Author's Note: This is a little running commentary from McCormick about some of the "firsts" in his unorthodox educational path. There are a few references to events from my story "Inheritance Tax."
-ck
Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
by InitialLuv
1962
"Class, we have a new student joining us today: Mark McCormick. Mark, please stand."
I stand up fast and look at the kids staring at me. The boys all have the same white shirts. The girls have white blouses and grey plaid skirts or jumpers. They all look the same.
Unfriendly.
I sit down before the nun can tell me to. I hear a voice behind me, a whisper. "He a relative of yours, Ginger?" Then there's soft laughing.
I turn around to look. I don't know why. I see a boy two desks behind me, with red hair and freckles. He is glaring at another boy, I think the one who asked the question about being a relative.
There is a name tag on the red-haired kid's desk. It says "Riley McCormack."
The kids are still whispering. There is a sudden loud noise in the front of the room. It scares me and I turn around to see the nun is hitting the top of her desk with a ruler. It kinda looks like a judge pounding a gavel. And her black habit looks almost like the black robes judges wear.
"Children! Quiet!" she says. Her voice is loud and mean.
I look at the teacher, at her wrinkled and crabby face. I remember my third grade teacher at my old public school. She was young and pretty and nice. On my last day last week, she gave me a hug and said she would miss me.
Why did my mom do this to me?
ooOoo
When I get home I look on the table. There is a note. There is always a note. If my mom is gone when I get up she leaves a note. If she is gone when I get home there is a note. Usually it tells me to do something. But sometimes there's more.
Mark,
Change out of your school clothes and hang up your shirt.
Clean your room and do your homework.
There is a snack for you in the refrigerator.
There's a drawing of a little smiling face after that, with curly hair like mine.
I should be home by 7:00. Love, Your Favorite Mom.
I change my clothes and hang up the white uniform shirt. Then I get the snack out of the fridge. My mom sliced up a banana, and put it in a bowl with milk and sugar and some cinnamon. It's really good. Specially when it's cold.
I don't do my homework.
ooOoo
My mom gets home a little before 7:00. She usually gets done at the accounting place where she's a secretary at 5:30, but that job is pretty far away, and she has to take two buses to get home. My new school is close enough that I can walk. I walked to my old school too, but it was farther away. So if the weather was bad my mom would give me bus fare. But I didn't always use it. Well, not for the bus. Sometimes I would still walk, and stop at the drugstore to buy some licorice or a candy bar. I'd throw the wrappers away before I got home so my mom wouldn't find out.
My mom doesn't always take the bus. She walks to the restaurant that she works at on weekends. And sometimes she works there on weekdays if they need help on the morning shift. Then she's gone when the alarm wakes me up for school, and she's at the secretary job when I get home. Those days I get two notes.
I'm setting the table when my mom gets home. She hangs up her purse and her coat, and then comes over to give me a hug.
"Hi, baby."
I don't like it when she calls me that. I'm almost eight and a half. I don't call her "Momma" anymore.
Much.
I just let her hug me. "Hi, Mom."
She kisses me on top of my head. Then she sits down to take off her shoes and rub her feet.
"How was your first day at school?"
I shrug. "What's for supper?"
"Something easy. I'm tired. How does spaghetti noodles with eggs sound?"
"Okay." I go to the cupboard by the stove, to get out the pot for the spaghetti and the pan for the eggs. Then I get the box of spaghetti out of the pantry, and the egg carton out of the fridge.
"Mark."
I take the pot to the sink to fill it up with water, then I carry it to the stove. I don't even spill that much.
"Mark."
"What?" I put the pot down on a burner, but I don't turn it on. I'm not allowed.
"Hon, sit down."
I sit at the table by my mom. "What?" I ask again.
"I want to know how your first day went at your new school."
I look down at my fingers, and pick at a hangnail. "I dunno."
"Mark Daniel." Her voice has gotten harder. "Answer me."
I hate when her voice gets like that. It always makes me feel like everything's wrong. I like it a lot better when she's in a good mood, and draws me silly pictures on her notes. That's why I make jokes a lot. When I can make her laugh, she doesn't look so tired and sad.
But I can't think of any jokes right now. So I just tell her what I can, without telling her how much I hated the Catholic school and the nuns and the uniforms and the unfriendly kids. I can't really tell her those things. Not when it's so important to her that I go there.
"There's like four McCormicks there. There's even one in my class, but he spells it different, with an 'A'. I guess I make five." I hold up my hand with my fingers spread out, and chant, "Five little McCormicks," like my mom does when she sings the nursery rhyme about the monkeys.
Okay, a small joke.
She smiles at me. Then she puts on a fake Irish accent. "Oh, shor'n there be plenty of the Irish-Catholics in these parts, laddie!" And she reaches over to tickle me.
We both laugh.
Over supper I tell her a little more about school. Some of it is true, like how the crayons in art class are whole pieces, and not broken bits, like at my old school. Some I make up, like how I already made a friend named Terry.
There's no one named Terry in my class. But when I tell her that, she looks so happy. . .
Sometimes lying is better.
1964
"Class, I'd like you to welcome your new classmate, Mark McCormick. Mark, stand up please."
I stand up half-way, give a little wave, and then drop down in my chair.
This is my third school in two years. And since this school only goes up through fifth grade, I'll be in another new school in less than a year and a half.
If we don't move again before that. My mom and I are also in our third different apartment. That's been in about four years. But you can hardly call the one-room walk-up above Su's Laundry an apartment. It doesn't even have a stove, only a hot plate and a toaster oven.
Maybe that's better, though. My problem with the stove was what got us kicked out of our last place.
After I sit down, a tall kid next to me leans over. "Hey. You like basketball?"
I shrug. I actually prefer baseball, since I'm kinda short, usually shorter than kids my age. My mom says I'll catch up. I hope it's soon.
The other kid talks again. "A couple of us play hoops at recess. You should join us."
I stare at the dark-haired kid with the easy smile. "Oh. Okay, sure."
"Great!" He leans back in his chair, then suddenly turns to me again. "I'm Bill."
ooOoo
"So how was your first day?"
I stick a forkful of chicken in my mouth while I think of an answer. My mom had brought home chicken and rice from the restaurant she just started waitressing at. And a piece of banana cream pie for me. I know that's because she feels guilty.
Like it's her fault we have to live in this dump in this crappy neighborhood. Well, she's not the one that got us evicted.
I swallow the chicken. "It was okay. I met a kid. Bill Bauer. We played basketball at recess."
"Really?" My mom hands me a napkin. "Wipe your face."
I quickly pull the napkin over my face. "Yeah. He's tall, but he's not very good. Missed a bunch of baskets."
"How did you do?"
"Not bad." I take a drink of milk, then grin. "Pretty good, actually." I might be short, but I can jump. I'd been able to sink a few baskets by sailing the ball just over the tips of Bill's fingers.
My mom nods, smiling a little. "Is that all that happened today? Recess?"
"No. . ."
But it might've been the best thing.
1982
"Mr. McCormick, you're late. Class started twenty minutes ago."
I gaze at the older woman in the front of the rudimentary classroom. I don't really want to be an ass to her, but I've got a reputation. Certain things are expected of me.
"Whatcha gonna do, give me detention? Make me write lines? 'I will not get thrown in solitary.'"
Then I saunter to the first open desk, grinning at the guffaws and whistles from the other cons. I fold my long frame into the small wooden chair and send what I hope is a charmingly innocent look up at the instructor.
It's not like I planned on being late today. I would have rather been on time – early, in fact, so I could've gotten a seat in the back of the room, with only the wall behind me to worry about. But circumstances beyond my control had prevented my timely attendance. Okay, maybe I didn't have to beat the snot outta the creep in the chow hall, but sometimes a wisecrack just doesn't offer the kind of protection you need in prison. Sometimes, even though I have a reputation as the guy with the jokes, I have to follow it up with action. To prevent a maniac with a shiv from shanking me in the back just because he thinks I'm taking too long in line. And a few days in isolation for clobbering the bastard with my meal tray until his face was a mix of blood and tomato sauce (the feature of the day had been what passed for ravioli) had been preferable to ending up in the infirmary. Or, God forbid, a morgue drawer.
Maybe not the best way to start class. That's okay. There'll be other first days of class.
At least, I hope so.
1986
It's been threatening rain, so instead of parking in my usual spot near the fountain, I pull the Coyote into the garage. After climbing out, I reach back to grab my backpack off the passenger seat, throwing it over my shoulder as I enter the main house through the kitchen door.
Hardcastle's in the kitchen, his upper body nearly inside the open refrigerator. "Hey, where's the pimento loaf?"
I drop my backpack on a chair. "Don't ask me. I don't eat that nasty stuff. Maybe it got up and walked away, threw itself in the garbage."
The judge stands up straight, closing the fridge. "Nasty stuff? Maybe we should talk about some of the junk you eat, McCormick. Pudding on toast? Who does that?"
"People with impeccable taste." I sit down at the table with a sigh. After a full day of lectures, I'm too tired to continue the banter.
Hardcase doesn't push the discussion any further. He sits down across from me, looking me over appraisingly.
"So how was your first day of class?"
I send him a weary smile. "Not exactly my first day. That was back in January."
"Okay, fine. How was your first day as a full-time law student?"
I lean back in my chair, suddenly feeling less worn-out and more relaxed.
"It was – weird. You know I'm older than most of the other students, and a lot of them have a better education than I do. Not the piece-meal schooling I got between community college and prison extension classes and night school." I shake my head, feeling my smile grow. "But it was good. I mean, it felt like I belonged there. It's probably the best first day of school I've ever had."
Hardcastle's smiling back at me. It's the same weird smile I first saw in the holding cell, after I finally told him that I was in law school. I can only describe it as "fatherly pride," as strange as that is.
"Of course you belong there," he says. He stands up, coming over by me, and gives me a firm pat on the shoulder. "How does a pizza sound for dinner?" he asks. "I'll call out for delivery. Whaddaya want on it?"
My smile morphs into a grin.
"Do you think, perhaps, they could make a pudding-pimento pizza pie?"
Hardcase gives me a withering look. I gather he's not amused by my alliteration. But then he surprises me.
"That's positively preposterous," he answers, and now he's grinning, too.
END