When Women Were Dragons(55)

Sometimes, Sister Kevin gave me a bit of a headache. “I’m sorry?” I said. “Who came by?”

“You know,” she said. “Your librarian friend. ‘No shortcuts for this one, oh no,’ she told us. She’ll only be happy if you land in the highest ivory tower that ever was. You will be our little philosopher king. Or queen, I suppose. Dear Helen. She always was a browbeater when we were in grammar school. It’s nice to know that some things never change!”

She popped another lemon drop into her mouth. And then another. They rolled about like a marble tournament. She still attempted a lumpy smile.

I didn’t know what to say to any of this. “Thanks, Sister,” I said.

My head swam, but I decided to ignore it. I had been planning to head to the library after school, regardless. Maybe Mrs. Gyzinska would explain Sister Kevin’s ramblings then.

By third period, I understood why I had been placed in the calculus class. Not only was I the only girl, but the teacher, Mr. Reynolds, had never actually taught calculus before, and hadn’t taken the class since college. By the end of the class, he had asked me to come to the board no less than nine times to explain sample problem after sample problem, and had asked me to correct everyone’s pretests. He also asked me to take attendance, answer questions, and wipe down the board at the end. I tried to explain my situation at the end of class, but he didn’t want to hear it.

“Correspondence is not the same as learning in a classroom,” he said huffily. “I thought you were smart enough to know that.” He pointed to the corner. “Would you mind emptying that trash before you leave?”

“But I took the same final that they take at the university. And it covers more topics than what we learn here. All these boys will have to retake this class in college, but I will not. And sir. You just saw me explain these concepts after not studying this for over a year. Clearly I learned it. This seems like a waste of time.”

“Learning,” he said primly, “is never a waste of time. I’ll see you in class tomorrow. I expect you to work just as hard as the boys. No special treatment.”

I asked again, and the answer was no. I asked if I could simply be his teaching assistant—that’s what he wanted anyway—and then I could be helpful, but still have the time to study while everyone else was working their problem sets. The answer was still no. I left in a frustrated huff.

The day didn’t improve from there.

I walked home under a cloud, guiding my bike with one hand, making mental lists of what I had to accomplish before I went to bed that night. Beatrice needed to be fed and entertained. She probably had homework. The sink needed fixing again, and it did no use to ask the landlord to do it. Thanks to some helpful reference books, and a fairly functional set of old tools given to me by the kindly janitor at the library after his were replaced, I had by this time a rudimentary understanding of how to fix a pipe or a toilet, how to solder a wire and fix a circuit, how to screw together a highly functional—though, admittedly, not particularly attractive—bookshelf. And so forth. I knew how to find the studs in the wall and how to protect myself while working with electricity and what to do when the refrigerator stopped working.

I needed to get dinner together.

I had homework to finish.

I had a paper to write.

I had problem sets and reading to complete for my correspondence courses.

And Mrs. Gyzinska had told me that the time had come to start preparing my applications for universities. My stomach clenched at the thought of it. How would I do it? What about Beatrice? What was going to happen?

Beatrice was already home, her book bag tossed in a heap on the building’s front stoop. There was a narrow yard between our building and the one next door, and a small green space in the back, which led into the alley. Beatrice, two girls, and six boys came tearing around the corner. They looped around the building, and disappeared around the other side. They didn’t notice me. Beatrice had an object in her hand—two pieces of wood, one long and one short, that had been diagonally lashed together with twine at the hilt to form a makeshift wooden sword.

“Prepare to meet your doom, you finks!” Beatrice howled, and the other children squealed in response.

They came around again. I held up one hand and they skidded to a halt, red-cheeked and panting.

“Hi Alex,” Beatrice said.

“We’re heading to the library,” I said. “Come inside and get your things.”

“Now?” she whined. “Not this second. I had to be in school all day.”

As did I, but I didn’t say so. I sighed. Maybe the library could wait. Beatrice, after her gleaming cleanliness this morning, was now a raggedy mess.

“Fine,” I said. “Play if you need to, but not for very long. I need to stop by the library no matter what. I need to pick up some materials. You can be with your friends for a bit longer, if you’d like. Just come inside when I call, and we’ll have an early supper.”

That was all she needed. “ONWARD!” she bellowed, and the other children bellowed along with her and they all streaked around the building again, and out of sight.

I picked up Beatrice’s book bag and slowly climbed the stairs, nearly collapsing on my bed in the corner, which also served as our couch during the day. I heated the creamed chicken on the stove and made the rice, slicing radishes and cucumbers on the side. I laid out my work for after Beatrice’s bedtime and put what I’d need at the library back in my bag. I made a list, checked things off, remembered the broken sink, added it to the list, remembered that Beatrice would certainly need a bath, added that to the list. I looked at the clock. There weren’t enough hours.