The Apple of Her Eye

 

 

EVERYONE NEEDS SOMEONE

by Mike Casey

 

Brian Murphy, age almost fifteen, thanked his Dad for the ride to school and slammed the door of the old green Chevy. He walked down the alley and opened the Cyclone fence gate that separated the end of the school building from the back yard of the house adjoining. Brian always came in the back way; he did not like to make the public entrance with the rest of the kids at the front end of the L-shaped school yard. He would rather meet them on his own ground--inside the classroom. There he knew he was king.

Saint Agatha's was a parochial grammar school and the eighth graders formed the upper class community. They hovered on the edge of initiation. High school, with its nov­elty of classes in different rooms and thrill of football games and dances, was just around the corner.

Brian cut across the asphalt yard to room 4 A. Inside, a few kids were clustered in groups, talking. It was still five minutes be­fore the first bell. Ann Marie--Sister Ann Marie-- was over at the bulletin board giving Donna directions. She had her back to him.

Brian walked to his desk in the back of the room, not speaking to anyone. He knew eyes were on him as he leaned over his desk and pushed his books underneath. He walked up to Sister's desk and waited for her. She came over and opened the desk drawer. Her pale lips were clenched down on some pins she had been using on the poster. Carefully she replaced them, one by one, in a small velvet pin cushion.

"Why don't you take off your jacket?" she said.  "It's warm in here."

"It's all right. I'm not hot."

Brian always wore the red jacket with the white leather sleeves. He knew Donna liked it. She said that when he wore that jacket and frowned a certain way, he looked like James Dean. One Saturday they met inside the show. She had brown hair, soft, and once, she took his hand and held it down against her stomach. The movie they saw was "Rebel Without A Cause." After that, Brian figured James Dean was a pretty good guy to look like.

"How do you like the poster?" Sister asked.

Brian looked over. The blue poster with gold stars urged all to attend Mary's Hour next Sunday.

"No one will go," he said.

"Oh, you're very encouraging..."

Brian glanced around the room. The kids tried to pretend they weren't watching him up at Sister's desk, but he knew they were. Those who had seen the least just called him "Teacher's Pet" and let it go at that.  But others—like Tom Bellows and Cecilia Allen—he knew they really hated him.

Tom remembered the time at recess when Sister came back from the convent with  the apple wrapped in wax paper.

"Here you are, Brian. I put cinnamon on it. Just the way you like it, I know."

Tom was standing outside the empty class room. He walked in just as Brian took the apple. Tom looked at both of them with a smirk, but no one said anything.

Cecilia took music lessons and played the clarinet in the band with Brian. She knew that he had gotten out of the recital, and the duet they were to play, because of Sister Ann Marie’s intercession.

 Brian looked back at Sister. "Is Mrs. Issacs coming this afternoon for art?" he asked.

"Yes, and Brian I can't—"

"Well, I won't be here."

"Brian, you just can't wander around the school yard again. It comes back to me you know.”

Brian looked directly at Sister and flicked the hard look into his  eyes.

"Are you against me too?"

 "Brian—"

The shriek of the bell cut her short. Brian walked to his seat in the back of the room.

During the noon hour Brian and David talked Ann Marie into letting them change

 the desks around since  the  quarter ended the next day. They rearranged all the tabs in the seating chart that was on her desk and fixed the desks to correspond. Brian changed Donna's place from the front of the room to the back directly in front of his desk. David did the same with Susan's.

When the class came back after lunch Sister announced the new seating chart. No one was surprised since they thought it was her idea. Donna blushed when she took her place and Brian traced the eraser end of his pencil across the back of her neck. She swung back with her left fist and hit his knee.

Brian watched the clock move ever so slowly.  Mrs. Issacs came for art class at one.  Fifteen minutes to go.  Everyone had their heads bent down over their beginning algebra problems.  Brian pretended to read.

He saw Sister Ann Marie get up from her desk and come down the aisle by the black­ board. She opened the door to the health office and motioned for him to follow. Brian got up, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. She went down the short corridor and into the waiting room and Bria n walked after her.  They were alone.

Brian felt uncomfortable. Sister had her black back to him. He did not know why he was in here.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked.

When she turned around he saw that her face was flushed. She put her hand up to her forehead and blinked her eyes. She was up­set, he knew that.  Finally, she spoke.

"Brian, I love you too much to ever be against you."

He felt the back of his neck grow warm and he knew his face was red. An image of her doing housework one summer afternoon flashed into his mind.  She had taken off  the long black sleeves of her habit and was bending  over  a  table.  He remembered  the white skin  he  had  seen  when  her  habit  separated at the neck. He burned with shame for thinking­ of such a thing.  He did not know what to say. He was afraid. He said nothing.

"Do you understand, Brian, do you understand?"

There was a slight quiver in her voice. She stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.  Brian felt himself tremble and his arm stiffened at her touch.

"Brian," her voice was soft, plaintive, "you know I haven't been feeling well. I need someone to talk to, a sounding board, you know. I need you. Please don't take advantage of me."

Her face was close to his now. He tried to smile.

"O.K., all right. I'm gonna cut out now, O.K.? Mrs . . . Mrs. Issacs, she's probably in there now.''

Outside, cutting across the yard, he saw Sister Rose watching him from the sixth-grade room. "It comes back to me you know."

He headed toward the  lavatory. Inside, he filled the basin with cold water and dashed his face. He braced himself on the basin and kept his head down because he was dizzy and because he did not want to look in the mirror. He thought of Donna and her warm stomach—and this woman, this woman who wore black cloth over her white skin (he had seen it), and he dared not think of how or why she needed him. He stood there alone, shaking, thanking  God there was no one else in the lavatory  to  see him,  and  he began  to cry, hard,  hard, hard,  because  he was  dizzy  all over down to the backs of his legs, and he did not understand it, he did not understand what was asked of him, he did not under­stand it at all.