When Women Were Dragons(85)
Still, I wasn’t ready to forgive her. I wasn’t ready to welcome her into our life. I know I was being cruel. But I was a teenager: cruelty was the only leverage I had.
Despite my keeping her at arm’s length, even then I knew that having a dragon hanging around the place had its advantages. There were no longer men whistling at me as I mounted my bike. They tipped their hats now, if they looked at me at all. Also, our landlord became much more amenable, and was suddenly quick to open a drain or fix a leak. I was certain my aunt was responsible. I never said thank you. I couldn’t give her that. I was distracted, anxious, and ruder than normal. I trudged through school in a blurry haze.
The death of my father weighed strangely on me. How does a person mourn a man she barely knows? I inherited nothing, outside of the money that he had already transferred into my account and the rent he had already paid. Nothing went to Beatrice, either. No surprise. My stepmother didn’t invite us to the funeral. For all I know, she didn’t even hold one. She simply sent me the envelopes filled with my monthly cash allowances—marked April, May, June, July, August—tucked together in a file folder, with a note on top that said, “Your father had these laid out for you on his desk. Don’t expect anything else.” She didn’t sign it.
All I had from my father was that small wooden box. Weeks went by, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it. It remained where I had first stashed it—at the back of the closet, under a carefully arranged pile of junk. I couldn’t bring myself to even look at it.
That same week in April, dragons began showing up at the high school. Every day. There were only a couple at first. Then they came by the dozen. Dragons milled around the schoolyard and sunned themselves on the roof. They bummed cigarettes off kids who looked like they might have an extra, and smoked by the back doors. The garbage trucks refused to come after a while—because how, really, could they work under these conditions—but it ended up not being a problem. The dragons put themselves in charge of sanitation, carrying the dumpsters to the municipal landfill twice a week. They picked up litter and kept the grass cut and weeded the gardens. They even brought buckets and rags and washed all the windows. Over the course of the month, the school began to gleam. Crocuses peeked up along the walkways. A newly turned garden patch for vegetables appeared next to the football field. No one mentioned the savings to the school because it wasn’t polite to discuss dragons.
It was school policy at the time—communicated in vague terms in hastily produced pamphlets handed out in homeroom as well as periodically announced over the PA system—that we were to pointedly ignore the current dragon infestation. Under no circumstances were we allowed to strike up a conversation with or even acknowledge that the dragon was there. If a dragon was in your way, you simply went around. You didn’t mention it. The dragons never behaved threateningly so there was never a need to close school. They didn’t interrupt classes. They were simply there. The nuns told us that nothing good could come from stopping to chat. They were dangerous women, after all, who had succumbed to dangerous things.
But, as April pushed toward May, I started to notice that there were girls who didn’t simply go around when a dragon was in their way. There were girls who paused for conversation. Who sought out the dragons. The dragons took notice and started bringing blankets and picnic baskets. They organized kaffeeklatsches and discussion groups with girls and dragons behind the gymnasium and in the parking lot. They passed around cigarettes and snacks, and sometimes shared books. I have no idea what they talked about. I was not interested. They called to me, they invited me over, but I pretended not to hear. Anyway, my days were numbered at that school. I was bound, I felt, for bigger things. A whole universe of science to discover with infinite questions to ask. I was hungry for knowledge and I didn’t think I would ever be full. There was nothing of interest left for me in that building.
Which is why I was so shocked when, five days before the prom, Randall Hague cornered me on our way out of calculus class and asked if I would be his prom date. His voice was halting and stilted, his syntax strangely formal. He kept his hands in front of his chest as though he was holding a hat. And even more shocking: I was so flustered that I inexplicably said yes.
It wasn’t that I disliked Randall. I just had no opinion of him whatsoever, despite having known him since kindergarten. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to pick him out of a lineup. He was one of those boys who simply faded into the background. But then, there he was with his stuttery “I’d be honored,” and there I was with a short “Yeah, sure, why not.” And that was that. He shook my hand gravely, as though we had just conducted a business transaction, and then we both went to third period. I had never gone to a school dance before. But, apparently, I was going to prom. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
Beatrice, on the other hand, was beside herself with enthusiasm. She jumped on the bed and turned two cartwheels across the apartment, knocking over a lamp. The old man in the unit below us bashed on his ceiling with a broom.
“Wait,” she said, suddenly pausing her exuberance. “What’s prom?”
“It’s a dance,” I said. “And a party. People dress up.”
“You should dress up as a dragon!” Beatrice crowed.
“No dragons,” I said absently. It was a pat response at this point. Like a reminder to look both ways before she crossed the street. “Besides, it’s not that kind of a party.”