My Eyes Are Open
Chapter Nine
A/N: This chapter contains published poetry that is the work of other authors. I'm not trying to steal their work; their names are mentioned with the poems within the story.
When Matilda and Miss Honey arrive back to the classroom, the rest of the children are still quietly working on their morning warm-ups. They undoubtedly finished the assignment long before the pair sauntered back into the classroom, but the children are too well-trained to try anything foolish like goof around or start loud conversations. Especially when they knew their headmistress would be coming by any moment. They try to remain focused, but each head briefly glances at the new arrivals, just enough to confirm it to be their beloved teacher and classmate, and not the frightful principal.
"Thank you class, for being so well behaved while I stepped out. Would you all pass your papers to the front of the row so that I may collect them?" Miss Honey notes how unnaturally well-mannered her students are. It's like they don't know how fun and exciting learning and school and life can be. But then again, she is the same way. She was the same.
As Miss Honey collects the papers from the front row, she decides to go ahead with her planned topic. She doesn't know when the headmistress will be coming by, but when the moment comes she'll have to flip a switch into her mind to react as her aunt would. She shivers. "We are going to start the morning with some poetry. Has anyone read any poems before?"
The class is still, except for Matilda towards the back, who is nodding her head as she looks down at her book and simultaneously takes notes in her composition notebook beside it. Her and Matilda had decided together that Matilda should mainly stick to her private lessons during class time. Although she still occasionally interjects a few times every day—proving that she is still listening—and her thoughts are certainly thought-provoking and helpful, they came to the conclusion early in the year that no one benefited from Matilda always answering. The rest of the students could just rely on Matilda to answer, allowing them to be lazy, and it might ostracize the girl as the 'show-off'. Their arrangement is the best way to handle the less-than-preferable circumstances. Miss Honey smiles knowing that she's sure Matilda loves poetry, but turns her attention back to the rest of the class.
"Poems are just a way for writers to express themselves and tell their truths of the world." Miss Honey roams between the isles of the desks. "Musicians use instruments, dancers use their bodies, and painters use a paint brush to make art. Poets use typically few words packed with tons of meaning. Musicians, painters, poets; they're all artists."
The teacher returns herself to the front of the room, where she wrote a poem on the chalkboard earlier this morning when she was preparing the lesson. "We're going to reading Roald Dahl's Candy Man, there's a printed copy in your desks if you wish to try to read along."
"Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew?
Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two?
The candy man, the candy man can
The candy man can 'cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good
"Who can take a rainbow, wrap it in a sigh?
Soak it in the sun and make a strawberry–lemon pie?
The candy man? The candy man, the candy man can.
The candy man can 'cause he mixes it with love,
And makes the world taste good"
"Now, please, will someone raise their hand and tell me their first reaction when they think of the poem?" Miss Honey prompts. Several hands shoot up.
She calls on Bruce. "It makes me hungry!" The chubby boy exclaims.
This is to be expected of Bruce, but—to save the purpose of the lesson—Miss Honey probes, "What words in the poem, specifically, makes you hungry, Bruce?"
"When it talks about 'chocolate' and 'sprinkles' and 'pie'!" He says excitedly.
"I agree, Bruce, those are very good foods to eat!" For Bruce, really, it's just a win that he's not throwing up by even the thought of chocolate, after the events of last week. "Anyone else?" She calls on Lavender.
"The poem makes me happy." The little girl smiles brightly.
"What about the poem makes you happy, Lavender?"
"When it talks about 'mixing it with love' and 'soaking it in the sun'. It reminds me of when my grandma makes her apple pie. It's so good." It's about this time when Miss Honey laughs at herself for picking a poem about food, a thought inspired by her student's watering mouths and longing gazes towards the clock that will—eventually—signify lunch time.
"My, my, Lavender, that is a great connection!" Miss Honey praises, "That's the great thing about poetry, students, it can make us feel all sorts of ways and remember all sorts of things, using just words!"
The teacher spots another hand, Eric's, and calls on him. "Isn't this..." he squints at the board, "docem a song too, Miss Honey?"
Miss Honey struggles to keep a smile on her face, despite her instinct to frown. Eric has been getting very low scores on his reading quizzes, and the teacher had summed it up to the boy not paying enough attention in class, but now thinks she might need to consider other explanations. "Actually, it's a 'poem', Eric, but yes. I do believe this 'poem' is a song as well. And a pretty catchy one too, right?" The class giggles.
"What's your favorite poem, Miss Honey?" A strong, high voice asks from the back. She doesn't even need to look to know it was Matilda's question.
"It's Emily Dickinson:
"'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me."
The class of five and six year olds stare at their teacher, entranced. She doubts they understand at all what it means, to her at least, but they know enough to know it's beautiful. Miss Honey feels partial ownership in teaching them this search for beauty.
It's right then, of course, that the Trunchbull and her splendid timing bust through the door. "Good morning, Headmistress." Miss Honey acknowledges, which elicits a growl from her aunt as the huge woman stomps to the back of the classroom. But now, she's on a mission. She's not on a witch hunt to catch some poor, unfortunate soul at the wrong moment. The Trunchbull is here for judgement. And not for a competition—but as to decide upon Jenny's transformation. Only God can help the young woman if the headmistress is unconvinced.
The entire class, Miss Honey included, watches as their greatest fear marches to a desk in the far corner and sits upon it. "I trust you remember why I'm here. Carry on with your lesson." Her words might sound pleasant from the surface, but they're really a dare, as if Aunt Trunchbull just cannot wait to prove her niece wrong and watch her suffer the consequences which—in Jenny's limited creativity for punishments—include Chokey round two, a beating, or another night in the cellar. None of which are preferable to the young teacher.
Jenny feels how shaky and unsteady her knees seem, but they somehow keep from collapsing, so she turns around to collect herself. She closes her eyes; her brief safety mechanism, before she is forced to open them and return to reality. She turns halfway back to her class, remembering that she's not alone in the concurrent, intense fear of the room. "Right. So, as we were discussing; poetry…" Miss Honey glances back to her board.
Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers" poem is printed proudly in white on the dark board. And Miss Honey is shocked. Sure, she turned to watch Miss Trunchbull enter the room and sit down, but she had just been discussing the Dahl poem a minute ago. And she surely had written that poem on the chalkboard. Right?
But the really strange part is that the writing on the board is her hand-writing. Miss Honey thinks she must be going mad. Something peculiar is happening. The teacher remembers scribing the Dahl poem and not the Dickinson, but the evidence doesn't seem to match up. Miss Honey is so confused.
Despite this, the headmistress is still sitting in the back of the classroom—scrutinizing her every move—and the Hope poem is what is written now. It's quite a sticky situation, that she must power through. But it's hopeless; as bright and lovely as her students are, Miss Honey knows the kindergartners have no hope of deciphering the poem. Except one.
"Matilda, can you tell me what hope is being compared to in this poem?" It's a question she knows the girl can answer. If she can get Matilda talking, something profound will eventually leave the child's mouth—and the teacher is prepared to lead her, if need be—and save this train wreck of a lesson in front of the headmistress.
But Matilda doesn't answer. She's distracted, furiously marking something obscured from her teacher's view by another desk. "Matilda, honey, will you pay attention?" Miss Honey reminds her nervously, wondering why the star pupil is suddenly making the teacher look so bad. The teacher and student had never needed to discuss procedure when the Trunchbull entered the classroom. The girl had always diligently slid away her extra materials—usually a book, until very recently—and proceeded to be very attentive to whatever lesson Miss Honey taught. She'd raise her hand at appropriate times and intervals, and subtly help the students around her, which is why Miss Honey had been calmed by Matilda's presence in her stead when the teacher was in the Chokey. Now that calmness is teetering.
Miss Honey knows she waited too long to react when Miss Trunchbull violently stands from her seat and bends over Matilda. The woman snatches whatever Matilda was focusing on so intensely and holds it up for inspection. Jenny wouldn't be surprised if the older woman didn't understand what Matilda is learning in her notes—she had already started today's SI extra assignment on geometric functions.
"Your 'genius' student, Jen, was drawing a bird during your lesson. And not a very good one at that." The headmistress charges down the aisle, leaving Matilda standing in her wake beside her desk, and shoves the piece of paper into the teacher's hands.
This is strange. Miss Honey has had a difficult time getting Matilda to draw during their art time all year so far. Not that the girl isn't good—her spatial awareness is superb—it's just that the girl struggles finding inspiration. "I think there are better things that I'd rather do." The girl had told her teacher two weeks ago, "Like reading. I'm afraid I just do not really understand the point."
"Matilda, honey, it's about expression. Don't you have anything you want to express?" Jenny had asked.
"I can express everything I wish perfectly fine through words." Was Matilda's serious answer.
So why would Matilda choose right now to pursue her drawing interests?
But Miss Honey doesn't have time to answer her questions because the Trunchbull has expectations, and the teacher must adhere to them if they want Matilda's placement test to hold any relevance or be of any help. So she takes the contraband drawing from her aunt and tries to make herself seem angry as she strides to the girl's desk. "What is this?" She keeps her voice low and demanding, like she's heard so many times spoken to her.
"What do you think it is? It's a bird." Matilda states, with just a hint of antagonism in her voice—a trait foreign and odd on the small girl.
Miss Honey screams at the girl through her eyes. 'Stand down.' She tries to tell her. 'You know that this is dangerous.'
But it's almost too late. "That kind of disrespect and rebellion, Miss Honey, calls for Chokey!" Miss Trunchbull shouts from behind, infuriated by the child's attitude.
"NO." The teacher finds herself yelling. She knows her aunt will expect an alternative, but she staggers and searches around her for an answer, guidance, anything. She finds it in Matilda's eyes, and a subtle nod is all she needs. "I know what will show her discipline." She calls back to the headmistress—who is watching with mild interest—and swallows back the nasty taste the words leave in her mouth.
Miss Honey looks Matilda dead in the eye and takes the drawing in both hands, as the girl makes an emotional deal over her attachment with it. "Please, Miss Honey, don't rip it. I'm sorry—I'll never get distracted again! I'll-"
"Matilda, it is too late for that." And, having put on the show and not wishing to prolong it, Miss Honey rips the drawing down the middle and lets it fall to the floor. Matilda drops to her knees on the floor and manages to conjure tears. Her acting, like most things she does, is brilliant, but the tears are where she crosses the line. No one but the Trunchbull's niece and subordinate would know the true depth for which the headmistress' hatred for tears runs. To her, they're weakness. And weakness must be eliminated.
Miss Trunchbull is quick to intervene. "Good job, Jen." She says somewhat reluctantly. The congratulations make Jenny feel dirty and uncomfortable, but she's got bigger problems. "I'll take it from here. The shivering squib is clearly a case requiring professional care, to which I will attend." The woman grabs Matilda by the collar and holds her off to the side as the headmistress gets close to the teacher's face. "A nice stay in the Chokey ought to toughen her up; it worked with you."
The headmistress promptly turns for the door, dragging Matilda behind her, when Jenny finds herself in her second ill-thought-out outburst of the morning, "No!" Miss Trunchbull turns to squint back at the teacher, and Miss Honey knows she's at risk for losing everything they've gone through. So she has to recover. "I mean… I'll take her to the Chokey." Jenny rushes to meet up with the massive woman and take Matilda into a softer grip by the arm, as to still look aggressive for show. The teacher also manages to use her aunt's surprise to escort the three of them out of the classroom, "I just mean that you work so hard all the time; I'm finally understanding what hard work you do. So I think that I ought to take the…" She tries to come up with a derogatory name that she's heard the headmistress call her or her students and manages to push one out of her mouth, "Maggot, to the Chokey and you take an early lunch?" Miss Honey knows she's succeeded with at least protecting her students when she closes the classroom door behind them and they start down the hall. Well, all but one. But she's working on that.
Miss Trunchbull stops them from continuing on and Jenny's eyes glance for places she can shove Matilda when the woman laughs. "Look at you, Jen. Always thinking." But then gets sober and mean again, "I'll be back after my lunch to deal with the disgusting shrimp." And she stalks off towards the cafeteria.
Miss Honey and Matilda look at each other with wide eyes before returning to their classroom. They've got at least fifteen minutes to figure out their move.
