Read Online The Myth of You and Me by Leah Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: Leah Stewart
Ads: Link
class
. So I did, lingering awkwardly among the desks while Sonia told two other girls she’d catch up to them later. Madame Gray was flipping through a stack of papers—she’d given us a pop quiz on the night’s reading, and even though it was only the second day of school, the class already knew better than to complain. The other girls dispatched, Sonia waved for me to join her at her mother’s desk.
“Madame Gray,” she said, and then waited for her mother’s attention. When she got it, she said something in French. I caught only my name and the words
après l’école.
Madame Gray looked at me, surprised, and I was sure she was going to say no. She narrowed her eyes, appraising me. Then she pulled out my quiz and scanned it.
“You did the reading,” she said. Now she looked up at me with a smile. “You got every question right.” She addressed her daughter without looking at her. “She’s a smart girl, Sonia.”
Despite myself, I was gratified.
“Merci, Madame,”
I said, and then—I don’t know what possessed me—I made an odd, abbreviated curtsy.
“You’re welcome,” Madame Gray said, with the gracious nod of a queen. “Okay, girls,” she said. “Meet me in the faculty parking lot after school.”
As we went out into the hall, Sonia appraised me in a way not unlike her mother, and I wondered if she thought perhaps I’d gone too far with the curtsy, that I might not be an ally after all but a potential teacher’s pet. To distract her, I asked, “Why are you in this class, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in French Four or something?”
“What do you mean?” she said. “I’ve never taken French before.”
“But you speak it so well.”
She looked at me like I was crazy. “No, I don’t,” she said. She turned as if to go, and again I worried that she’d changed her mind about being my friend. But she stopped. “Well done, by the way,” she said, and then she disappeared into the crowd.
I anticipated the end of the school day with a mixture of excitement and dread. In my mind, that narrow gray house assumed gothic proportions, with Madame Gray a woman of the sort who tormented poor orphan girls in Victorian novels. I imagined her shouting questions at me in French, then sending Sonia to fetch the rod. When I got to the faculty parking lot, Sonia was already leaning against a car, and I was glad to see that her mother wasn’t there yet. Sonia was excited—she’d made the JV cheerleading squad. She started describing for me the girls she’d been up against, the whole process of the tryouts, but she stopped abruptly when she saw her mother approaching. “Don’t say anything to her,” she said.
Madame Gray insisted I sit in the front seat, to accommodate my long legs, and all the way to their house she asked me questions about myself—where I’d lived before, what my parents did, what I liked to study in school. I tried to give minimal answers. It was clear I needed to be polite to Madame Gray to be allowed to spend time with Sonia, and yet every politeness I offered her felt like a betrayal.
When we got inside the house Madame Gray went up the stairs, Sonia followed, and I brought up the rear. To my relief, at the top of the stairs Madame Gray went one way, Sonia the other. I followed Sonia, jumping when Madame Gray shut her door with a bang. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw that every door in the hall was closed. I couldn’t tell which room Madame Gray was in. “Don’t worry,” Sonia said. “She won’t come out again for hours. Sometimes she spends the whole day in there, with the lights out and the curtains drawn.”
She pushed open one of the doors. “This is my room,” she said. She walked in first, and then turned as if to see my reaction.
It was a room for a little girl. The furniture was white, painted with sprays of pink roses. The carpet was pink. There was a four-poster bed hung with lacy curtains. On the walls were paintings of ballerinas,
. So I did, lingering awkwardly among the desks while Sonia told two other girls she’d catch up to them later. Madame Gray was flipping through a stack of papers—she’d given us a pop quiz on the night’s reading, and even though it was only the second day of school, the class already knew better than to complain. The other girls dispatched, Sonia waved for me to join her at her mother’s desk.
“Madame Gray,” she said, and then waited for her mother’s attention. When she got it, she said something in French. I caught only my name and the words
après l’école.
Madame Gray looked at me, surprised, and I was sure she was going to say no. She narrowed her eyes, appraising me. Then she pulled out my quiz and scanned it.
“You did the reading,” she said. Now she looked up at me with a smile. “You got every question right.” She addressed her daughter without looking at her. “She’s a smart girl, Sonia.”
Despite myself, I was gratified.
“Merci, Madame,”
I said, and then—I don’t know what possessed me—I made an odd, abbreviated curtsy.
“You’re welcome,” Madame Gray said, with the gracious nod of a queen. “Okay, girls,” she said. “Meet me in the faculty parking lot after school.”
As we went out into the hall, Sonia appraised me in a way not unlike her mother, and I wondered if she thought perhaps I’d gone too far with the curtsy, that I might not be an ally after all but a potential teacher’s pet. To distract her, I asked, “Why are you in this class, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in French Four or something?”
“What do you mean?” she said. “I’ve never taken French before.”
“But you speak it so well.”
She looked at me like I was crazy. “No, I don’t,” she said. She turned as if to go, and again I worried that she’d changed her mind about being my friend. But she stopped. “Well done, by the way,” she said, and then she disappeared into the crowd.
I anticipated the end of the school day with a mixture of excitement and dread. In my mind, that narrow gray house assumed gothic proportions, with Madame Gray a woman of the sort who tormented poor orphan girls in Victorian novels. I imagined her shouting questions at me in French, then sending Sonia to fetch the rod. When I got to the faculty parking lot, Sonia was already leaning against a car, and I was glad to see that her mother wasn’t there yet. Sonia was excited—she’d made the JV cheerleading squad. She started describing for me the girls she’d been up against, the whole process of the tryouts, but she stopped abruptly when she saw her mother approaching. “Don’t say anything to her,” she said.
Madame Gray insisted I sit in the front seat, to accommodate my long legs, and all the way to their house she asked me questions about myself—where I’d lived before, what my parents did, what I liked to study in school. I tried to give minimal answers. It was clear I needed to be polite to Madame Gray to be allowed to spend time with Sonia, and yet every politeness I offered her felt like a betrayal.
When we got inside the house Madame Gray went up the stairs, Sonia followed, and I brought up the rear. To my relief, at the top of the stairs Madame Gray went one way, Sonia the other. I followed Sonia, jumping when Madame Gray shut her door with a bang. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw that every door in the hall was closed. I couldn’t tell which room Madame Gray was in. “Don’t worry,” Sonia said. “She won’t come out again for hours. Sometimes she spends the whole day in there, with the lights out and the curtains drawn.”
She pushed open one of the doors. “This is my room,” she said. She walked in first, and then turned as if to see my reaction.
It was a room for a little girl. The furniture was white, painted with sprays of pink roses. The carpet was pink. There was a four-poster bed hung with lacy curtains. On the walls were paintings of ballerinas,
Similar Books
