Madeleine starts to run.
Down St. Lawrence Avenue she runs, toward the schoolyard, where the crowd of kids jumbles like a plate of Smarties in an earthquake, running with her schoolbag banging against her back, listening to the March wind in her ears, straining to hear the playground screams that will drown out the Voice of God; running so fast that her throat begins to ache, outrunning her guardian angel winging behind now in pursuit with his or her huge sad face at the thought of how Madeleine will be run over in a minute, and how her pure white soul will be carried lovingly up to God. At this thought she stops running. Sputters to a walk, her heart still pounding. Unzips her quilted jacket — even though you might get pneumonia if you open your jacket in the cold while you’re sweating.
She catches her breath and does not even turn around to see if her guardian angel is there. Because she is in no immediate danger of death or even a vocation. It’s okay. She has just remembered that her soul is not pure white. It’s yellowish. Like an old sheet. Because of the things from last fall. When she was little. The exercises. Don’t think about them, just remember, it’s okay. Your soul is not pure white.
She walks toward the school, her heart beating normally now. Her underpants feel wadded and damp and she hopes it is just sweat. The bell goes as she steps from the street onto the squishy field, and she sees the lineups filing in. She starts skipping, because when you are out of breath from running it’s amazing how easy it is to skip and never get tired, and it’s almost as fast as running. She arrives just in time to join the end of the grade four line as it files in the front doors past Mr. March, who says, “You’re looking particularly blithe this morning, Miss McCarthy.”
Up ahead, Auriel turns around and plugs her nose, and Lisa makes a Mr. March triple chin, so that Madeleine has difficulty keeping a straight face. She says, “Thank you Mr. March,” and recognizes in her own voice an echo of Eddie Haskell’s on Leave It to Beaver.
Once in the classroom, Madeleine sits at her desk and is relieved to note that her underpants have dried already — that’s how you can tell if it’s just sweat and not pee. Up at the front, an immense single-layer chocolate cake sits on Mr. March’s desk, dotted with eleven candles that look as sparse as trees on a prairie.
“My wife made this cake.”
Mrs. March. Picture him lying on top of her.
He removes the Saran Wrap and licks his thumb. “Would the birthday girl please rise?”
Grace Novotny gets up, tastes the corner of her mouth and grins at the floor. The class sings “Happy Birthday” with the gusto of nine-year-olds who know they are about to have cake. Philip Pinder and a couple of other boys sing, “You look like a monkey and you smell like one too.”
Mr. March lights the candles. “Would the birthday girl please proceed to the front of the class?”
Grace has gotten tall. You don’t usually notice how everyone has grown until after the summer holidays, but Grace had a growth spurt over Christmas — at least now she is growing into some of the clothes she has to wear.
Madeleine is grateful to be herself. How could anyone bear to be Grace Novotny? She has grown breasts, Madeleine can see them, like little dunce caps on her chest. Tits. She has already been given a titty-twister by Philip Pinder. She cried. Titty-twisters are very painful, boys give them to each other all the time, grabbing the flesh around each other’s nipples and wrenching. Grace’s new breasts are another thing that makes everyone else in the class, even Marjorie and Philip, seem clean. Whereas something swampy is happening to Grace.
The vast cake blazes on Mr. March’s desk. “Well don’t just stand there, little girl. Blow.”
Grace blows and blows until her germs have covered every inch of the cake.
Mr. March cuts it into thirty pieces, remarking, “Mrs. March has never had to make such a big cake before.” Madeleine wonders what his wife looks like. Is she fat too? Could she eat no lean?
Everyone files up to receive a slice on blotting paper. They eat silently. Some don’t eat their icing and it’s obvious why: germs. Madeleine can’t bring herself to eat hers at all. Two rows over, Claire McCarroll is eating only the icing.
Madeleine closes her eyes and tries not to smell cake.
“What’s the matter, little girl, don’t you like chocolate cake?”
“I’m not hungry,” replies Madeleine. Besides, it’s still Lent.
He is standing over her. “Since when has hunger ever had anything to do with it when it comes to chocolate cake?” The class laughs politely.
Mr. March takes her cake, breaks it in two and gives half each to Marjorie and Grace.
A half-hour later, they are in the middle of a spelling exercise, working quietly at their desks, when Grace gets up to sharpen a pencil and Madeleine sees blood on the back of her skirt.
“Grace,” says Madeleine, out loud.
Mr. March looks up.
Grace turns around to face Madeleine. “What?” And Mr. March sees what Madeleine saw, so does the front half of the class. A gasp goes up.
“You hurt yourself,” says Madeleine, trying to be polite.
“Little girl,” says Mr. March. Grace knows he is talking to her so she turns to face him, and the whole back half of the class gasps. She turns again quickly, as though stung by a bee, loose pleats flying; craning her neck, she sees the back of her skirt and screams. Wails. Some other girls start crying too and a couple of boys start laughing. Everyone else just stares. Blood. From someone’s bum. Lisa Ridelle has dropped her head between her knees — her father is a doctor, he has told her what to do when she feels faint. Grace sobs, her mouth wide open, clear saliva spilling down the corners, eyes veering from the bloodstain to Madeleine, as though Madeleine had something to do with it.
“Silence,” says Mr. March, then a shocking smack! — the yardstick across his desk. Grace is silent. “This little girl belongs at home,” he says. “Hands?”
He is asking for someone to walk Grace home with her bleeding bum, why doesn’t he just call an ambulance? Grace is staring at Madeleine as though Madeleine were a speck on the horizon, a ship. Oh no. Madeleine can feel it. She is going to raise her hand. See? You should have given up Bugs for Lent, now you must make a sacrifice and walk Grace Novotny home. Madeleine feels her hand rising from the desk—
“Marjorie Nolan,” says Mr. March. “Walk this little girl home.”
Everyone looks at Marjorie. She doesn’t move. No one does. Grace is whimpering, walking slowly toward the coat hooks, clutching the back of her skirt to hide the spot.
“Slow as molasses in January,” says Mr. March. Grateful laughter from the class. “Miss Nolan?” says Mr. March.
Marjorie gets up and walks briskly to the back, puts on her jacket, zips it up and waits with folded arms while Grace removes her cardigan from its hook and ties the sleeves around her waist so it will hang down and hide the stain.
“All right grade fours, the show is over, turn to page forty-one in your Macmillan spellers.”
Madeleine sneaks a look back. Grace will freeze with not even her cardigan on. Madeleine gets up without permission, gets her own jacket and gives it to Grace. Grace puts it on without a word, like a sleepwalker, and leaves.
Madeleine walks back to her desk. Now everyone is looking at her.
Mr. March says, “Behold the good Samaritan.”
Laughter. Everything feels normal again. Madeleine takes a bow.