The Loud Silence of Francine Green (2 page)

"Dun da dun dun," he sang, like the
Dragnet
theme song.
Dragnet
was one radio show Artie and I wouldn't miss for anything. We sat on the floor in the living room, our backs against the big radio. When we heard Jack Webb say, "This is the city. Los Angeles, California," we whooped and clapped. Los Angeles was
our
city.

After that day, Sophie and I were friends. Good friends. On the way to being best friends. It's funny how that happens, so suddenly, first just neighbors and then best friends.

"
Sophie," I said to her
as we waited for the bus after school, "I never knew anyone before who got in trouble her first day. I told you to lay low and not talk back to Sister."

"I just wanted to ask some questions. I do have freedom of speech, you know." Sophie adjusted the pleats in her plaid skirt. She looked gorgeous in her uniform, like a teen model showing off the latest in Catholic-school fashions.

"You were supposed to ask
me
when you want to know something," I said. "Nuns have pretty strict ideas about asking questions and talking back."

Sophie said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw tensed. I guessed she was remembering this morning.

We had been circling adverbs and adjectives in our workbooks when Sister Basil clapped sharply. Sister Basil the Great was the school principal as well as the teacher of our eighth-grade class. She was not too old and very sweet looking with her green eyes, red cheeks, and snub, freckled nose.

I think it's wrong when people look like something they're not. Take nuns, for example. Friendly nuns should be plump and soft, like Sister Saint Elmo. Pious nuns, like Sister Anacletus-and-Marcellinus, should be skinny, quiet, and timid. And mean, nasty nuns like Sister Basil should look like Bela Lugosi in
Dracula,
not like a merry colleen on a Saint Patrick's Day card.

"Put away your workbooks, girls," Sister Basil had said. "It's time for morning prayers." I knew what that meant: prayers for the conversion of Russia. Sister was passionate about the conversion of Russia. Why, we'd said so many prayers for the conversion of Russia in this school since Sister became principal that I was surprised the Russians weren't all saints by now and praying for
us.

We closed our books and knelt down in the aisles next to our desks. After a quick Our Father and Hail Mary, Sister Basil said, "Our Lady, holy Mother of God, we humbly beseech you to intercede for us with your divine Son that we may be with Him forever in Paradise. Ask Him to halt the Red Tide pouring out from Russia and lead the Godless communists to the True Church, for only then will there be salvation for the Russian people and true peace for us all. And, if it be His will, may we be victorious over Saints Peter and Paul today on the volleyball court."

I knew Saints Peter and Paul was a school, like All Saints, but still I imagined two old bearded saints in robes playing volleyball. I gurgled in my throat at the picture but didn't dare laugh out loud. Sister Basil would tie my tongue to the flagpole or something.

Sophie gave a muffled snort. It was not muffled enough.

Sister Basil rose from the ground like a column of smoke. "Stand up," she commanded. We stood.

"Not
all
of you," Sister said, grabbing her pointer and smacking it on the floor. "Just Miss Bowman." The rest of us knelt down again. I leaned back against my heels. This could take a while.

"You have a comment, Miss Bowman?"

"It just seemed silly, Sister, praying to win a ball game. Does God really care who wins?"

"That will do, Sophie."

"And what if students at Saints Peter and Paul School pray too? What will God do?"

"That's
enough,
Sophie."

"And why we are praying to win a volleyball game anyway when there are real problems in the world?"

Sister Basil banged her pointer on the blackboard. "Blessed Harvey, patron saint of croaking frogs, save me from this child!"

"And—"

Sister lunged at Sophie, grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her to the front of the classroom. "Enough! Enough of your interruptions, your blasphemy, and your impertinence! Here," she said, pointing to the wastebasket in the corner, "stand here where everyone can see you. And think about your sins." Sophie stood next to the wastebasket, but Sister grabbed her hair again. "No, Miss Bowman,
in
the basket. And don't slouch." Her green eyes flashed like traffic lights.

Sophie's eyes met mine. She looked puzzled and embarrassed. Every All Saints girl knew that this was the fate of those Sister hated, those who failed arithmetic quizzes, or forgot to raise their hands before answering, or seemed likely to lead the rest of us straight to Hell. I had told Sophie. Didn't she believe me? I looked down at my desk as Sophie stepped into the wastebasket.

"Now, girls," Sister Basil said, "let us finish our prayers." She was smiling.

Parents often remarked on Sister's sweet smile, but I knew what that smile meant. Sister smiled when she made Susan Murphy stay in at recess for laughing inappropriately, when she sent Gert Miller home with a note about her grades, or when she threatened noisy students with the wastebasket. When Sister smiled, the backs of my legs prickled with fear.

So we prayed, with Sister smiling and Sophie in the wastebasket. Then we did geography. I finished my worksheet early and let my eyes wander over the classroom: the crucifix in the center of the front wall, flanked by pictures of Saint Barbara being hit with a hammer and Saint Agnes, patron saint of virgins and Girl Scouts, with a bleeding lamb in her lap; the wooden desks in neat rows (close enough to squeeze in as many as possible but not so close that anyone could cheat, which Sister assumed all students would do if they could); the mission box on Sister's desk, where we collected pennies and nickels to send to the pagan babies in Africa; the pull-down map of the world with the Soviet Union and parts of Germany colored red; the flag in one corner of the room and the statue of the Virgin in the other; the
green paper window shades pulled exactly halfway down; the pencil sharpener fastened by the door—anything to keep my eyes from landing on Sophie, who was still standing in the wastebasket, her back as straight as a soda straw.

Finally the bell rang for recess and we all filed out, crossing in front of Sophie, who stood silent and unmoving. She did not look away or down but right into each of our faces as we walked past her.

It looked like Sophie was going to be Sister Basils Victim of the Trash Can for 1949–50. Every year she picked a new favorite, or unfavorite, I should say, to torment. Last year it had been Betty Bailey, with her hair bleached lemonade yellow, her chest too big and skirt too short. Betty left school in January. Margie McGonigle said Betty was pregnant and went to a home for unwed mothers in Arizona. It was hard to believe, even of Betty Bailey, but if true, I guess it was a small price to pay for getting away from Sister Basil.

"Is she crazy, making me stand in a trash can?" Sophie asked once we were settled in the bus. "There are probably cooties and germs in there."

"That's the way Sister punishes girls who talk back or do other things she doesn't like. I told you. Sister likes to pick on people. She's plain mean. Just be quiet and do what you're supposed to, and it won't happen anymore."

"Oh, I don't really care. Other teachers have done worse. But it just isn't right. I wanted to ask some questions," Sophie said again, "and I was punished for the sin of intellectual curiosity."

"That's the way it is in Catholic school," I told her. "Why,
once last year, Susan Murphy asked Sister Immaculata if nuns wore black underwear under their black habits, and she had to spend a whole week in the second grade. Nuns don't much like questions."

Sophie rubbed her forehead slowly, disarranging her bangs, and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Is it so wrong to want to know things? Should I be punished for that? What about free speech, as guaranteed in the First Amendment to the Constitution?"

"In this school they care more about sin than free speech," I told her.

"Well, it's not right," said Sophie. "It's fascism, that's what it is."

"Wait, Sophie," I said. "You keep saying 'fascism' like it's something I'm supposed to know about. I know it's a bad thing and has something to do with Hitler and Nazis, but I don't think that's what you mean."

"Fascism? Well, it means having a dictator, using censorship and violence to stifle free speech and people's rights, making everyone conform and obey in silence." She got louder and louder. "Fascism is what you have in this school, and it's not right!"

While I brushed my teeth that night, I thought about Sister Basil and the way she had treated Sophie. I wished I could tell Sister how wrong it was, although I couldn't imagine speaking up to her. I dreaded the idea of standing in the wastebasket, but what I really feared was her smile. Now, if she were a strict but sweet and lovable nun like Ingrid Bergman, who starred as Sister Benedict in the movie
The Bells of St. Mary's...

"Sister Basil the Great," I said to the mirror—Sister liked it when we called her by the full name, Basil the Great, to distinguish it from all the other Basils who were not so great, I supposed. I myself thought of her as Sister Basil the Not So Great. Or Sister Basil the Rotten. "Sister Basil the Great," I said again, "I wish to speak with you about Sophie Bowman. 1 don't think you should have been so mean to her and made her stand in the wastebasket on her first day of school."

"I must keep order in my classroom," I said, being Sister with a mouthful of foaming toothpaste, "and Sophie was being disruptive."

FRANCINE
: She is merely curious and, being from public school, doesn't know about raising her hand, obeying without question, and suffering in silence. We must give her a chance.

SISTER:
You are right, Francine. Jesus spoke of charity and understanding, and I have practiced neither.

FRANCINE
: Actually, I don't think anyone should stand in the wastebasket. It hurts their feelings.

SISTER
: Forgive me, Francine.

FRANCINE
: I forgive you, Sister. Upon further thought, perhaps you could make the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone, that stuck-up snitch, stand in the trash can, but no one else.

The end. That's the way it would be in the movies. I took a bow and spit into the sink.

"
Look, Francine,
" Susan Murphy said, pointing to the hem of her skirt. "Isn't it delicious?"

I examined the skirt closely. There, drawn in black ink in the white parts of the blue, green, and white plaid, were flowers—roses and daisies, tulips and lilies. "Ye gods, Susan," I said to her, "you're ruining your uniform. Sister will blow a gasket."

"Who cares?" she said. "This is the last year I have to wear this crummy skirt. I want to see how long it takes Sister to notice."

"Ten seconds, I'd guess," I told her.

I was wrong. Sister didn't notice all that day. The next day, when Sophie and I arrived at school, there were Susan, Gert Miller, Margie McGonigle, and even the timid Florence Bush under the big palm tree near the front door, inking flowers on their skirts.

"Wow!" said Sophie. "What a swell idea." She pulled a
pen from her book bag, flopped down next to Margie, and began to draw. "Come on, Francine. I have extra pens, if you need one."

I shook my head.

"She won't do it," Gert said, pointing at me with her pen. "She never does anything fun."

It was true. I never did. Not if it would get me in trouble. "All great artists need an audience," I told Sophie. "You draw and I'll be your audience."

The bell rang for class. "Let's show our skirts to Sister," Sophie said. "It could be a protest against uniforms."

"Not me," said Margie, "and don't you dare either. You'll get us all in trouble."

"So what?" asked Sophie.

"You can be as weird as you want, Sophie Bowman, and get in all the trouble you want," said Gert, "but leave us out of it."

"Cowards," said Sophie.

"Oddball," Margie muttered as they turned to go inside.

Sophie looked at me. "I don't suppose you will either," she said.

I shook my head.

"At least do one flower." She held her pen out to me. "Just one. I'll go in if you'll draw one flower."

I took the pen and drew a tiny daisy, on the inside hem of my skirt where it couldn't be seen. "There. One flower. Now let's go."

We caught up with the rest of the girls in the hallway. I
examined their skirts. They were definitely more lively with little black flowers amidst the plaid.

I envied those girls. My own little hidden flower was a poor effort. I wished 1 was able to draw flowers on my skirt or paint faces on my knees or smoke behind the building after school like some of the others, but I never dared. I'd never been in trouble at school and had a knot in my stomach at the very thought.

By the beginning of fourth grade, I knew I would never be part of the lively crowd, the ones who had fun. 1 was too busy keeping out of trouble. So I decided to make friends with Mary Agnes Malone. She was pious and well-behaved, as boring as white rice, but she and her friends never got in trouble and were certain to go to Heaven, said the nuns. Besides, I was lonely.

I started by saying the rosary with Mary Agnes and her friends every day at lunchtime, even though it meant putting down my library book and leaving the Bobbsey twins or Rufus Moffat in some scrape I couldn't imagine how they could get out of.

One Sunday afternoon I was invited to Mary Agnes's big house off Wilshire Boulevard. Weslia Babchuk, Mary Catherine Parker, and Lois LaCroix were there too. We prayed, talked about homework, and had milk and vanilla wafers.

"Next week bring your paper dolls," Mary Agnes said as I was leaving. I skipped home. I loved paper dolls. I could create a whole world just the way I wanted it, with a brave, outspoken, colorful, popular Francine. I was in charge, my
dolls did whatever I told them to, and none of us got in trouble.