"Convicted Felons"

Mrs. Blum is our school principal and has an air-conditioned office, devoid of clammy hallways and clingy sweat. There is only the quiet hum of cool air and this seems incentive enough to cause trouble. Mrs. Blum tells the black girl and me to sit down and be quiet like we are convicted felons, like we’ve spent more time in her office than in the classroom. Well, I can’t speak for this strange girl who sucks her teeth but I’ve never even seen a principal’s office until now.


“Animals, you girls behave like animals,” Mrs. Blum says. She is rummaging through stacks of folders on her desk, and every time she leans forward I get a whiff of onion breath. She inhales and starts to cough, her face growing the color of the eggplant eye-shadow she wears. Maybe she is choking from her own breath.


“Are you okay?” I ask.


“I said, no talking,” Mrs. Blum hacks out between uncontrollable coughs. The black girl walks behind Mrs. Blum and grabs a Coke from the shelf. “Thank you, Meeka,” Mrs. Blum says after gulping down the soda. Meeka smiles at me. It is a smile that reeks of poison.


“Now Meeka, where is your mother dear?” Mrs. Blum asks but all I hear is dear.


“I don’t know,” Meeka says like we are all supposed to feel sorry for her. Poor, beautiful, slender Meeka with the pale silk shirt and matching heeled shoes.


“That’s okay, dear, we’ll find her,” Mrs. Blum nods, a sympathetic smile below her cock-eyed eyes. “And your mother works?” Mrs. Blum turns to me.


“Yes,” I say and stifle a giggle.


“Young lady, look at me when I’m talking to you,” Mrs. Blum says. With her eyes pointing in two different directions I don’t even know where I’m meant to look. She is a life-sized version of the Mona Lisa: always seeing me but a person never knowing where to see her. The pressure to be serious is too much and I am laughing, right in the principal’s face. Meeka’s hand flies to her forehead and she looks down. She is pretending to be sad but it doesn’t fool me.


“What is so funny?” Mrs. Blum asks, her gray brows furrowing together.


“Nothing,” I manage to squeak out.


Mrs. Blum stares at me. Well she is trying to stare at me but those eyes of hers won’t cooperate. I squeeze my lips together and try to think of serious things: mom paying bills, a teeth cleaning from Dr. Schwartz, even my dad’s funeral. But it’s no use—Mrs. Blum’s crooked eyes are too funny and despite a closed mouth, I am shaking with laughter.


Mrs. Blum’s own face shakes but it is not with what I’d call humor. She turns to Meeka who is holding her stomach like a wounded animal. It is pretend pain. The kind you see on soap operas when the violin music pipes in at the sappiest moment. Mrs. Blum would have to be an idiot to fall for Meeka’s performance.


“Well young lady, in light of the circumstances, I will contact your mother and give you detention for today. I think that’s fair, don’t you?” Mrs. Blum asks. Meeka nods her head weakly, and continues to look down. Obviously, Mrs. Blum is an idiot.