Rebecca Wolicki
We stride upstairs, two steps at a time, to the classroom where
instructions dictate how to position freshened erasers and chalks
in the trays for Sister's use tomorrow.
Now empty, Saint Bartholomew's wide, wood-plank floors held no footfalls.
Its great halls rang silent.
Kindred in spirit, our eighth grade talk centers on Pat and Chuckie
until we spy the bright yellow rain gear meant only for crosswalk guards on rainy days.
In no time, heavy plastic parkas trap our ankles and hide our hands.
Big on yellow, we include the brimmed head gear, as well.
Our eyes lock in serendipitous character.
We were yellow, and we were giddy.
We danced, we spun.
We tilted hatted heads left and right.
Known for our duets, this time we sang for ourselves.
RoseAnn threw back her head and laughed with glee.
Her bright blue eyes brimming with impudence spurred our number
to a performance worthy of an ovation. That's why
we didn't hear her. We didn't hear her footsteps echo in
the hallway or in our eight-grade classroom.
We didn't hear her Rosary beads clink and clang.
We only saw her.
A woman in nunnery garb.
Slender, tall, colorless lips pursed, pressed, turning plum.
Dark eyes, now black.
White face, now red.
Sister Ernestine, our teacher, Saint Bartholomew's principal,
in character.
Her thin voice slowly and lowly spoke to RoseAnn and me.
"Get out of those garments!"
Losing control, thin voice becoming thinner, Sister shrieked,
"Hang them up! Finish your chores! Gather your book bags! Get home!"
Paralysis gone and wide-eyed, we pegged our costumes and fled.
Did we kneel the next morning in class?
Probably.
Did we write 100 times,
"I will not dance in the cloak room wearing the yellow crosswalk guards' rain gear."?
Probably.
When on the playground, did we laugh deliciously at what we did and what we made Sister Ernestine do?
You bet we did.
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(c) 1999 Rebecca Wolicki. All rights reserved.
Appears in Schools of Verse: An Anthology of Poetry About School, Fall 1999.