A LONG, LONG WAY TO GO
Joan had been groggy all morning, the alarm clock barely able to rouse her. "That's what you get," Helen said, "for staying up so late last night." But it didn't seem late at the time. The West Wing ended at ten o'clock, Ruthie and her family were gone by a quarter after, and Joan had wanted to stay up to see Johnny Depp on The Tonight Show. She hadn't planned on finding a midnight airing of Buffy the Vampire Slayer — not the best version, the television series, but the feature film with Luke Perry and the Swanson girl, whom Joan didn't recognize or take to. She preferred Sarah Michelle Gellar's haughty Buffy, the one whose calling placed her in difficult and often embarrassing situations that Joan understood more than anyone could know. And there was always plenty of acerbic wit to spare. Joan felt a kinship with that Buffy.
Somehow though, she had gotten absorbed in the movie, and it had been past 2 A.M. when she finally trudged upstairs to bed. That mistake was coming back to haunt her by lunchtime on Thursday, just as images of wild-eyed, blood-sucking fiends who looked like PeeWee Herman had haunted her in sleep.
"Look alive, Joan," said the lunch lady, placing a Styrofoam bowl of runny mashed potatoes and gravy onto Joan's tray. "You've got choir practice today."
It took Joan's mind slightly longer than usual to register the voice, the face, the manner, each of which shared a suspicious resemblance to Della Reese. God was into classic primetime CBS programming. Fancy that. Too bad the network had long since gone down the tubes. No pun intended.
"Today?" Joan said. "But Ruthie didn't announce who got in yet. How'd you-" She watched Cafeteria Lady God scoop another clump of mashed potatoes into a bowl, smother it in yellow-brownish gook, and pass it to the next person in line. They made eye contact, Joan and God. "Oh right, the omniscient thing."
"Mmm-hmmm," God said, his tough old bird shtick down pat.
"So I got in?" Joan kept her eagerness to a minimum, but the gleam in her eyes would have given her away even if she wasn't talking to Missus Mr. Creator of the Universe. She blocked out the impatient stares from her peers, used to them by now, and reached for a serving of less than fresh Jell-O cubes, stalling.
"You sure did, baby girl. Congratulations."
"Thanks." Joan beamed, surprising herself with her own excitement at the news. She grew serious almost as quickly. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you? I mean, I got in on my own?"
"You know me, I don't meddle."
"So, Ruthie really thinks I'm good?"
"She does."
Joan paused to absorb that information. It had been flattering to be gushed over by her mother and schoolmates after her singing debut in the zombie musical, but this was different. Anyone who ever watched the audition process on American Idol knew there were oodles of tone deaf freaks out there with family members and friends cheering them on. But Ruthie actually knew about singing, had been educated in it. And from what Joan had heard when Ruthie offered up a sample of her own vocal abilities during auditions, the music teacher's voice astoundingly powerful and rich for someone so small, there was reason to be pleased with her approval.
"Maybe I was wrong about why you're having me do this whole choir thing," Joan said, thinking out loud. "At first I thought it was about Ruthie, but it's sort of about me too. I'm, like, finding my niche, right? Ruthie's here to help me discover my true potential."
"Has it ever been that simple, Joan?"
"It... it could be," Joan said, her balloon of enthusiasm slowly deflating. "Just this once. Pretty please?" She held up her bowl of Jell-O cubes with the frothy white dollop that looked like the shaving gel Will never remembered to rinse out of the bathroom sink, and jiggled them. "With whipped cream on top."
"You're going to have to keep your eyes open for this one," God said, unmoved. "And don't make it all about you. It's Ruthie needs help finding her voice, not you."
Joan laughed. "Are we talking about the same Ruthie? Comes up to about here-" She thrust her palm out, parallel to and just a few inches above the metal bars that served as an expressway for the students' lunch trays while they collected their food. "Blond hair. So happy she makes Pollyanna look like Scrooge. Already sings like an angel. That Ruthie?"
"That's the one. But trust me, Sugar, she ain't happy."
"Care to elaborate on that?" Joan said, fully aware from God's tone that their conversation had drawn to a close. When all she received was a glance and a nod that indicated she should get moving down the line, she sighed and said, "Yeah, I didn't think so."
The list of choir members was posted on the music room door, and it seemed to Joan that every kid in school had followed her example and skipped study hall to have a look. She had decided not to play smug and waltz into Ruthie's class later without having affirmed her right to be there. Sure, God's word was pretty reliable. But Joan was fairly certain that at some point in history he had mentioned something about pride going before a fall, too.
That was why she found herself elbowing her way into the throng of students, the majority of them rejoicing, a few shrugging their shoulders flippantly as they walked away, and four or five, at most, looking downtrodden. Glynis was among the rejected and, thinking back to the girl's screechy and lackluster rendition of "Like a Prayer," Joan could tell that Ruthie had only cut those with the worst of voices. Probably not an easy task though, for someone of Ruthie's sweet, kind-hearted nature.
Joan came across her name promptly, index finger trailing the list and stopping at the G section. Gallant, Gilman, Girardi. She tapped her fingernail against the paper, feeling mighty satisfied until she noticed a name in the F group. Friedman. "You gotta be kidding me," she mumbled. And speak, or read, of the devil. Here he was, sidling up to Joan, all frizzy brown curls and vomit-colored sweater vest.
"I knew she wouldn't be able to resist my raw, animal magnetism," Friedman said, glancing at the list before turning to Joan with a smarmy grin.
"Excuse me?"
"Mrs. Snow." He leaned forward confidingly, his unkempt eyebrows disappearing behind a set of poodlelike bangs. "Ruthie. She told me to call her that."
"She told everybody to call her that, you twit."
"But did you see her face when I sang 'Sea of Love'?" Friedman gripped the straps of his backpack in either hand and rocked on his heels, a boyish motion that might have been cute if he wasn't being so repulsive. "She was ready to jump my bones."
"Uh, no, she was ready to barf. Just as I am now," Joan said. "God, you're such a perv. She's married, not to mention about a million times too good for you. And you're a student."
"That didn't stand in the way of Mary Kay and Vili."
"Who?" It occurred to Joan then that she need not subject herself to anymore of Friedman's highly disturbing comments. Instead of waiting for his reply, she said, "Never mind," and spun in the opposite direction, beating a quick retreat.
"See you at practice!" Friedman called.
As promised, Friedman was present that afternoon when Joan trekked into the music room and yawned, her hair slipping from its ponytail ring. It had been a taxing day full of dreary lectures, equations that were twice as mind-boggling on a few hours sleep, and more than one teacher singling her out with a stern "Ms. Girardi" when she let her eyelids droop a little too far. But she planned on making the most of this class, despite Friedman. Flopping down at the nearest empty desk, she let her bag slip to the floor and watched as the boy trailed Ruthie, exhibiting yet another of his lapdog tendencies.
"Allow me," he was saying, blocking Ruthie's path as she tried to move the stubborn overhead projector. The uncooperative wheels on the cart righted themselves suddenly and Ruthie didn't have time to stop pushing. The cart lunged at Friedman, knocking him in the shins with a crunch that raised several heads.
"Oh!" Ruthie clapped both hands over her mouth, the tips of her ears going as pink as the flowery headband that nestled snuggly in her flaxen hair. She had worn it down today, and crimpy. "Oh, I'm so sorry, honey. Feldman, is it? Did I hurt you?" She was by Friedman's side, her head level with his shoulder even though he had stooped a bit, regaining his composure after letting slip a kittenish mew sound.
Joan heard snickers from a couple of the girls behind her, but she pressed her lips together and managed to swallow her amusement.
"Feldman," someone tittered.
"Friedman," Friedman gasped. "I'm okay. Who needs shins." He righted himself, grunting as he hauled the projector backwards and ran over his own foot.
That did it. The two girls behind Joan erupted in laughter. She turned to get a look at who they were, recognizing the one as Jennifer, a retiring sort who had been on the swim team, and the other as Dorothy, the sax player from band. Joan had known them briefly, their relationships consisting of a handful of "hellos" and sympathetic glances when classes were dull, but they seemed nice. Anybody who recognized what a tool Friedman was was a friend of hers.
"Girls," Ruthie said, as close to scolding as her voice was capable of. She patted the stack of papers that was on her desk, then gestured to Dorothy and Jennifer, beckoning them with a two-fingered wave. "Would you pass these out for me, please?" She added a wink and a "thank you" to the request when the girls shuffled to the front of the room, taking their punishment as lightly as it was given. They went about their task with smiles and Ruthie shook her head, wearing a faint smile of her own as she turned back to Friedman and shooed him to his desk.
When everyone was finally seated Ruthie took her place as well, opting to rest on the ledge of her desk rather than behind it. Ankles crossed, her sandaled feet hung inches above the ground, peeking from beneath the swishy material of her long skirt. It struck Joan again how dissimilar Ruthie was from most teachers, how much cooler. She was even trendy, and not in the pathetic way that most adults were when they tried to be young and fashionable. It worked for Ruthie. Joan was willing to bet the woman still got carded.
"If you'll take a look at the handouts Dorothy and Jennifer passed around," Ruthie said, fanning a slip of paper in the air, "you'll see a list of songs I've picked for us to start with. Now, these are just suggestions. If you've got anything better in mind, feel free to say so."
Joan scanned the titles, recognizing none of them. Oh well, that's what coming to class was for, to learn new things. She tucked her hand under her chin, rested an elbow on the desk.
"Can we do some stuff from Carousel?" It was Dorothy. Joan could see the girl's reflection in the window when her gaze listed sideways, a filminess to her vision as she blinked heavily.
"'You'll Never Walk Alone,'" Jennifer said, exuberant.
"Ah, now you're speaking my language."
That was the last thing Joan heard Ruthie say before sleep won out; as her head drifted nearer and nearer towards the surface of her desk, she wondered how in the world God surmised that Ruthie, giddy and effervescent as she was, could be anything but perfectly happy.
"Joan. Yoo-hoo."
The dizzying scent of floral perfume stirred Joan before anything else. Before the hand nudged her again, before her name was repeated. As she gradually reclaimed control of her other senses, she recognized the classroom noises around her— the screech of chairs against floor, the quiet drone of voices, sporadic coughs, a clock ticking up on the wall, a pencil tap-tap-tapping. Then Joan plunged into reality all at once, sitting up abruptly. Ruthie, who had provided the smelling salts effect with the expensive fragrance generously applied to her slender wrist, drew back in surprise.
"I'm sorry class is interrupting your naptime," she said, her tone lowered enough so the rest of the students wouldn't hear, "but I thought you might like to join us."
Joan looked up at her, bleary-eyed and confused. Without meaning to, she uttered the first thing that came to mind. "He told me to keep my eyes open."
"That would be most helpful," Ruthie said, directing Joan's attention to the semi-circle of chairs everyone had relocated to in the back of the room. "Since we're looking over sheet music." She rubbed Joan's arm affectionately and whispered, "Come on. I saved you a seat by me."
As she followed close behind Ruthie, gawked at enviously by Friedman, Joan fretted that she had blown it, blown her chance to discover what was troubling her teacher. For the rest of the choir session, she was plagued with a short attention span, unable to focus though she tried. She contemplated getting Ruthie alone and simply asking what the problem was, but her growing respect and admiration for the woman made it impossible to do so. It would be like calling Ruthie a liar, to accuse her of not being happy. So Joan decided to wait it out. To keep her eyes peeled like never before. No more sleeping in class. She wanted to get this problem, whatever it may be, solved and out of the way so she could form a normal relationship with Ruthie, one free of God-induced baggage. She hoped it wouldn't take too long.