The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(106)

Dorothy felt goose bumps on her arms and legs as a breeze moved through the trees. She squeezed water from her hair and wrapped a towel around her shoulders, then walked barefoot to where Mrs. Bidwell was packing her violin.

“That was a brave leap,” the woman said as she closed her case. “Even some of the older boys are afraid of jumping from such a height.”

Dorothy turned her tan body toward her teacher, feeling comfort in the moment, as though life were starting over again in a familiar place the way the sun rises every day over the same spot on the horizon. “You really think I’m brave, don’t you?”

“Fearless as they come,” Mrs. Bidwell said. She smiled and Dorothy marveled at her dimples, the mischief in her eyes. She watched, spellbound, as Mrs. Bidwell brushed a dark finger curl of hair from her brow. The way she carried herself reminded Dorothy of Greek statues. To her, Mrs. Bidwell was regal, like Athena in twill trousers. She was confident, like Demeter, the daughter of Titans.

“Going to class today?” Mrs. Bidwell asked. “I wish you were still in mine.”

They walked arm in arm as her teacher talked about women’s suffrage, of marriage, of independence. Her deep thoughts and strongly held opinions interwoven with poems of the Enlightenment, the Romantics, the classics before them that had weathered the revenge-driven literary trends and the minor-key musicality of the Parnassians. To Dorothy, Mrs. Bidwell’s words created doors that were previously unseen and opened avenues of possibility leading to places she always wished to go.

“But let my journey be a cautionary tale,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “In the meantime, you should be so kind as to call me Alyce from now on.”

Dorothy swooned.

“Well then, Alyce, I should be getting on to the library.”

“When you’re there you should look into a poem called ‘Ode to Aphrodite.’ It’s in a book of Greek poetry that I ordered from the new bookstore in Brighton and Hove, just for you. I left it at the desk. You have a poet’s heart, like mine, for better or worse.”

“I wouldn’t want to be any other way.”

“And what way would that be, dear girl?”

“Mysterious,” Dorothy said. “Let someone else be tragic.”



* * *



When Dorothy arrived at the library, Augustus Moss was at the front desk.

“Hello, Augustus,” Dorothy said with as little emotion as possible. “Mrs. Bidwell left a book here for me. I’d like to pick it up.”

“You know I hate that name,” he said, without looking up from the book he was reading. “Why don’t you call me Guto, like everyone else?”

“You just seem more like an Augustus to me,” Dorothy said. “My book, please?”

Guto frowned as he closed the book and set it aside. Beneath it was a smaller hardback, which he opened and pretended to read. He nonchalantly licked his thumb and turned the page. “Oh, this one?”

“That’s the one. Please give it to me.”

Guto scratched the inside of his right nostril and then used that finger to turn another page. “This is quite humorous, this book, I took a hard look at it. Did you know this Sappho woman was married to a man named Kerkos?”

“I know,” Dorothy said, looking at the wall clock. “The name Kerkos translates to Dick Allcock and he lived on the Isle of Man. It’s a pun, I get it. But what’s funnier is that if she were married to someone like you, his name would be Rasputin Thimbleprick and he’d be banished to the Island of the Purple Parsnip.”

Guto looked up, dumbfounded, as though he’d been tormenting a stray and realized the mutt had teeth and claws and could fight back. He slowly closed the book and rested it on the counter, his hands crossed atop of it. He smiled, but his brow was furrowed with concern. “How about I give it to you for a kiss?”

“I dare you to try,” Dorothy said, staring back.

The bully in him seemed to shrink, his arrogance collapsing like a fallen soufflé, bitter chocolate turning into impotent mush.

She reached over and pulled the book out from under his hands. “I’ll take that.”



* * *



The entire student body gathered in the dining hall—kids of all ages—from the littles, with their bare feet, restless energy, and uncombed hair, to those who would graduate this year. The faculty gathered as well, along with the janitor, the school cook, and the groundskeeper. Dorothy waved at Mrs. Bidwell. Her teacher bowed in return before taking a seat. Lastly the headmaster sat and everyone quieted.

“As you know, our weekly general meeting is more important to me than all the textbooks in the world combined,” he spoke softly. “This is where we set rules, address grievances, and come together. Each of you has one vote, a simple yet precious and powerful thing, as do I. Together we will make collective decisions, and for a time, live with those decisions, because the best way to learn in this lifetime, in my opinion, is trial and error. Now, this quarter we will be studying one of my favorite topics of discussion.” The headmaster removed his pipe and coughed. “Government.”

Dorothy smiled as she heard booing.

The headmaster continued, “I don’t necessarily disagree with you lads. As a school, we try to be a democracy. But a few of the faculty members have suggested that we operate the school with a different form of governance. An object lesson writ large. We will do so for one week.” The headmaster bit down on his pipe. “And we shall see how we do. Now what form of government shall we explore?”