Not Crying
(A story from 2009, which I revised today)
©February 8th, 2016
Vijaya Sundaram
The class had been more difficult than usual that day, and it was now time to collect their homework. Ms. Mitchell, the English teacher, not especially known for her kindness, walked around collecting assignments, while the class attended to their reading. She wasn’t too happy with their sorry showing that day.
She reached the straggly-haired, pale girl in the back row, who never spoke a word in class, and was frequently late on her assignments. What was her name? Ah, yes, Mary — always sullen, never cracking a smile.
“Where’s your homework? Stand up!” she snapped at Mary, who arose from her seat, fighting back her tears, and staring woodenly at her teacher.
The class was silent, watching the show.
“Well? Why don’t you answer me? Don’t just stand there and stare!” the teacher said, voice rising.
Mary stared at the ground, swallowing her tears, wishing the ground would swallow her.
Livid with rage, Ms. Mitchell snarled, “That’s it. Insubordination! You will spend an hour in detention with me!”
Mary sat down again. The other students, even the trouble-makers, now looked down at their books.
The day dragged on. Mary stumbled through it in a fog of incomprehension and despair.
Ms. Mitchell went home that day. She kicked the dog, yelled at the cat, burned the chicken casserole, and made her husband sleep on the couch.
Mary went home, tidied the house, made dinner for the family, helped nine-year old Tommy with his homework, fixed his food, tucked him into bed, and kissed him goodnight. Then, she straightened the kitchen, and took a shower. There wasn’t any shampoo, and she used the little smidge of soap that was there, picking it from the floor every time it slipped out of her hand, and watching it dwindle into a thumb-sized blob.
When her mother came home, after a long night’s work at the local bar, smelling of alcohol and cheap cigars, Mary reheated dinner for her, set the table, and sat quietly while her mother spoke, using foul language about every person who’d been at the bar.
In mid-flow, she stopped and looked at Mary. “What are you staring at me for? You could smile! Why should I work so hard, just to come home and have you stare at me? Hanh?”
She took her first forkful of food, and spat it out in rage. “What do you call this mess? Looks like something the cat dragged in.” She threw the food on the floor, and struck Mary, who stood there, not crying.
After her mother had dragged herself off to bed, Mary picked up the larger shards of china, swept up the rest, and wiped the food from the floor and the window, where she stopped for a moment.
Her reflection looked back at her from the window. She saw a pale girl, face wooden, not crying.
Wearily, she got out her backpack, and started her English homework. The assignment was, “Write about yourself.”
She picked up the pencil, and froze.
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