Molly's Cue

Exit Grand

People who knew my grandmother – we called her Grand – always said she was something else.

And she was. She wasn’t like anyone I knew.

Uncle Early said she was first in line when make-believe was handed out.

Mom said she was in an orbit all her own: she was the star and we were the planets. I remember when she said that. She turned red immediately and looked rather angry with herself for saying such a thing aloud. At the time, Early chuckled. And when Grand died last April, he said Grand was now in her own obit... but that’s Early for you. I told him to be more respectful, but maybe another bad pun was his way of grieving. Everyone has their own way, Mom says. Though it’s hard to know just what Mom’s is.

Sometimes it doesn’t seem possible that Grand’s gone. When she was with us she made me want to feel the stage beneath my feet and the spotlight on my face. Grand belonged to the stage, and the stage belonged to Grand. I could always feel her with me – in some way – on stage. She said it belonged to me, too, to both of us together. She always said that, and I believed her. Grand knew everything. At least, everything that was important.

Finally

H igh school. Finally ! There are kids all around us.

It won’t take long, I tell Candace, and we’ll know where everything is. She doesn’t look convinced.

I remind her: Art class.

Her face clears. Right. Art class. And you – drama. And Ms. Tanaka.

Three years ago Ms. Tanaka moved from New York City to our blip on the map. Why, I don’t want to question. I’ve been waiting to be in her class, to step onto a stage that is more than a platform at the end of a stinky gym. For me, that’s what high school is going to be about. But standing in this wide entrance hallway, brightly coloured banners overhead swaying with all the movement below, I suddenly wonder. Candace’s face has taken on a pinched look. And there’s something in me that feels pretty much as she looks, and it’s something I’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s the sheer size of the place. Landing Middle School had three hundred students. This place has more than five times that. And right now, every one of them is running around us.

It’s not going to be that different, though, I tell Candace. Really.

How do we find anything? is all she says, and seconds later a tall guy in a red cap jostles her, and the stuff in her arms flies everywhere.

Hey! I call out. He keeps going. Hey! I shout. What’s up with you, Red Cap? He seems to pause then, but Candace is pulling on my sleeve.

Don’t yell, she says. Help me pick up my stuff. Even as she speaks, I can hear a boot connect with her pencil case, and it spins across the floor.

What sort of place is this? Where people just knock each other down? My voice rises, and it feels good, as if the loudness might push down this new queasy feeling.

Candace stops trying to put her binders together and looks at me. What’s the matter with you, Molly Gumley? Why are you yelling?

Nothing’s the matter. And don’t call me Molly...you know. If there’s one thing I really don’t like about myself, it’s my last name.

I crouch to help her pick up the rest of her stuff – her lunch bag and that pencil case she’s had in her desk for as long as I’ve known her. There’s a huge dusty footprint across the faded polka-dot cotton. A hand picks up the case and hands it to me, and I look up to see a flash of red and an apologetic smile. Sorry about this, Red Cap says. His eyes are gold-brown. I didn’t know eyes could be that colour. I don’t like how I can’t come up with any words, so I pass the case to Candace as he turns away, and I can see that she hasn’t noticed The Eyes. She reaches for the case. This was one of Mom’s projects for her first kids’ sewing-crafts book.

Come on, I say, and ignore the sad tone that keeps popping up lately when she talks about her mom. Let’s find the class lists. I find hers first. Ozols, Candace, I read. Mr. Pritchard, room 208, and now for the G list. I head to the other wall where there’s a huge sheet of paper posted with the letter G on top. Then I see...Ms. Tanaka. Candace sees her at the same moment.

There she is, she whispers. Looking just like she does in the newspaper!

There have been articles about her in the local newspaper. Once they even had pictures of all her family. Every member of Ms. Tanaka’s family has been on stage. Even her great-grandparents. They were vaudevillians. Thanks to Grand, I know all about vaudeville. Go say hello! Candace pushes me gently. And that feeling starts up again.

I’m going to ignore it, I decide, and I march over to the drama teacher. I’m Molly, I say, and fight an odd urge to curtsey. That would be too weird. Ms. Tanaka takes my hand and pumps it in a firm handshake. Molly Gumley! she says. Coming from Landing Middle. You’re in my Grade 9 drama class.

You know me? Jittery stuff sputters in my voice, I’m sure.

Ms. Tanaka has an amazing laugh: her jaw drops, and the sound comes from the back of her rib cage. This must seem like a big school to you, but it’s a small community. I’m a friend of Mr. Roman’s. He mentioned you did a fine job as Dorothy.

Mr. Roman, my Grade 8 teacher. Did he tell you I made Toto throw up?

I didn’t have to say that, did I? But it’s worth it for her laugh.

He did mention something about a few cookies. I’m rather fond of chocolate myself. He also said you were one of the most promising students he’s ever had.

She gives me this sharp look, as if she’s trying to see why he would have said that. Why wouldn’t he? I want to say. But it’s her unspoken question that hangs in the air.

Ms. Tanaka glances at her watch. You should be finding your homeroom now. The bell cuts off her words and, with one final x-ray look, she’s off and the hallway clears until it’s just me and that question.

We belong to the stage, Grand always said. Everyone said – it’s a family thing. I’ve never had somebody look at me with a question in their eyes. Not this question anyway, a what’s in you question. I’ve never felt this...what is it that I feel?

Then the thought hits: this is it! This is the High School Thing that people talk about. When people ask, So how do you feel about high school? this is what they’re talking about.

How have I been answering this past half a year? I can’t wait, is what I’ve been saying, and I’ll stick to that. That’s my plan. Here I am. It’s where I’ve wanted to be. Except, I’m still in the hall and not in the classroom where I’m supposed to be.

It’s Going to be Easy

Ifind Candace in the cafeteria. She has her lunch laid out in front of her, and she’s staring at it. I plop mine on the table. How was art class?

She rearranges the plums and a stack of crackers. It’s not what I was hoping it would be, she says, and looks up, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

I bite into my sandwich, unsure what to say.

She’s blinking furiously. I think most people in the class are there because they think it’s going to be easy. She fiddles with the crackers again, and fans them out around a plum. And Mr. Kerrigan, the teacher, I don’t think he knows...anything! Her voice wails in a way I’ve never heard before, and she claps a hand over her mouth, looking as surprised as I must.

Then Red Cap sits down beside me. Cool, he says, and reaches across the table towards Candace. Do you mind? He places a grape at each outside corner of a cracker.

Candace sniffs loudly like a kindergarten kid, and reaches for her knapsack in a motion that has become familiar this past summer, ever since her grandpa gave her his old carving knife and taught her how to use it. She carries it on her, along with a piece of wood. It’s become a thing she does when she’s anxious. Lately, that’s often.

That’s not what I think it is, is it? hisses Red Cap, just as her hand appears with the knife over the tabletop. In one motion, he’s moved to her side of the table and he’s pushed her hand back into the sack. Are you crazy? He nods off to the corner of the cafeteria where a woman stands stiffly at attention, wearing a navy golf shirt marked LUNCH MONITOR. Her face is narrow and has a locked-in expression. She takes her job seriously, he whispers.

There’s another sniff from Candace. More blinking.

You can’t bring that here, goes on Red Cap. He pats her hand as she pulls it away, minus the knife, and then he does up the zipper on the knapsack as if she really is a little kid.

It’s just for carving, she hisses right back at him. Whittling.

I know, he says. I saw the piece of wood. But just the same – you can’t bring it here. You’ll have to look for some other artistic outlet. His funny choice of words and the irresistible grin that comes with them are completely lost on Candace. But not lost on me.

She’s not going to let go of her misery so easily. There’s nothing artistic about this place! she mutters.

An artist can find it anywhere. His voice still has a teasing tone. It’s hard to know if he’s serious. He gets up to leave and I move over, wondering if he just might return to his earlier seat, but no, he’s off. Not without a wink first though. Take care of her, he says to me. This is a big place. As he walks away, I see another boy – looks like someone from our homeroom, I think – who shadows him.

I don’t realize that I’m staring after him until I turn back to Candace and she looks sort of red. I wish, for a second, that he could see how angry she is.

Do you think that, too? That I should be able to find art anywhere? Even in this place, with teachers like Mr. Kerrigan? She begins to stuff her lunch back into the fabric sack she always carries it in. Back at Landing Middle School we weren’t allowed any disposables in our lunches, and I see the habit has continued with Candace.

I don’t know, I say, and regret it instantly.

You don’t know? Well, you should know... something!

I don’t point out to her that she’s not making much sense right now. She’s busy trying to make that poor sack into the smallest possible object, rolling it in her hands, tighter and tighter.

And I’m a bit stumped as to what to say to her. Are you getting your period? I ask finally.

Candace waves her hands at me as if shooing me away. No! It’s nothing like that! Is that all you can come up with?

I begin to eat my lunch. There’s nothing else I can do. Others are finishing theirs. The garbage cans are filling; the tables have trays with Styrofoam and plastic utensils, cans, and juice boxes.

Candace gives a sort of shudder, and next thing I know, she’s up and picking at all that stuff – that garbage. What’s she thinking? Help me, she says.

Help you what?

Take it out to the hall.

Instead, I watch as she does. At first, only one or two people notice her, and they shake their heads and leave. It is, after all, the first day of school and after lunch it’s over except for picking up books and handing forms in to the office and hanging out. Of course, Candace, being Candace, doesn’t notice them shaking their heads. Stuff like that doesn’t matter to her.

I go to the doorway and watch from there. She’s forming the letter R with soda cans. Then E with lunch bags and wrappings. Then C with juice boxes. I can see what’s coming. And every time she passes me in the doorway, she casts me the angriest look. I finally begin to help her round up the last of the cans. A few other kids are helping, too, by then.

The RECYCLE collage fills the entrance hall, and kids are gathered in a wide circle when Mr. Anderson, the principal, comes in. With him is Ms. Weir, the VP.

What’s the gathering...? he starts to say, then stops when he sees Candace’s work.

He pauses. Candace doesn’t even notice him, she’s so intent on her work with the final E.

I realize there’s a silence in the hall. It’s only momentary – no one wants to seem to be waiting for Mr. Anderson’s response. But it is there – the waiting silence. Along with elbow nudges and eyebrow rising. Mr. Anderson walks the length of the work, and finally Candace notices him. The anxiety on her face is smoothed somewhat. Must be all the work with her hands that’s done that.

She doesn’t say anything, just waits.

Mr. Anderson clears his throat. What do you think, Ms. Weir? It’s an effective reminder. Raise a little cafeteria consciousness.

I concur, Mr. A, says the VP.

I concur, too, comes a voice. The voice I’ve been hearing all day.

The principal looks at him. You must be Russell’s brother. You look like twins.

Red Cap grins. I’m Julian.

Well, Julian, the principal says, who is our artist?

Candace speaks up. Candace Ozols.

Mr. Anderson motions to the enormous bulletin board on the wall, almost empty except for a few handbills about summer programs. Perhaps you can relocate it so that it won’t be destroyed by 9:05 tomorrow. It will be a fine exhibit for Blue Point High, yes!

At the word ‘exhibit,’ Candace breaks into a grin. Behind the principal’s back, Red Cap wags an I-told-you-so finger.

Mr. Anderson goes into his office across the hall and opens the blinds that cover the window to the hallway. He gives a thumbs-up.

Find art, make art, says Julian with a grin. And we’ll help. He looks at me. Right?

Right, I say with a twinge of guilt over not helping earlier. My turn, for my art, will come tomorrow. Ms. Tanaka. Drama class.

Chosen One

One face is familiar in drama class. Julian. Thought I was too old for Grade 9, huh? He doesn’t lower his voice. I did a grade over when I was a kid. Which means one thing now: I’m gonna drive before any of you!

A girl speaks up. Good. You can be our chauffeur. Her hair looks like a stubbly fall wheat field. Julian puts a hand to the girl’s head. Not a hair moves. I reach out, too, and she doesn’t pull away. Her hair feels exactly as it looks. If you’re gonna touch me, you’d better know my name, she says. Katherine.

And I’m Julian. Julian Smart.

An actor’s name.

I’m Molly, I say. You ever heard of an actress name Gumley? Nope.

Ms. Tanaka enters the room, with a sheaf of posters over her arm. She begins to affix them to the giant bulletin board. One is for Dogwood Players Camp, a summer camp. Start saving your money so you can go next summer, she says.

I’ve been saving for over a year now. I’ve only ever been to the little kids’ camp that Grand paid for when I was in primary. Dogwood is