Anthony smells like my father’s
hairbrush—a mixture of Lanolin and Old Spice. He sits in front of me, and I can
see small flakes of dandruff on his sweater. He’s so prudish, I’m thinking, and
so studious. I envy his ability with arithmetic. As I sit listening to our
teacher, Mrs. Thompson, I play with my tooth. It’s an upper front tooth, and it
feels wiggly. One finger is busy with my mouth, while the other traces over a
crudely engraved name on my desk. The name is ‘Andy’ and the boldness and depth
of the letters indicates the resolve of an academically disinterested boy. Because of the darkness of the carving it’s
obvious to me that Andy had done his deed many years before. Just above ‘Andy’ is the hole where an inkbottle
once fit; however, now the ink bottle is gone—taken from all the school desks long
ago. I remember my mom telling me that when she attended this school, a boy had
taken the pigtail of the girl sitting in front of him and stuffed it into his ink
bottle, changing the pigtail from blonde to black. For some reason when she told that
story, it sounded deliciously wonderful to me. I figured all the
inkwells disappeared after that prank.
Our teacher, Mrs. Thompson, prattles on—interrupting her lecture to scold a wiggle-worm or to acknowledge Arlene’s
waving hand in her desperate need to go to the bathroom. We all whisper remarks
to Arlene as she pushes down our row of desks and hurries out the back door. We’re
smarties, alright, confident and trouble-free. My fingers continue to massage
my tooth. By now I think I can taste the faint sweetness of blood, but when I
examine my finger, it shines messy with saliva, nothing more.
I glance over at Maryann in the
next row and my confidence wavers for a moment. Maryann is wearing a white
blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a neatly pleated wool skirt. A soft pink cardigan
sweater rests perfectly on her shoulders; the top button is fastened at the
throat, setting off that starched white collar. Her hair is smooth and shiny,
her fingernails clean and neatly trimmed. Even now, as we squirm with boredom,
she sits straight and quietly at her desk—hands folded in front of her. A small gold ring encircles her middle finger. I
glance at my cotton skirt, my skinned knees, my blotchy nails, my ring-less
fingers. Perhaps if I hadn’t climbed that tree over the weekend...racing my
brother to the top...my hands would be smoother, the nails intact, my knees unscuffed. But I did
climb it and I gasped at the view from the top, calling to my sweet brother who
was panting just one limb below me. Can you see the ocean? Look, there’s Mrs. Steffani
in her garden! The eternal wind buffeted
our faces and gently swayed the tree top as we took it all in. What could be
better than that? Nothing’s better than that…..Then I remember my tooth and put
my fingers in my mouth, gently pushing it forward and back. Maybe by the time I
get home, it will be ready to be pulled. Maybe….
Patty Morelli
