The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

FIRST CLASS AFTER LUNCH is music education with Miss Godwin, who's all enthusiastic. She stands at the front of the classroom, looking around expectantly. “Can anyone guess the composer we're doing today?” Her accent sounds like tinkling bells, and it's starting to get on my nerves.

I watch her, and try really hard to figure her out. Then I give up. I'm silently fuming, still thinking about ballet and all the classes I've missed. This is just not fair! What's the matter with Mom, anyway? Why can't she get herself dressed and drive me there? Why do I have to do everything since Gran died? What about my life, what happened to that?

No one answers Miss Godwin. I look over at Debbie, roll my eyes. Does Miss actually believe we're interested in this?

“Come now, girls. Think! What letter did we do last time?”

Dead silence.

At the back of the class, there's whispering and giggling. By the window, girls slump low in their desks, clearly bored out of their skulls. A tiny wad of white paper sails through the air, landing on the desk right beside Miss Godwin, who doesn't even notice. Looks like another lesson is beginning to unravel.

Meanwhile, Miss Godwin pulls a pile of crumpled papers from her case. I stare at those papers in her hand. Seriously, what's the point of all this? I'm sick of the Composers' Alphabet. I'm sick of Miss Godwin. I'm sick to death of everything.

Up goes my hand.

“Miss Godwin, wasn't it Beethoven last time? The letter B?”

“Good heavens, Maureen.” She clucks her tongue. “Beethoven was ages ago, back in January, I believe.”

“Are you sure there, Miss? It's so fresh in my mind, I was positive we'd done it last week. You know, I
love
Beethoven. He's my absolute favourite! Do you think we can do him again?”

The entire class is perked up now, watching me. My mood lifts.

The wrinkles on Miss Godwin's forehead knit together in a little stack. “Oh, I don't know about that. That would throw off the schedule. We're long past the letter B, you know.”

“But Miss! I really want to hear about Beethoven again. I do!”

“Do you, really?” Miss Godwin moves closer, all sympathetic. This is so easy! “I understand that, because he's one of my favourites too. Perhaps we can do him again when we finish the whole alphabet.”

“No!” I shout. And the whole class gasps. “That's not fair. You're just being mean!” I bury my face in my arms on my desk, leaving a little opening on one side for peeking out.

All the girls stare in disbelief. I'm really pushing the boundaries now.

“Maureen! Please don't be rude!” The words are all there but it's the tremor in her tone that gives her away. Miss Godwin looks anxious, nervously fingering the flowered brooch at her neck.

Silence from me. No reaction.

“Well, perhaps we could do a short review of Beethoven at the end of class, maybe five or ten minutes. How would that do?”

I raise one eye up from my folded arms and fix it on Miss Godwin's face. “Ten minutes is not long enough,” I say. “How about twenty?”

Muffled giggles, but Miss Godwin doesn't notice. Worriedly, her eyes dart toward the clock above the board. “Maureen, I don't think so. That would mean today's lesson might not . . .”

“Okay, that's it!” I'm acting
really
mad now. “You've hurt my feelings! I don't care if you do Beethoven for the whole period, it's too late.” And I slide down beneath my desktop, hiding there like a wounded animal.

One small part of my brain is aware of the pitiful woman hovering over me. How nothing in her life has prepared her to deal with this. How I'm taking advantage. Then I hear the roars of laughter erupting from the class. It buoys me up, blanking out any thought of remorse.

Miss Godwin is angry now, but incredibly, not at me. “Class! Can't you see that Maureen is upset? Please don't laugh at her, it's rude.”

Unbelievable—she's taking my side! You couldn't tell a joke as funny as this.

She leans over, peering beneath my desk. “Maureen, I'm sorry but you must come out. You're disturbing the class.”

“No!”

I glance sideways at Miss Godwin, notice the hurt in her pale watery eyes, and it pricks at me. But I don't stop myself, can't stop myself, actually.

“Maureen, if you don't come out immediately, I'll have to send for Sister.”

“Go ahead. Sister is nicer than you, anyway.”

“Oh my.” Miss Godwin pushes a hand through her tight grey curls and stumbles to the front of the classroom. “Girls, I'm sure Maureen will come out when she's ready. In the meantime, we have to proceed with today's lesson.” She picks up the papers, which tremble in her hands, then cascade to the floor like a waterfall.

Loud laughter explodes in the classroom. Deep inside my stomach I feel a sudden thud of guilt. Poor old Miss Godwin, what am I doing to her? She looks totally rattled.

Meanwhile, Debbie is on her feet. “Here, Miss, let me help you with that.” Then she hisses at me, “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?” The guilt pulses in my belly. What have I done? What's wrong with me, anyway?

But the entire class is in an uproar now. I can see some girls standing on their seats, trying to get a better view of me huddled under my desk. The rougher girls cackle loudly. I wonder if the goody-goodies are smiling—well, a few of them might be. You never know.

“That's a sin for you, Miss,” calls out Evelyn Coady. Evelyn's as hard as nails, probably the worst girl in class. She's always hanging out by Monty's in Churchill Square, smoking cigarettes and carrying on with the boys from St. Matthew's High School. “Maureen's really upset.”

“Yeah, Miss,” adds Patsy Gallagher. Patsy is Evelyn's sidekick, copies her every move. “What difference about which composer? They're all dead anyhow.” She and Evelyn bark and chortle again, backed up by a few of their bunch.

Evelyn and Patsy joining in? I grin in spite of myself (still crouched beneath my desk), but honestly? I'm starting to feel a bit nervous. Evelyn and Patsy are pretty tough customers. Debbie and I never have much to do with them.

“Girls! Girls!” Miss Godwin raps repeatedly on the silver bell on her desk. The tinny ring cuts through the racket and gradually the laughter and talk fade away. “Girls, I must ask you not to speak out in class. It's time to proceed with today's lesson. Thank you, Debbie,” she says, as Debbie hands over the crumpled papers.

The class is almost completely quiet now. I suppose I could keep this going if I wanted to, but the thing is, I
don't
want to anymore. It's a funny feeling, really, when you make fun of someone like this. You kind of feel dirty afterwards. And it's not a nice way to feel.

So out I come from beneath my desk. Poor old Miss Godwin. I know she's a desperate teacher, but it's a sin for me to take advantage of it.

“I'm feeling better now, Miss,” I announce. Time to fix up the damage. “Of course you can't do Beethoven again. What was I thinking?”

The tension in Miss Godwin's face falls away so quickly, her skin actually sags. “I'm happy to hear that, Maureen,” she says, her tone still dignified as she grips the side of the teacher's desk. Meanwhile, Debbie is glaring at me like I'm completely despicable. Hey, it wasn't that bad, and it's all over now, anyway.

“I'm very sorry about all this, Miss. I don't know what came over me.”

Miss Godwin smiles weakly. “No harm done, then. Shall we carry on with today's lesson?”

“Of course.” My voice is bright and perky. “The letter J, isn't it? For John Jenkins?”

Well, Miss Godwin's whole face lights up like a neon sign. Now I've completely won her over. “It certainly is John Jenkins! I just wish you'd said so at the beginning. See, class, Maureen knew the correct composer all along.”

Later by the lockers, a small group of girls gathers round me.

“That was so funny!” says Mary Ann Power, her vivid blue eyes clapped on me like I'm a rock star.

“Where do you get the nerve, Maureen?” This from Heather Hiscock, who's shaking her head in utter disbelief.

“Can you do it again next time?” asks Bernadette O'Grady. “That was the best music class ever!”

“Hmm,” I say, tucking my mitts into my coat sleeves, drawing the scene out as long as possible. It
does
feel good to be the centre of all this attention. “I'm not sure. Guess it depends how bored I get.”

The three girls laugh and move off, giggling. Meanwhile, Debbie's standing there eyeing me, not smiling, not saying a word.

“What's your problem?”

“Maureen, are you crazy? If Miss Godwin tells anyone—I mean anyone—you're in the biggest trouble of your life.”

“Oh, don't be such a grump. And don't pretend it wasn't funny, I saw you smiling.”

“Okay, I did smile at the beginning when Miss Godwin was bending over, begging you to come out. But then she got really upset and dropped all those papers and I didn't think it was so funny anymore. Then I thought it was getting mean. Maureen, what if she tells Sister Marion?”

“Well, I sure hope she doesn't tell Sister Marion. That would be very bad. But she probably won't, because I knew the composer of the day, so now I'm teacher's pet!” We're striding down the corridor, leather bookbags over our shoulders, heading for Beth-Ann's classroom.

“I don't know how on earth you figured that one out. I never heard of John Jenkins.”

“Miss Godwin mentioned him once before and I remembered the name.”

Debbie shakes her curly hair. “Well, I still think you're taking an awful chance. Plus, it's just not right to treat people like that.”

Isn't Debbie so sweet? I mean,
she'd
never be cruel to Miss Godwin, or anyone else for that matter.

“Well, I did say sorry, didn't I? And I won't do it again, I promise. From now on, I swear I'm going to be just like you.”

“Reenie!” It's Beth-Ann, her chubby pink face peeking out from the Grade One classroom door.

“Bethie!” My voice is all pretend-excited for my baby sister. “Let's go! Thanks, Miss Dunphy.” I smile at her teacher and take Beth-Ann's hand in mine.

It's cold outside, but the April sun shines as clear as crystal. The wind cuts into our faces, shoots into our lungs, so that it almost hurts to breathe. Still, the fresh air feels fantastic. The three of us click the heels of our shoes along the bare sidewalks of Elizabeth Avenue. White snowbanks have shrunk to black grainy mounds, streams of water running from them into the gutter.

We chat and giggle until we reach the foot of Downing Street, where Debbie waves goodbye. “Don't forget to phone if you need a ride to ballet,” she calls out, as she heads up the hill.

Ballet. The very word drills into my gut and immediately I feel queasy. I'd forgotten about ballet. All the leftover glow and excitement from my performance with Miss Godwin fizzles away to nothing. I can't miss ballet again. I've got to find some way to get there today.

But Beth-Ann keeps on chattering until I think I'm going to explode. “Bethie, can you please just be quiet? Do you have to talk constantly?” Instantly she falls silent, as each step we take brings us closer to home.

CHAPTER FIVE

COMING AROUND THE CORNER on Kerry Street, I can see Aunt Kay's Volkswagen parked in front of the house like a round, red apple. Excellent! If Aunt Kay's here, then I might get to ballet. We clatter through the front door, dropping our leather bookbags on the hardwood floor.

“Hello! We're home! Aunt Kay?”

The living room is empty but there's a definite rumble in the distance. Next thing the dining room door crashes open and two small red-headed boys burst through, white plastic airplanes held high over their heads.

“Vroom! Vroom!” They zoom around the living room like a pair of Tasmanian devils, then tear down the hall.

Beth-Ann grins. “Billy and Bobby are here!” she says, her eyes dancing. How wonderful. “Hey, wait for me!”

This is all I need. Billy and Bobby are wild animals, always running and fighting. Each time they come over they head straight for my bedroom and pull it apart. Nobody seems to care about this, only me. And it's only me that ever cleans up the mess they leave behind. Well, if they destroy my room again today, I really think I'm going to lose my mind.

I push through the kitchen door where Aunt Kay sits at the table, nursing a cup of tea.

“Hi, Maureen. You girls home already? I didn't even hear you come in.”

Probably because your boys are making such a racket. “Hi, Aunt Kay. How's Mom? Is she in her bedroom?” Then I remember about ballet and plunge ahead, not waiting for answers to my questions. “Oh, Aunt Kay, are you going to be here awhile? I have ballet this afternoon and if I miss it again, I won't know the routines for the recital next month. Debbie said her mom could pick me up, so you wouldn't even need to drive me.” I pull a box of chocolate chip cookies from the cupboard and plunk down at the table next to her.

“Of course, your ballet lessons. We seem to have forgotten about that, haven't we? No, you go on to ballet.” She nods her head slowly, like she's thinking it through. “What I'll probably do is bring Beth-Ann back to our house and have your father pick her up there. You shouldn't have to miss class again today; you've missed enough already.”

“Oh that's excellent, thanks a million!” I smile and jump up. That was easy! “I'll call Debbie right away.”

She catches my arm. “Maureen, before you do, just sit down for a second. There's something we need to talk about.”

My throat tightens. What now? I sit down slowly and eye Aunt Kay. “It's Mom, isn't it?”

“Yes honey, it is. I don't need to tell you that your mom's not getting any better; in fact she's probably getting worse. Dr. Sullivan feels she should see a specialist, someone trained to deal with these sorts of problems. So after lunch your dad came home from work and took your mother to see a psychiatrist.”

A psychiatrist? I feel like I've been struck with a bat. “But Aunt Kay, psychiatrists are for crazy people. Mom's not crazy—she's just feeling sad 'cause Gran died.”

“That's true, she's not crazy. But she's very, very sad. So sad, she can't cope with anything. You know, Maureen, your mother's always been a little high-strung. But nothing like this has ever happened before. She just can't seem to snap out of it. To be honest, your father and I are at our wits' end.”

“But Aunt Kay, I don't understand. Mom looks fine. It's not like she's got a fever or a disease or something. Why can't she just get up and get going like the rest of us and start doing the things she used to do?”

“It's funny, your father said the exact same thing this morning. I can't pretend to have any answers, because I don't understand it either. All I know is that your mother desperately wants to get herself dressed and make dinner and do all her everyday things again, but for some reason she can't. So that's why she's seeing a psychiatrist.”

I slump back on the kitchen chair, turn my head away. The sunlight pouring through the kitchen window picks out the grime on the glass. It looks dirty and neglected. Why hasn't somebody cleaned it already? I bite my lip hard as tears burn behind my eyes. “What will everyone say?” I whisper, my voice cracking.

“No one needs to know.” Aunt Kay speaks firmly, leaning forward. “The fact that your mother is seeing a psychiatrist is completely private. Maureen, I promise you, eventually this will end and the whole thing will be just a bad memory.”

I nod slowly, take a deep breath. “People will find out. They always do.” The tears are trickling down my face now, no way can I stop them. “What about Aunt Grace? She always tells everything.”

“I've already spoken to Grace and that won't be a problem. Nobody in this family will be discussing your mother's illness. We won't be saying a word. We'll just keep your mother here at home until she's better and keep everyone else away. Hopefully, this psychiatrist can give her something to bring her around a bit.”

I nod slowly, pick at a loose thread on the cuff of my cardigan. Keep everyone away? How long is that going to work? What about my friends? What will I tell them?

“So it's actually a good thing she's seeing this new doctor today. Hopefully, he'll find a solution.”

I yank the thread hard, pulling it free. “When will she be home?”

“Not sure, really. To be honest, I thought they'd be back by now. It can't be too much longer.”

I nod woodenly.

“Now, didn't you say you wanted to go to ballet? Why don't you give Debbie a call? How was school today, anyway? I didn't even ask.” Aunt Kay is really trying hard here, but seriously, what's the point? Does anyone actually care?

Suddenly nothing else in my life seems important. Not ballet. Not school. Nothing. My foolishness in Miss Godwin's class seems a million miles away, like it happened in another time and space. Maureen O'Neill, the funny girl, so stupid. Then a new dread hits me—what if that story finds its way home? That's all my family needs right now, to discover I've been crucifying the music teacher. Dad would be furious. And Aunt Kay would be so disappointed.

“I don't think I want to go to ballet anymore.”

“Of course you're going to ballet!” announces Aunt Kay, standing up. It's the school principal talking now, you don't dare argue with this. “I don't care if I have to call Debbie myself. Now have a quick snack and get yourself ready.” She bends down, kisses the top of my head, and her kindness starts up the tears again.

“Maureen, trust me. In the end, this will be okay. Now call Debbie while I check on Billy and Bobby, see what chaos they've created in the last ten minutes.” She disappears through the kitchen door.

* * * * *

I stand listlessly on the sidewalk outside the house, my pink ballet bag slung over one shoulder, scanning the top of the street for the blue Austin Mini carrying Debbie and her mom. The sun is lower in the sky now and the dark shadow of our grey-shingled bungalow stretches across the road to the other side. A stiff breeze sails down the street. There's an icy edge to it and I shiver and stamp my feet for warmth.

A psychiatrist? What if Mom really is crazy? I feel empty, hollowed-out, sucked away. The scrappy terrier from next door bounces and yaps around my feet but I don't really care, barely even notice.

People will find out, they always do.

If only we could just go back to how things used to be . . .