My Sister's Keeper
On the first day school life at Greenwood seemed not much different from school anywhere else, except, of course, there were no boys in the corridors and classrooms with us. However, I was impressed with how clean and new everything looked. The marble floors in the corridors gleamed. Our desk tops had barely a scrape on them, and unlike most any other school, none of the chairs or other furniture had any scratches spelling out some cryptic graffiti or revealing some rage and disappointment.
Our teachers made the reason for that perfectly clear the moment we were all seated in their rooms. Each began with a short lecture about how important it was to keep our school looking tidy and new. Their voices boomed as if they wanted to be certain Mrs. Ironwood heard their performances. Almost every teacher wanted it made clear that it was his or her responsibility to keep his or her room looking good, and he or she meant to carry out that responsibility.
'If they don't,' Jacki whispered to me, 'the Iron Lady will have them whipped.'
The lectures bored Gisselle, but even she was impressed with how obedient the student body was when it came to keeping the building immaculate. Whenever a student saw a piece of paper on the corridor floor, she would pause to pick it up. We found the same attention to cleanliness in the cafeteria. Although it was really too early to judge, it seemed like there was a decorum and an orderliness to school life at Greenwood that made our school life in New Orleans look like it had been on the verge of bedlam, despite the fact that we had attended one of the better city schools.
It was just the way my schedule worked out that after the first two periods of classes I had a study period. Gisselle, who had failed algebra last year, had to repeat it at Greenwood. When we first arrived at the main building, I had wheeled her about from homeroom to classes, but at the end of the second period, Samantha arrived on the scene almost by design and offered to take over.
'After this period, we have the next three classes together,' Samantha said. Gisselle was obviously pleased with the suggestion.
'All right,' I said. 'But don't let my sister make you late for your classes.'
'If I'm late because it takes me longer to do what I have to do, then they will just have to be understanding,' Gisselle insisted. I saw she was already planning to loiter in the bathrooms, perhaps have a cigarette.
'She's going to get you into trouble, Samantha,' I warned, but I might as well have been directing my words into the wall. Somehow my sister had quickly turned this naive girl into her trusted servant. I felt sorry for Samantha; she had little idea what she was in for before Gisselle was tired of her.
I left them and hurried off to my study hall. But just as I sat down to look over my new work, the study-hall teacher informed me that Mrs. Ironwood had asked to see me.
'Her office is right down the corridor to your right and then up a short set of stairs,' he told me. 'Don't look so worried,' he added with a smile. 'She often visits with first-time Greenwood students.'
Nevertheless, I couldn't help being nervous about it. My heart was thumping as I hurried down the quiet hallway and found the stairs. A short, plump woman with gray-framed bifocals turned from a file cabinet when I entered the outer office. The nameplate on her desk read MRS. RANDLE. She peered at me for a moment and then went to her desk to look at a slip of paper.
'You're Ruby Dumas?' she asked.
'Yes, ma'am.'
She nodded, maintaining a stiffly serious expression, and then went to the door of the inner office. After a gentle knock, she opened it and announced my arrival.
'Show her in,' I heard Mrs. Ironwood command. 'Right this way, Ruby.' She stepped aside and I entered Mrs. Ironwood's office.
It was a good-sized room, but very austere, with dark gray curtains, a light gray rug, a large, dark brown desk, two hard-looking wooden chairs, and a small, stiff-looking charcoal-black settee against the wall on the right. Above it was the only painting in the room, another portrait of Edith Dilliard Clairborne, and as in all the others, she was in a formal gown, either seated in a garden or in a high-backed chair in a study. The other walls had plaques and awards spaced out, awards won by the students of Greenwood for things ranging from debates to oratory contests.
Although there was a large vase of red and pink roses on her desk, the room smelled like a doctor's office, with a heavy scent of disinfectant. The office did look like it had been painstakingly cleaned to the point where the windows were so clear they looked wide open.
Mrs. Ironwood sat erect behind her desk. She lowered her glasses and gazed at me for a long moment, drinking me in as if she wanted to memorize every detail of my face and figure. If there was any approval, she didn't show it. Her eyes remained coldly analytical, her lips firm.
'Sit down, please,' she said, nodding at one of the hard wooden chairs. I moved to it quickly and held my books on my lap.
'I called you here,' she began, 'so that we could establish an understanding as soon as possible.'
'Understanding?'
The right corner of her mouth dipped. She tapped a fat folder on her desk with a pencil.
'This is your file,' she continued. 'Beneath it is your sister's. I have reviewed them both carefully. Besides your school records, the file contains some important personal information.
'I should tell you,' she said, pausing to sit back, 'that I had a long, informative talk about you with your stepmother.'
'Oh,' I said, dropping my voice a couple of octaves. She knitted her dark, thick brows together. Since she had referred to Daphne as my stepmother instead of my mother, it was clear that Daphne had told her about my life as a Cajun.
'She told me of your . . . unfortunate circumstances and expressed her frustration over her failure to bring about
