Read Online The Metropolis by Matthew Gallaway - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matthew Gallaway
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deluge of house cleaners on the market, a group of enterprising girls invented an imaginary “Morticia Spray” to “disinfect” any chair or desk where she happened to sit and made money selling refills for the imaginary cans. Because Maria had so little reason to smile at school, she often wore the dazed expression of someone just hit over the head, which only egged the others on, given that their victim appeared so deliciously addled by their efforts.
As she got older, Maria occasionally devised plans to improve her lot. In third grade she decided to stunt her growth, thinking that if she were the same size as her classmates, they might not hate her as much. Gina was not happy when Maria announced her plan one night at dinner. “Maria, honey, you can’t change how tall you are,” Gina declared, putting down her fork. “Your size is your size. It’s just the way you are.”
“Then why do you try to lose weight?” Maria responded.
“That’s not the same. That’s because—”
“
On mange comme un cochon?
” interrupted Bea. Though pencil-thin, she had spent the past twenty-five years resenting that her daughter had inherited the buxom shape of her own mother-in-law, who though deceased remained an object of hatred because she had moved in with Bea and her husband in the years before her death to torment Bea with the same kind of comment she had just made.
Less affronted by these remarks since her marriage—John liked her figure—Gina stared at Bérénice with a mix of tenderness and foreboding before she addressed her daughter: “Maria, if anyone makes fun of you for being too tall, it’s only because they’re jealous.” She turned to her husband. “John, tell her.”
“It’s true, honey.” John nodded. “Someday you might be able to dunk a basketball.”
“I think what your father means,” Gina continued, shifting her glare from Bea to John, “is that it’s what’s inside of you that’s important.”
Completely unconvinced by her mother and secretly abetted by Bérénice, Maria was soon wrapping her feet like a Chinese princess and cramming them into shoes four sizes too small; she slept on the floor of her closet, her head and feet at opposite walls, hoping to compress the millimeters that were being tacked on at night. To her mother’s chagrin, not to mention her teachers’, Maria began to slouch, so that the instant she touched a chair anywhere, she slid down the back of it until her chin was only a few inches above the desk or table in front of her, her knees bent as if she had just been stabbed in the back during her nightly prayers. At school she began to walk like a victim of osteoporosis, which only made everyone hate her more.
Since Maria had no friends, Gina and Bea filled in as best they could. Gina took the secular lead with hopscotch, jacks, mumblety-peg, paper dolls, and cat’s cradle. They buried jars of cut flowers and months later rediscovered them. When the weather was nice, they sold leaves and grass, sometimes at exorbitant prices, to an assortment of blocks and dolls, or to John or Bérénice. Meanwhile, prayer sessions with Bea evolved into more complicated rites of communion and confession, not to mention the sacraments and gruesome reenactments of martyr deaths in the kitchen, which between the knives and forks and ketchup bottle offered all sorts of possibilities.
This was how Maria’s theatrical—and then operatic—skills began to develop; in fourth grade she suggested to her mother that they put on a play in which the characters sang to one another. Using color-coded crayons, Maria was soon writing operettas featuring anywhere from three to ten characters, all of whose vocal lines she invented and committed to memory, along with some written parts, always the easiest, which she reserved for her mother and Bérénice, whom she alsodirected in the design and construction of sets and costumes. Each week Maria ran a rigorous rehearsal schedule that left
As she got older, Maria occasionally devised plans to improve her lot. In third grade she decided to stunt her growth, thinking that if she were the same size as her classmates, they might not hate her as much. Gina was not happy when Maria announced her plan one night at dinner. “Maria, honey, you can’t change how tall you are,” Gina declared, putting down her fork. “Your size is your size. It’s just the way you are.”
“Then why do you try to lose weight?” Maria responded.
“That’s not the same. That’s because—”
“
On mange comme un cochon?
” interrupted Bea. Though pencil-thin, she had spent the past twenty-five years resenting that her daughter had inherited the buxom shape of her own mother-in-law, who though deceased remained an object of hatred because she had moved in with Bea and her husband in the years before her death to torment Bea with the same kind of comment she had just made.
Less affronted by these remarks since her marriage—John liked her figure—Gina stared at Bérénice with a mix of tenderness and foreboding before she addressed her daughter: “Maria, if anyone makes fun of you for being too tall, it’s only because they’re jealous.” She turned to her husband. “John, tell her.”
“It’s true, honey.” John nodded. “Someday you might be able to dunk a basketball.”
“I think what your father means,” Gina continued, shifting her glare from Bea to John, “is that it’s what’s inside of you that’s important.”
Completely unconvinced by her mother and secretly abetted by Bérénice, Maria was soon wrapping her feet like a Chinese princess and cramming them into shoes four sizes too small; she slept on the floor of her closet, her head and feet at opposite walls, hoping to compress the millimeters that were being tacked on at night. To her mother’s chagrin, not to mention her teachers’, Maria began to slouch, so that the instant she touched a chair anywhere, she slid down the back of it until her chin was only a few inches above the desk or table in front of her, her knees bent as if she had just been stabbed in the back during her nightly prayers. At school she began to walk like a victim of osteoporosis, which only made everyone hate her more.
Since Maria had no friends, Gina and Bea filled in as best they could. Gina took the secular lead with hopscotch, jacks, mumblety-peg, paper dolls, and cat’s cradle. They buried jars of cut flowers and months later rediscovered them. When the weather was nice, they sold leaves and grass, sometimes at exorbitant prices, to an assortment of blocks and dolls, or to John or Bérénice. Meanwhile, prayer sessions with Bea evolved into more complicated rites of communion and confession, not to mention the sacraments and gruesome reenactments of martyr deaths in the kitchen, which between the knives and forks and ketchup bottle offered all sorts of possibilities.
This was how Maria’s theatrical—and then operatic—skills began to develop; in fourth grade she suggested to her mother that they put on a play in which the characters sang to one another. Using color-coded crayons, Maria was soon writing operettas featuring anywhere from three to ten characters, all of whose vocal lines she invented and committed to memory, along with some written parts, always the easiest, which she reserved for her mother and Bérénice, whom she alsodirected in the design and construction of sets and costumes. Each week Maria ran a rigorous rehearsal schedule that left
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