What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [37]
There were certain things about school that I enjoyed: buying supplies, sniffing newly mimeographed papers, writing on the blackboard, staring into the teachers’ lounge when I passed by it. I liked blowing straw wrappers across cafeteria tables. I also enjoyed sharpening pencils and watching movies in classrooms with the shades pulled down. Other than that, I hated it. I thought school was an unhealthy thing for a growing child, what with the way it demanded shoes on hot days, and wearing dresses, and sitting still at a wooden desk for hours at a time. With the exception of science, I did not find any of my subjects particularly relevant, and I stared out the windows in every classroom with a sense of desperation that often made me feel like crying. I could only bear to look at the teachers if there was something interesting about their outfit or hairdo or face, and there rarely was. On the day my English teacher, Mr. Purdy, cut himself shaving and wore an intriguing arrangement of tiny Band-Aids, I watched him for the length of the entire class. I knew some kids loved their teachers, and I couldn’t begin to understand why; to me, they were only tall cellmates.
Still, I did well enough in school, earning mostly Bs and the occasional A. This was largely because I did homework with an intense kind of concentration that I did not display inside the walls of Foster Elementary. I liked doing homework because Sharla liked doing it—we would lie on our beds after school with books and papers scattered all around us. I would watch the precise way Sharla turned the pages of her textbook, and I would imitate her, down to turning exactly when she did. You licked your finger delicately before turning a page, then lifted it from the bottom right-hand corner. It was important to turn the page slowly and then smooth the center of the book with the flat of your hand. I read my pages so that I would have something to do until it was time to turn them again. Sharla read much more slowly than I; therefore I often read a page twice, or even three times. She never noticed my turning pages exactly when she did; I thought this was a very pleasant miracle.
My mother, who was not daydreaming like I was, licked an envelope, stamped it, and put it on the bottom of her little pile. Then she capped her pen and pushed her chair back from the table.
“Are you done already?” I asked.
“We’ve been here for over forty minutes.”
“Who’d you write to?” Sharla asked. My mother corresponded with a number of relatives as well as friends she’d had since high school. It was always interesting to hear her talk about what she’d written; often, of course, her news featured us.
“Oh, Sandy Wertheimer,” she said. “And Mom and Dad, of course. I told them about your recitals coming up. And the forts you’ve been building—my goodness, they’re wonderful. Did either of you mention them?”
“Who else?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“Who else did you write to? You have three envelopes.”
She pulled her pile toward her, smiled. “Such a busybody. Who are you writing to?”
I sighed. “Grandma and Grandpa. They’re the only ones I ever write to. There isn’t anybody else to write to.”
“Well, finish up,” she said. “Then I’ll walk these to the corner and mail them.” This was something my mother had started doing recently. She used to clothespin letters outside for our mailman to take the next day, but lately she’d started going to the mailbox, three blocks away, at night. My father had initially offered to go with her, but she refused,