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Authors: Gioia Diliberto
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but she couldn’t budge me and soon tottered off, mumbling that I was a “rotten, God-forsaken brat.”
A few minutes later, she returned with Farnsworth.
“I knew you were trouble the moment I saw you,” the old teacher lamented. “Girls like you go straight to hell.” She clasped my leg and tried to pull me from the bed. I broke loose, knocking her off balance, and dashed across the room and out the door. I tried to shut the door behind me, but it slammed flat into Farnsworth’s face. “Eeeow!” she screamed, clutching her nose. Then I ran to the end of the hall to a small window that opened onto the roof. With one leap, I was outside. I scrambled from gable to gable, chased by two of Madame Smithy’s cats, and found a place to hide behind a chimney. As I huddled against the cold brick, I began to feel like a martyr. I told myself I would never live with my mother again. Maybe I would become a nun like Sister Emily-Jean, a beautiful sufferer for Christ and the Holy Virgin.
I stayed there for several hours. Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was dark. Frightened and hungry, I stumbled back to the window and crawled in. “It’s Virginie!” squealed the other girls, who were getting ready for bed when I appeared in the dormitory. Their shrieks brought Mother Superior. She doused me with Holy Water to drown the evil spirits lurking within me. “You broke Madame Farnsworth’s nose,” she groused, though I thought I detected a trace of satisfaction in her voice. Perhaps the girls weren’t the only members of the convent who were terrorized by the vile teacher. Mother Superior left me standing there, water streaming from my head in rivulets and puddling on the floor. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” she said.
But the next morning, I woke up with pleurisy and spent three weeks in the infirmary. God had punished me, relieving Mother Superior of the chore.
When I saw my mother again, she was standing in the visitors’ hall, waiting to take me home for a Sunday visit. Her eyes blazed through her black veil, and she spoke to me with chilly disdain. “I hope there will be no more displays of madness from you, Mademoiselle.”
In the months following Aurélie’s departure, I couldn’t sleep and grew so thin that my stockings wouldn’t stay up past my calves. I sat listlessly through my classes and refused to go outside during recreation. Instead I attended evening services with the nuns. I always sat in the last row, where I had a good view of the back wall. Hanging there next to a window was a painting by Titian of Jesus dying in an angel’s arms. The angel’s black curly hair reminded me of Aurélie, and at the end of the service, as the organ music swelled during the Prayer for the Dead, I would weep bitterly for my lost friend.
One evening, as I approached the chapel entrance, Sister Emily-Jean was blocking the door. “Go play with the other girls,” she insisted.
I walked into the garden. A silvery light slanted through the bare trees, and a cool wind churned the air. Most of the girls were playing prisoner’s base, laughing and chasing each other around the courtyard. A tall, dark-haired girl had climbed the chestnut tree in the corner and, having pushed aside the branches, was spying on the Scottish boys next door. She, too, reminded me of Aurélie. My heart sank. I walked back into the convent, mounted the creaky stairway to the dormitory, and went to bed.
The next day, Sister Emily-Jean told me I’d been chosen for the starring role in the Christmas pageant. I was to play a silent and motionless Madonna in a tableau vivant of Jesus’ birth. “You’re a perfect choice!” she said brightly. Of course, I knew why I’d been given this honor—Sister Emily-Jean had pestered the teacher in charge to give me the role, hoping it would cheer me up.
A little before 2 P . M . on the second Saturday of December, the students’ families—somberly dressed men and women with small
A few minutes later, she returned with Farnsworth.
“I knew you were trouble the moment I saw you,” the old teacher lamented. “Girls like you go straight to hell.” She clasped my leg and tried to pull me from the bed. I broke loose, knocking her off balance, and dashed across the room and out the door. I tried to shut the door behind me, but it slammed flat into Farnsworth’s face. “Eeeow!” she screamed, clutching her nose. Then I ran to the end of the hall to a small window that opened onto the roof. With one leap, I was outside. I scrambled from gable to gable, chased by two of Madame Smithy’s cats, and found a place to hide behind a chimney. As I huddled against the cold brick, I began to feel like a martyr. I told myself I would never live with my mother again. Maybe I would become a nun like Sister Emily-Jean, a beautiful sufferer for Christ and the Holy Virgin.
I stayed there for several hours. Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was dark. Frightened and hungry, I stumbled back to the window and crawled in. “It’s Virginie!” squealed the other girls, who were getting ready for bed when I appeared in the dormitory. Their shrieks brought Mother Superior. She doused me with Holy Water to drown the evil spirits lurking within me. “You broke Madame Farnsworth’s nose,” she groused, though I thought I detected a trace of satisfaction in her voice. Perhaps the girls weren’t the only members of the convent who were terrorized by the vile teacher. Mother Superior left me standing there, water streaming from my head in rivulets and puddling on the floor. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” she said.
But the next morning, I woke up with pleurisy and spent three weeks in the infirmary. God had punished me, relieving Mother Superior of the chore.
When I saw my mother again, she was standing in the visitors’ hall, waiting to take me home for a Sunday visit. Her eyes blazed through her black veil, and she spoke to me with chilly disdain. “I hope there will be no more displays of madness from you, Mademoiselle.”
In the months following Aurélie’s departure, I couldn’t sleep and grew so thin that my stockings wouldn’t stay up past my calves. I sat listlessly through my classes and refused to go outside during recreation. Instead I attended evening services with the nuns. I always sat in the last row, where I had a good view of the back wall. Hanging there next to a window was a painting by Titian of Jesus dying in an angel’s arms. The angel’s black curly hair reminded me of Aurélie, and at the end of the service, as the organ music swelled during the Prayer for the Dead, I would weep bitterly for my lost friend.
One evening, as I approached the chapel entrance, Sister Emily-Jean was blocking the door. “Go play with the other girls,” she insisted.
I walked into the garden. A silvery light slanted through the bare trees, and a cool wind churned the air. Most of the girls were playing prisoner’s base, laughing and chasing each other around the courtyard. A tall, dark-haired girl had climbed the chestnut tree in the corner and, having pushed aside the branches, was spying on the Scottish boys next door. She, too, reminded me of Aurélie. My heart sank. I walked back into the convent, mounted the creaky stairway to the dormitory, and went to bed.
The next day, Sister Emily-Jean told me I’d been chosen for the starring role in the Christmas pageant. I was to play a silent and motionless Madonna in a tableau vivant of Jesus’ birth. “You’re a perfect choice!” she said brightly. Of course, I knew why I’d been given this honor—Sister Emily-Jean had pestered the teacher in charge to give me the role, hoping it would cheer me up.
A little before 2 P . M . on the second Saturday of December, the students’ families—somberly dressed men and women with small
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