Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret - Blume Judy. Страница 4

"Well, should I?"

"Of course," Grandma said.

I ran up the stairs and into my parents' bedroom. My father was putting on his socks. My mother was brushing her teeth in their bathroom.

"Guess who's here?" I said to my father.

He didn't say anything. He yawned.

"Well, aren't you going to guess?"

"Guess what?" he asked.

"Guess who's here in this very house at this very minute?"

"Nobody but us, I hope," my father said.

"Wrong!" I danced around the bedroom.

"Margaret," my father said in his disgusted-with-me voice. "What is it you're trying to say?"

"Grandma's here!"

"That's impossible," my father told me.

"I mean it, Daddy. She's right downstairs in the kitchen making your coffee."

"Barbara… " My father went into the bathroom and turned off the water. I followed him. My mother had a mouthful of toothpaste.

"I'm not done, Herb," she said, turning on the water again.

My father shut it off. "Guess who's here?" he asked her.

"What do you mean who's here?" my mother said.

"Sylvia! That's who's here!" My father turned the water back on so my mother could finish brushing her teeth.

But my mother turned it off and followed my father into the bedroom. I followed too. This was fun! I guess by then my mother must have swallowed her toothpaste.

"What do you mean, Sylvia?" my mother asked my father.

"I mean my mother!" my father said.

My mother laughed. "That's impossible, Herb. How would she even get here?"

My father pointed at me. "Ask Margaret. She seems to know everything."

"In a taxi," I said.

They didn't say anything.

"And a train," I said.

Still nothing.

"It wasn't so dirty after all."

Ten minutes later my mother and father joined Grandma in the kitchen where the table was set and the breakfast all ready. It's hard to get mad at Grandma, especially when she flashes her super smile. So my mother and father didn't say anything except what a wonderful surprise! And how clever of Grandma to take a train and a taxi to our new house when she'd never been to Farbrook before.

After breakfast I went upstairs to get dressed. Grandma came up with me to see my room.

"It's a lot bigger than my old one," I said.

"Yes, it's bigger," Grandma agreed. "You could use new bedspreads and curtains. I saw some the other day-pink and red plaid. Then we could get red carpeting to match and a-" Grandma sighed. "But I guess your mother wants to fix it up herself."

"I guess so," I said.

Grandma sat down on my bed. "Margaret darling," she said, "I want to make sure you understand that we'll still be as close as always."

"Of course we will," I said.

"A few miles doesn't mean a thing," Grandma said. "Just because I can't drop in after school doesn't mean I won't think of you every day."

"I know that, Grandma."

"I tell you what-I'll call you every night at seven-thirty. How does that sound?"

"You don't have to call every night," I said.

"I want to! It's my dime," Grandma laughed. "That way you can tell me what's going on and I'll keep you posted about New York. Okay?"

"Sure Grandma."

"But Margaret… "

"What?"

"You answer the phone. Your mother and father might not like me calling so much. This is just between you and me. All right?"

"Sure, Grandma. I love to get phone calls."

We all spent the rest of the day sitting around in our yard. Grandma was knitting me a new sweater, my mother planted some fall flowers, and my father read a book. I sunbathed, thinking it would be nice to start school with a tan.

We ate Grandma's food for supper and every time she bit into a pickle she said, "Mmm… nothing like the real thing!"

We drove her back to the Farbrook station while it was still light. Grandma has this thing about walking in New York at night. She's positive she's going to get mugged. Before she got out of the car she kissed me good-by and told my parents, "Now don't worry. I promise I'll only come once a month. Well… maybe twice. And it's not to see you, Herb. Or you either, Barbara. I've got to keep an eye on my Margaret-that's all." Grandma winked at me.

With that she grabbed the shopping bag with her shoes and knitting and left, waving good-by until we couldn't see her anymore.

4

On Wednesday night my mother helped me wash my hair. She set it in big rollers for me. I planned to sleep like that all night but after an hour they hurt my head so I took them out. On Thursday morning I got up early but I had trouble eating. My mother said it was natural for me to feel uneasy on the first day of school. She said when she was a girl she felt the same way. My mother's always telling me about when she was a girl. It's supposed to make me feel that she understands everything.

I put on my new blue plaid cotton back-to-school dress. My mother likes me in blue. She says it brings out the color in my eyes. I wore my brown loafers without socks. My mother thought that was dumb.

"Margaret, you have to walk three quarters of a mile."

"So?"

"So, you know you get blisters every time you go without socks."

"Well then, I'll just have to suffer."

"But why suffer? Wear socks!"

Now that's my point about my mother. I mean, if she understands so much about me then why couldn't she understand that I had to wear loafers without socks? I told her, " Nancy says nobody in the sixth grade wears socks on the first day of school!"

"Margaret! I don't know what I'm going to do with you when you're a teenager if you're acting like this now!

That's another thing. My mother's always talking about when I'm a teenager. Stand up straight, Margaret! Good posture now makes for a good figure later. Wash your face with soap, Margaret! Then you won't get pimples when you're a teenager. If you ask me, being a teenager is pretty rotten-between pimples and worrying about how you smell!

Finally my mother told me to have a good day. She kissed my cheek and gave me a pat on the back. I walked down to Nancy 's house.

By the time I got to Room Eighteen of the Delano Elementary School my feet hurt so much I thought I wouldn't make it through the day. Why are mothers always right about those things? As it turned out, half the girls had on knee socks anyway.

The teacher wasn't in the room when we got there. That is, the real teacher. There was this girl, who I thought was the teacher, but she turned out to be a kid in our class. She was very tall (that's why I thought she was the teacher) with eyes shaped like a cat's. You could see the outline of her bra through her blouse and you could also tell from the front that it wasn't the smallest size. She sat down alone and didn't talk to anyone. I wondered if maybe she was new too, because everybody else was busy talking and laughing about summer vacations and new hair styles and all that.

The class quieted down in a big hurry when a man walked into the room, nodded at us and wrote a name on the blackboard.

MILES J. BENEDICT JR.

When he turned away from the blackboard he cleared his throat. "That's me," he said, pointing to the name on the board. Then he cleared his throat two more times. "I'm your new teacher."

Nancy poked me in the ribs and whispered, "Can you believe it?" The whole class was whispering and grinning.

Mr. Benedict went back to the board. He wrote six phrases. Then he turned to us. He put his hands behind his back and kind of rocked back and forth on his feet. He cleared his throat so I knew he was going to say something.

"Now then… uh… you know my name. I'll tell you something about myself. Uh… I'm twenty-four years old. I'm uh… a graduate of Columbia Teachers College and uh… this is my first teaching position. Now that you know about me, I want to uh… find out about you. So, if you will copy these six phrases off the board and then complete them I'd uh… appreciate it. Thank you." He coughed. I thought he was going to wind up with a very sore throat.