When Women Were Dragons(45)

I sat down next to her at the kitchen table and pressed my forehead against the heels of my hands, trying to stave off a growing headache. I sighed. “How can you possibly have no idea, Beatrice. Surely you have some guesses.” I was annoyed. I had too much to do. I still hadn’t finished my summer homework (every June, my teachers assigned more and more, making us wonder why they even bothered having a summer in the first place), and my correspondence courses had already begun. I had essays to write for my university applications, a prospect that made me so anxious I wanted to lie down. What would happen to us next year? How would I manage with Beatrice? I had no idea. The only thing I wanted in the whole world was to keep learning, to swallow the entire universe with my brain. The very thought that I might not continue with school made me feel as though I was breaking in half.

“I don’t, Alex, I swear I don’t. I think he just doesn’t like me.” The sound of the Sasu boys howling outside—there were six of them in that family. They lived in the apartment across the alley, and they all did whatever Beatrice asked them to do. She loved bossing them around. She looked at me desperately, a mouthed Please.

I shook my head.

“Do I have to go?” she asked, her hands buried in the mess of her hair. “Maybe you could just go and tell me what I have to apologize for and I can write a letter.”

“If I have to go, you definitely have to go. I’m not seeing that man by myself.” Beatrice pouted, but I could tell it was just for show.

I told her to wear her sailor dress that Mother made—one that was made and styled for me when I was considerably younger than her but still fit her fine. I figured the meeting would go much more smoothly if Beatrice looked childlike and absolutely adorable. It was a cheap trick, but I didn’t mind using it.

It wasn’t the first time I’d had to return to my old elementary school. As Beatrice’s unofficial guardian, I had to cross the threshold to that building more often than I wished to—for Christmas concerts or spelling bees or when Beatrice played a sheep in the school play. Each time I did so, I made sure to look as presentable as I could. No visible stains, an ironed blouse, a little butter rubbed onto my shoes to shine them up a bit. I wore cardigan sweaters that I had carefully and meticulously de-pilled the night before. My face, as always, was scrubbed clean until it glowed, and my hair, which I now wore short in the back and curling behind my ears, was secured with a headband. This made me look younger than I was, which was not helped by the fact that I, like my mother, was short of stature and narrow in frame. I would never be pretty like her, but she and I were shaped nearly the same. Small shoulders. Spindly wrists. The leather cord that my mother tied and knotted for me years ago had stretched considerably and barely stayed on my hand. It was annoying, but I kept it on as a remembrance. I wished I could have been tall and broad, like my aunt. I wished I could take up space, hoist the world up on my shoulders or look down on it, depending on the needs of the situation. My aunt, better than anyone else I had ever known, knew how to occupy a room.

(Silly me, I had to tell myself again and again. Of course I had no aunt. She never existed. Beatrice was my sister. She was only ever my sister. I clung to this like a life preserver in stormy waters. My mother’s lie was the only thing keeping me above the waves.)

My old teachers smiled when they saw me. Or some of them did. They asked me where my father was, but they weren’t curious enough to press too hard. When I was little, it was my mother who interacted with the school, never my father. And now, for Beatrice, it was me.

“I was sure he would come for this,” a teacher would comment. “It is the Christmas play!” Or conferences. Or the choir concert. Or the end-of-year Mass.

“A business trip,” I told them.

“My father works too hard, bless him. I do my best to take up the slack.”

“He would never say, of course, but it does upset him so, without my mother here.”

“A touch of the flu. You know how it goes. But I’m always happy to help out.”

“Well,” the teachers would remark. “You are a kind sister. I daresay a girl your age would rather be out with her friends. Or perhaps a night out with one of your admirers. Which boy are you going steady with these days? Or is it too difficult to choose just one?”

This I responded to with a vague smile as I moved away to find my seat. They meant this kindly, I’m sure. But honestly, I had no friends. And I certainly didn’t have any boyfriends. Who has that kind of time? I had my studies to think of. And my future to consider. And I had Beatrice to take care of. I made her meals and kept her clean and made sure she did her homework and took her to the library each Saturday. I cared for her when she was sick. Beatrice was my whole universe. Our lives were just the two of us. Me and Beatrice, conquerors of the world.

But this trip would include no such positive interactions. This trip was disciplinary. I had been summoned to the school by letter—or, to be perfectly factual, my father had been summoned.

“Dear Mr. Green,” the letter said. “I have made several attempts to reach you but neither your wife nor your secretary have seen fit to pass the message on. I require a meeting about your daughter, Beatrice, regarding her behavior in class. I insist that this meeting take place before the start of school. If not, I will have to suspend her attendance at Saint Agnes until such meeting occurs. Please contact the school secretary and make the necessary arrangements.”