Mathilda Savitch. Victor Lodato
concern was over my tip-top magical thoughts. And because of the nightmares.
“It sounds French,” Anna says.
“What does?” I say.
“That word,” Anna says. “What you said to call you.”
“It doesn’t sound French,” I say. “Don’t be stupid.”
Anna sulks when I say this.
“Well it doesn’t sound English,” she says.
“It’s not English,” I say. “There’s more languages in the world than just French and English.”
“What language is it then?” she asks.
I can’t even answer her when she gets like this. “It’s probably not even a real language,” she says.
“Probably not,” I say. “You’ll never know.”
There is so little imagination in the world. A person like me is basically alone. If I want to live in the same world as other people I have to make a special effort.
I take Anna’s hand. It confuses her because she thinks we’re having an argument.
“What?” she says. She doesn’t trust me.
“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says.
“Good,” I say. I’m looking at her dead in the eye.
“Just say it, okay?”
“Please,” I say.
She closes her eyes. There is a pause a person could die in.
“Lufwa,” she says.
When she says it I have to laugh.
“Oh my god,” I say, “it does sound French.”
Anna opens her eyes and smiles like someone’s given her second prize.
“I told you,” she says.
“Lufwa,” I say. Suddenly I am the king of France. “La fois,” I say. “La fois!”
We are both laughing now and it’s almost like being a child again. Anna is only eight months younger than me but sometimes she’s like a magnet pulling me backwards. It is the glorious past of childhood and no one is ever going to die. It doesn’t even matter that Anna is a little slow. And really she’s not much slower than most people.
And besides, very few people have eyes from outer space, and it doesn’t matter if these people are smart or not. Angels, I bet, are not smart. I bet angels are dumb. But it’s not even relevant, the smartness of angels. The point of angels, as far as I understand, is something even greater than smartness. Supposedly it has more to do with brilliance. Which is light beyond anything we can understand. Like diamonds everywhere, in every bit of the air, and colors you wouldn’t even have names for.
Anna stops laughing and wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“I have to go home,” she says.
It is the completely wrong thing to say.
Because we are standing in that place where two people could stand forever, staring into each other’s eyes. And how often does that happen? And will it ever happen again?
At school today, first thing, I was told to go to Ms. Olivera’s office. She’s the principal of the penitentiary but you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses. Beads and bracelets and scarves in her hair. She really should be out on the street selling incense.
“Look at me,” Ms. Olivera says.
I only look at the lips.
“How have you been doing lately?” the lips say.
Oh brother, I think, now we’re going to have to go through the whole story of my life, when all she really wants to know is why I slapped Carol Benton in the face yesterday. Which I did without really meaning to do it. It actually surprised me when it turned out to be a real slap and not just the thought of a slap.
“Why are you so angry?” O says. Who does she think she is, the Tree?
“I’m not angry,” I say. I wonder if she’s recording me.
“You slapped someone, Mathilda. That’s an act of anger,” the lips say.
The truth is, Carol Benton is the kind of person who inspires violence. Just the bigness of her face. And more than once I’ve seen her whispering with her friends and then they look at me. What’s the big secret? As if everyone doesn’t already know.
“Mathilda,” O says. “Mathilda. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m giving you a chance here,” she says, and she reaches for my hand like a pervert. I pull away and pretend I have an itch.
“Is everything okay at home?” she says. The same old questions.
“How are your mother and father doing?”
“Is your mother doing a little better?”
“Fine,” I say.
O looks at me with her X-ray eyes but I don’t let her in. I don’t know that I can trust her. I’d like to tell her how it’s been almost one year, and how I still haven’t seen my mother cry in the way mothers are supposed to cry after the death of a child. Ever since Helene died it’s like Ma’s joined the army. Is that normal? I’d like to ask.
“Can I use your bathroom please?” I say.
O nods and I get up and go through the door.
O has her own private bathroom. It’s not as clean as it should be. There’s a hair in the sink. I pick it up with a piece of toilet paper and put it in my pocket, just in case. On a little shelf there’s some air freshener, plus a tin of mints and a candy bar. Who keeps food in the bathroom? Disgusting, if you ask me.
Interesting as well is a bathtub filled with potted plants. All leaves, no flowers. Jungly. I pretty much have to force myself not to make the sounds of monkeys and tropical birds.
I flush the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion. I open the medicine cabinet. Inside there’s a hairbrush, lipstick, a bottle of pills, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I take the pills, which are called Exhilla, and I put them in my pocket. According to the commercial, Exhilla helps you get through your day with a lot less worry. But the thing is, I remember last year, right after the explosion at the opera house in New York that killed a lot of bigwigs including a senator, Ms. O gave a special talk to the whole school and by the end of it she was crying into her scarves.
When I come out of the bathroom, O is smiling. As far as I can tell it’s not a lie.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I won’t do it again,” I say. And I ask her to please not tell my parents.
“You have to ignore people,” Ms. Olivera says. “You can’t let them get under your skin.”
It’s a sad smile. Like my father’s.
“You’re a smart girl,” she says. She stands up and I’m afraid she’s going to try and touch me again.
“Go to class,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, but I don’t move. I don’t move for about ten years. At least that’s the feeling. Time is funny lately, nothing to do with clocks.
After school Anna and I decide to go to Mool’s for a soda and curly fries. Walking there Anna doesn’t bring up Carol Benton, which is a big relief. Instead she asks me what I think