A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [144]
“Don’t you ever dare use that word about us!”
“Us?” asked Miss Garnder blankly. “We were talking about your compositions. Why, Frances!” Her voice was shocked. “I’m surprised! A well-behaved girl like you. What would your mother say if she knew you had been impertinent to your teacher?”
Francie was frightened. Impertinence to a teacher was almost a reformatory offense in Brooklyn. “Please excuse me. Please excuse me,” she repeated abjectly. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I understand,” said Miss Garnder gently. She put her arm around Francie and led her to the door. “Our little talk has made an impression on you, I see. Sordid is an ugly word and I’m glad you resented my using it. It shows that you understand. Probably you don’t like me any more, but please believe that I spoke for your own good. Someday you’ll remember what I said and you’ll thank me for it.”
Francie wished adults would stop telling her that. Already the load of thanks in the future was weighing her down. She figured she’d have to spend the best years of her womanhood hunting up people to tell them that they were right and to thank them.
Miss Garnder handed her the “sordid” compositions and the play, saying, “When you get home, burn these in the stove. Apply the match to them yourself. And as the flames rise, keep saying: ‘I am burning ugliness. I am burning ugliness.’”
Walking home from school, Francie tried to figure the whole thing out. She knew Miss Garnder wasn’t mean. She had spoken for Francie’s good. Only it didn’t seem good to Francie. She began to understand that her life might seem revolting to some educated people. She wondered, when she got educated, whether she’d be ashamed of her background. Would she be ashamed of her people; ashamed of handsome papa who had been so lighthearted, kind and understanding; ashamed of brave and truthful Mama who was so proud of her own mother, even though Granma couldn’t read or write; ashamed of Neeley who was such a good honest boy? No! No! If being educated would make her ashamed of what she was, then she wanted none of it. “But I’ll show that Miss Garnder,” she vowed. “I’ll show her I’ve got an imagination. I certainly will show her.”
She started her novel that day. Its heroine was Sherry Nola, a girl conceived, born and brought up in sweltering luxury. The story was called THIS IS I and it was the untrue story of Francie’s life.
Francie had twenty pages written now. So far, it ran to minute descriptions of the lush furnishings of Sherry’s house, rhapsodies over Sherry’s exquisite clothes, and course-by-course accounts of fabulous meals consumed by the heroine.
When it was finished, Francie planned to ask Sissy’s John to take it over to his shop and get it published for her. Francie had a fine dream about how it would be when she presented her book to Miss Garnder. The scene was all worked out in her mind. She went over the dialogue.
FRANCIE
(As she gives book to Miss Garnder.)
I believe you’ll find nothing sordid in this. Please consider it as my term’s work. I hope you won’t mind its being published.
(Miss Garnder’s jaw drops open. Francie takes no notice.)
It’s a bit easier to read print, don’t you think?
(As Miss Garnder reads, Francie stares out window, unconcernedly.)
MISS GARNDER
(After reading.)
Why Frances! This is wonderful!
FRANCIE
What?
(With a start of remembrance.)
Oh, the novel. I dashed it off at odd moments. It doesn’t take long to write things of which you know nothing. When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.
Francie crossed that out. She wouldn’t want Miss Garnder to suspect her feelings had been hurt. She rewrote it.
FRANCIE
What?
(Recalling.)
Oh! The novel. I’m glad you like it.
MISS GARNDER
(Timidly.)
Frances, could…could I ask you to autograph it for me?
FRANCIE
But of course.
(Miss Garnder uncaps her fountain pen and presents it, pen-point end towards herself, to Francie. Francie writes: “Compliments of M. Frances K. Nolan.”)
MISS GARNDER
(Examining autograph.)
What a distinctive signature!
FRANCIE
It