’s thing and it looked like a carrot pulled out of the ground with all its roots and hairs sticking to it. I thought of it inside my mother, like putting a carrot back into the ground, back into the dirt. A woman is a garden, they say. I used to think flowers but now I think vegetables.

“Lonnie’s not bad,” Anna says.

“The astronaut?” I say. “He doesn’t want to be an astronaut anymore,” Anna says. “That was like three years ago.” She grabs my arm and drags me into Mool’s. Nobody’s there but us and we take the booth in the corner, which is our favorite.

“What’ll it be?” Mool says, even though he knows it’s always curly fries and cokes. He comes over to us, practically dancing from the pleasure of our company. Mool is the happiest old person I’ve ever met. Old people are funny, they’re either lizards or birds. Mool is a bird. When he drops the basket of fries into the oil, he goes squawk squawk, he can’t help himself.

To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind living at Mool’s. I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Mool hiding in the back. I’ve never seen her. Maybe she’s the reason for his happiness. Maybe they have the kind of love that lasts forever. Did you ever read “The Gift of the Magi”? Picture that couple about fifty years down the road, that would be Mool and his wife.

“Do you want to sleep over this weekend?” Anna says. This is another one of Anna’s skills. Mind reader.

Anna’s house isn’t as happy as Mool’s restaurant but it’s not unhappy, it has its charms. “Yes,” I say, “I would love to.” And suddenly I’m feeling so good that I think to tell Anna about H.S.S.H., but for some reason it won’t come out of my mouth. Maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow. Timing is everything, they say. I want Helene’s anniversary to be a special day. Who knows, maybe I’ll throw a surprise party for Ma and Da, just to wake them up. Ma and Da need a slap in the face even worse than Carol Benton.

Mool brings over the fries and suddenly I want to kiss him. I want to throw my arms around him and give him the smooch to end all smooches. I know it’s out of character but the thing is, it’s probably better to save my awfulness for the people who deserve it. It’ll just get stronger and stronger like the venom inside snakes. You don’t want to waste it on the wrong person.