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I go running back to the mirror in my parents' bedroom to look at myself. My hair is just like Fraulein Maria's. I spin around three times. I run out to Mom, jumping up and down, but I can see Mom is busy talking, munching on words like roast beef. Mrs. Flanigan doesn't notice me either when I walk into the kitchen. Instead, she digs her fingernails into one cheek and stares at baby Joey.
"Oh, my. But does the doctor–"
Mom turns around and sees me and hushes Mrs. Flanigan. "Oh, hello."
Mrs. Flanigan snaps up and tries to give me that look of appreciation. I smile in a gray way. I stand with my new haircut, like Fraulein Maria when she arrives at Captain Von Trapp's house for the first time and her mouth drops open and she stares all around her, like she is on a new planet and she barely knows what to say. I try to give Mom and Mrs. Flanigan my own look of appreciation.
Later that night, I sneak into the living room when no one is looking, and start swirling around, singing to myself so soft that no one will hear my voice, "The hills are alive with the sound of music." As I twirl, I think how in one week, I will start second grade and no one will recognize me. They will think it is Julie Andrews who has come to attend St. Bede school. I spin so hard my father steps into the living room in his white shirt and black tie and tells me to stop making myself "dizzy." The winds blow in September, kicking up hot, sizzling air. You have to be sure to hold on to your skirt when you walk outside. Mom says the warm winds are called the Santa Anas because they come in from the desert. They blow in brown tumbleweeds that go skipping along the school pavement, across the St. Bede ball field, whirling in circles. Tumbleweeds scare me. They are like Gypsies, like wild ghosts who have no place to go.
I put on my St. Bede uniform of brown plaid and a brown sweater, complete with a sewn badge that says some motto in Latin. I arrive at the classroom of Sister Norah, wondering if any of the other kids will notice my haircut, but no one, not even Sister, says a word.
Our first month of school we begin to learn how to write in cursive. The letters from big "A" and little "a" to big "Z" and little "z" are spread above the brown chalkboard. Sister Norah is plump. Her habit hangs in heavy pleats as she grabs her pointer stick and follows the outline of each and every letter, telling us that this, "this" is how we will be writing in no time at all.
Each letter comes easily to me. I stare down at my notepaper and watch them slip out of my hands. A beautiful "A." A fine "B." A nice "C" and a dandy "D."
"Those are beautiful letters," Sister Norah says to me, her mole above her lip moving up and down as she speaks. The cloth from her habit swipes my pencil when she turns around, marching to the front of the classroom.
"Next week we begin our "Es." Is everybody clear on that?"
"Yes, Sister Norah." We speak all together at once. I am not worried, since all of my other letters have been perfect.
The following week is when the troubles begin. I try and try but cannot write the "E" like the "E" on the official chart. My hand
is in a dream, for I add an extra curlicue on my capital "E" because I think "E" is sad and plain just as it is, and in my opinion it screeches out to be dressed up. Sister Norah starts pacing past my desk all week, telling me I am not making the capital "E" in the proper way. She will not let me move on to the other letters–as the rest of my class does–until my "E" is just perfect. One day she slaps my hand with a ruler, telling me I must once and for all get my "E" right.
After school, I jump into my shorts and T-shirt and run out to my playhouse. I try on the dresses Mom gives me, the ones that are wide like spinning tops with colors of Life Savers. I put on her old pointed shoes. I sit and watch my yellow windows fill with shadows of tree branches. I nestle close to the window, pretending the shadows are dancers who touch my skin. I think of Mom inside the house and wonder if I should tell her about the problem with my "Es."
I sneak back into the house to find her. She sits alone in the living room, where I used to swirl around. She is crying again and listening to music on the console, but then she sees me and smiles a little bit and turns the music down.
"Are you having fun in your playhouse?" I nod my head yes to her. "How would you like to bake me a little chocolate cake on your Suzy Homemaker?" she asks.
"Okay, I would like to do that," I say.
I go and pluck two eggs from the refrigerator and run back out to my playhouse filled with sun and the odor of old rug squares Mom bought for me at the carpet store. I stand over my box crate, crack the egg. It spills into the flour. I add a snatch of water, swirl it around with my pink spatula until I have a mixture smooth as silk. I spoon the wet mixture into my magic baking pans, dash to my bedroom where Suzy Homemaker sits, and pop the pans in the oven and watch the two lightbulbs bake my cake for almost two hours. When the cake is ready, I bring it out to Mom. I hope my cake makes her happy.
(This excerpt ended on page 24.)
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