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.
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