The Last Days of School

Our students are lined up in uneven rows, staring stiff and bright-eyed into space like they’ve just heard shocking news but forgot to stop smiling. Sometimes, I wonder if they’re imagining another life, a place where they’d have new outfits and shelves to sit on instead of being stuffed into a cardboard box under the bed at night.

Mindy keeps listing to one side, so my sister Irene twists her legs none too gently again to keep her from tipping over. Joanie can’t sit straight, either, but me and Irene both have a soft spot for her. Her body is all squishy, but her plastic head has a crack in it now because Daddy threw her against the wall last week. I was running for cover and left her behind on the floor, so she was underfoot when he staggered into the living room, and she made him angry. Barbara hasn’t done her homework. That’s nothing new. She’s dressed like the queen at a coronation, thinks she’s above it all. I hide her shoes sometimes just to put her in her place. Betty is in the back row. That’s where we keep her. She’s the tall, blonde bridal doll with the too-perfect face. We decided early on she was the mean one, catty, hurtful. I doubt she’ll ever change. My favorite doll is Kelly, an Irish peasant girl with a long apron and wild red hair. I make up stories about girls who find out they’re adopted, girls whose real families are rich or even royalty, and Irene helps me write them down. Then I read them to Kelly so she won’t feel so bad about being a peasant.

We always play school on Mama’s full-size bed, and the size of the class increases by two every Christmas because me and Irene each get a doll under the tree, identical except for their dresses. But Irene’s are always dark-haired like she is. Mine are either blondes or redheads. Sometimes we have parties with them and pretend they drink too much. They end up fighting, with lots of hair-pulling and dresses torn. We never let the new ones drink.

Irene is almost always the teacher. She’s nine, only two years older than me, but Mama puts her in charge of me and my little brother when no one else is home. Irene can be bossy, but she watches out for us, lets us know when to stay clear of Daddy. But I already know that because when he’s been drinking a lot there’s a smell that covers him like a nun’s long veil, like a warning. Sometimes, if he hasn’t had too much, he comes home in a jolly mood and gets us all out of bed, ready to make smoke rings or sing Perry Como songs from the Hit Parade or get Mama laughing with stories about his great-aunt Fionnuala. She told him he’d wind up a thief because his mother clipped his toenails when he was a baby rather than bite them off. Early on Sundays, sometimes, he drags us out of bed to dance, has us mimic his clumsy jigs, tells us we can skip Mass. He lets us swing from his outstretched arms, lets us break the rules when Mama isn’t around.

I worry that Irene is getting bored with playing school. Sometimes, she doesn’t want to play dolls at all. She says she’s not a kid anymore, not really. I get why she thinks that. She has to start getting dinner ready now before Mama gets home from work because Nora and Kathleen, our oldest sisters, are both married already, taking care of their own dinners. My brothers are in their teens, but boys in our family never have to help out in the kitchen, so it’s all left to Irene. It’s not fair, but she never complains.

Me and Irene are always fair to our students. There are rules in our classroom: No shouting at each other, no calling names like slut or bitch. But sometimes, I let the dolls say what I’m really thinking. After Joanie got hurt, I used her voice to say I didn’t love Daddy anymore. Irene said I shouldn’t say that because it might be a sin. “I can’t help it,” I told her. “He hurts people.” Mama was bleeding again last week, from her nose this time.

“I know he does.” She said it so Mama couldn’t hear, like she might get in trouble for saying it out loud. I’ve heard her asking Kathleen why Mama doesn’t leave him, or at least call the police when he threatens her. Kathleen says there’s nothing we can do. But Sean, our oldest brother, says it’s not like that with all dads. It doesn’t have to be this way. Sean seems angry a lot, says he’s joining the Navy as soon as he can.

Irene wants to be a dancer. When the three of us are home alone, she puts on records and dances all over the living room, even leaps off the couch. She’s good. She wants to go back to her dancing school. Mama enrolled her six months ago because everyone can see how good she is, but she had to drop out. We don’t have the money. Irene says she loved it there. The instructor taught them the French names for the steps done at the barre. She repeats them in order almost every day with her foot resting on the kitchen table and her toes pointed.

I love school, too, real school. I finally started first grade this year, and Mrs. Richardson, my teacher at St. Thomas Aquinas, says I’m a fast learner. I love books. Irene has been teaching me letters for a long time on our toy blackboard. We talk about the storybooks from school, the beautiful pictures, the beautiful places people live. Our dolls come from places like that. But Irene doesn’t want to play with our dolls that much anymore, especially since she left dancing school. Mama promised her she’d teach her the steps she was learning. Mama’s a good dancer, too, says she danced with her brother in Parish shows when she was a girl. But by the time she gets home from work, she’s too tired. So she hardly ever dances with Irene.

I’m worried Irene’s going to leave the way Nora and Kathleen did. They got married at sixteen. But if she does, I know she’ll find a way to learn to dance the way they do on television, and she’ll be happy. But there would be only one doll under the Christmas tree. And who would I have to play with? Who would even notice me here? I’ll have no one to help me write my stories down. I’ll have to recite them to Kelly from memory. Someday, maybe I’ll have a place I can go, even if it’s only make-believe. Then I’d be happy, too. But I’d take Kelly with me. She wouldn’t want to be left here.